It is not surprising therefore to hear him say at the close of a letter in 1787, in which he offers a London publisher the “Seven Words,” six “splendid” symphonies, and three “very elegant” nocturnes: “I hope to see you by the close of this year, as I have not yet received any reply from Herr Cramer as to an engagement for myself this winter in Naples.” The London invitation concerned the so-called professional concerts. A year afterward, J. P. Salomon contracted with him for concert-engagements in the Haymarket theater. Mozart writes to his father in 1783 as follows: “I know positively that Hofstetter has twice copied Haydn’s music,” and Haydn himself in 1787 writes to Artaria: “Your own copyist is a rascal, for he offered mine eight ducats this winter to let him have the ‘Seven Words.’” He justly complains that he is not paid sufficiently for his works, and on one occasion thanks Artaria “without end for the unexpected twelve ducats.” “I have until now kept it from my readers that Haydn declared on the occasion of my first visit to him he had been in straightened circumstances to his sixtieth year,” says Dies, and he adds that in spite of all his economy and the generosity of Prince Nicholas at his death, and thirty years of hard toil, his entire property consisted of a small house and five hundred florins in gold. Besides this he had about two thousand florins in public funds which he had laid aside against a time of need. Dies rightly attributes such penury after such industry to the extravagance of his wife. But notwithstanding the Esterhazy goodness, the fact remains that Haydn often found himself longing for a change. It mattered little that he had equal fame with Gluck and Mozart. Such a Prince should have kept the purse of a man of such sensitive and exalted feeling well filled.
“My greatest ambition is to be recognized by all the world as the honest man which I really am,” he writes about the year 1776, and dedicates all the praises he had received “to Almighty God, for to Him alone are they due.” His wish was neither to offend his neighbor nor his gracious Prince, and above all, the merciful God. Now that he realized the beautiful divine pleasure of reverence, and that his unworthy situation with its constant restrictions and distress pressed upon his artistic feeling, he longed for a change more ardently than ever. “I had a good Prince, but at times had to be dependent on base souls; I often sighed for release,” he writes from London in 1791. His determination to accept the London invitation must have been very strong, for a letter of 1781 closes: “Meanwhile I thank you very much for the lodgings offered me.” His gratitude actually prevented him from traveling, though he was literally besieged by his friends, and, as we have seen, was invited from abroad. “He swore to the Prince to serve him until death should separate them and not to forsake him though he were offered millions,” Dies heard him say. The Prince in times of pressing necessity allowed him to draw upon his credit, but Haydn availed himself of this privilege as seldom as possible, and was always satisfied with small sums.
Among impressions so varied in their nature, the letters were written which belong to the following year and from which we must present a few short extracts. They are addressed to Frau von Genzinger in Vienna, the wife of a physician who was also physician in ordinary to Prince Esterhazy. She was very intimate with our master in his later years, for she had made his friendship in connection with his art, having arranged symphonies of his for the piano. In reading these letters, one truly feels the noble aspirations of Haydn’s soul. The influence which this excellent lady had upon the poetical character of his works is evident in the beautiful sonata whose Adagio “meant so much.” Here indeed vibrate accords as full of life and longing as music was capable of expressing at that time in her soft measures.
In the house of this “ladies’ doctor,” as he was universally called in Vienna, Mozart, Dittersdorf, Albrechtsberger, afterward Beethoven’s teacher, and Haydn, when he was in Vienna, met regularly on Sundays, and it must have been doubly painful to him to go back to his wretched solitude from these delightful gatherings where he could sit near her ladyship and hear the masterpieces of Mozart played. Alas! the separation came sooner than Haydn wished. “The sudden resolution of my Prince to withdraw from Vienna, which is hateful to him, is the cause of my precipitate journey to Esterhaz,” he writes in 1789. In contrast with the other magnates, who were fond of displaying their splendor and gratifying their tastes, and nowhere was this so true as in Vienna, Prince Nicholas with his increasing years grew more and more unpopular in that city. Haydn himself gives the most forcible expression to his dissatisfaction with his surroundings.
The address: “High and nobly born, highly esteemed, best of all, Frau von Genzinger,” shows us the style of the time, and the following letter of February 9, 1790, tells us the whole story:
“Here I sit in my wilderness, deserted like a poor orphan, almost without human society, sad, full of the recollections of past happy days, yes, past, alas! And who can say when those delightful days will return—those pleasant gatherings, when the whole circle were of one heart and soul—all those charming musical evenings which can only be imagined, not described? Where are all those inspired moments? All are gone, and gone for a long time,” he writes, and it was only his native cheerfulness that could allay this feeling of loneliness. “Wonder not, dear lady, that I have delayed so long in writing my gratitude. I found everything at home torn up. For three days I was uncertain whether I was Capellmeister or Capell-servant. Nothing consoled me. My entire apartment was in confusion. My piano, which I love so much, was inconstant and disobedient, and it vexed instead of tranquilizing me. I could sleep but little, my dreams troubled me so. When I dreamed of hearing ‘The Marriage of Figaro,’ a fatal north-wind awoke me and almost blew my night-cap off my head.” In his next remarks we learn of a composition, about which he had written a short time before to his publisher, saying that he had in his leisure hours composed a new capriccio for the piano, which by its taste, originality and close finish would be sure to receive universal applause. “I became three pounds thinner on the way,” he continues, “because of the loss of my good Vienna fare. Alas, thought I to myself, when in my restaurant I had to eat a piece of fifty-year-old cow instead of fine beef, an old sheep and yellow carrots instead of a ragout and meat balls, a leathery grill instead of a Bohemian pheasant! alas, alas, thought I, would that I now had many a morsel which I could not have eaten in Vienna! Here, in Esterhaz, no one asks me, ‘Would you like chocolate? Do you desire coffee with or without milk? With what can I serve you, my dear Haydn? Will you have vanilla or pine-apple ice?’ Would that I had only a piece of good Parmesan cheese, so that I might the more easily swallow the black dumplings! Pardon me, most gracious lady, for taking up your time in my first letter with such piteous stuff. Much allowance must be made for a man spoiled by the good things in Vienna. But I have already commenced to accustom myself to the country by degrees, and yesterday I studied for the first time quite in the Haydn manner.”
An event shortly after occurred which for the time greatly stimulated his creative ability. The Princess died, and the Prince sank into such melancholy that he wanted music every day. At this time he would not allow him to be absent for twenty-four hours. He speaks often of his deep distress of heart and of his many disappointments and ill-humors. “But, thank God, this time will also pass away,” he says at the close of a letter, in which he is looking forward to the winter. “It is sad always to be a slave, but Providence so wills it,” he says on another occasion. “I am a poor creature, continually tormented with hard work, and with but few hours for recreation. Friends? What do I say? One true friend? There are no longer any true friends, save one, oh! yes, I truly have one, but she is far away from me; I can take refuge, however, in my thoughts; God bless her and so order that she shall not forget me.” “My friendship for you is so tender that it can never become culpable, since I always have before my eyes reverence for your exalted virtue,” he also wrote in reply to Frau von Genzinger, concerning a letter which to his regret had been lost.
We now come to a time when the “ill-humors” ceased, and Haydn secured a better situation, and, more than all, complete freedom. The Prince died and crowned his generosity with the legacy of a pension of one thousand gulden. The new Prince, Paul Anton, added four hundred gulden more to it, so that Haydn could now live comfortably upon a stipend of two thousand eight hundred marks. He discharged the orchestra and only required of Haydn that he should retain the title of Capellmeister at Esterhaz. Haydn called this position “poorly requited” and added that he was on horseback, “without saddle or bridle,” but hoped one day or other by his own service, “for I can not flatter or beg,” or by the personal influence of his gracious Prince, to be placed in a higher position. But this did not occur until a later time, and then by the help “of his fourth Prince.” He soon removed to Vienna, and declined the invitation of Prince Grassalkowic to enter his service. It was not long before his affairs took a happy turn in another direction, and in the place of rural restraint he enjoyed the widest and most unrestricted public liberty.
The violinist, J. P. Salomon, a native of Bonn, who had played in Haydn’s quartets long before and occupied a distinguished place in the musical world of London, entered his room one evening and curtly said: “I am Salomon, of London, and have come to take you away. We will close the bargain to-morrow.” He was on his travels engaging singers for the theatrical manager Gallini, and on his return to Cologne, heard of the death of Prince Esterhazy. Haydn at first offered various objections—his ignorance of foreign languages, his inexperience in traveling and his old age; but Salomon’s propositions were so brilliant that he wavered. Five thousand gulden, and the sale of his compositions were something worth unusual consideration in the straightened circumstances of a simple musician, entering upon old age. Besides, he had plenty of compositions finished which no one knew of outside of Esterhaz. He made his assent conditional upon the Prince’s permission and gave no further heed to Salomon’s persuasions. Mozart himself, who had traveled much about the world, interposed his objections with the best intentions. “Papa” was too old. He was not fitted for the great world. He spoke too few languages. A man of fifty-eight ought to remain quietly among his old and sure friends. “I am still active and strong, and my language is understood all over the world,” he replied.
The Prince did not refuse his permission, and the expenses of the journey were advanced. Haydn sold his little house at Eisenstadt, took the five hundred gulden which he had saved up, consigned his bonds to his “highly cherished” Vienna friend to whom he commended his wife, and made all his preparations for the journey which was to establish his fame all over the world. He started Dec. 15, 1790. Mozart did not leave his beloved “Papa” the whole day. He dined with him, and tearfully exclaimed at the moment of separation: “We are saying our last farewell to-day.” Haydn was also deeply moved. He was twenty-four years older, and the thought of his own death alone occurred to him. It was but a year later that he heard of Mozart’s death, and shed bitter tears. “I shall rejoice in my home and in embracing my good friends like a child,” he wrote at a later time to Frau von Genzinger, “only I lament that the great Mozart will not be among them, if it be true, which I hope not, that he is dead. Posterity will not find such talent again for a century.” He was the one who was destined to be the heir of Mozart, and it was his London visit which broadened his intellectual horizon and gave his fancy freer development. He was then the direct guide of Beethoven, whose sonatas, quartets and symphonies were more closely developed and patterned upon the works which Haydn had then written than upon Mozart’s, the marvelous beauty of whose music was more like an inspiration from above, which could scarcely be appropriated or imitated by his followers.