He especially disliked the croaking of the frogs and realized how much it lowered his art. Swieten showed him an old piece of Gretry’s in which the croak was imitated with striking effect. Haydn contended that it would be better if the entire croak were omitted, though he yielded to Swieten’s importunities. He wrote afterward, however, that this entire piece, imitating the frog, did not come from his pen. “It was urged upon me to write this French croak. In the orchestral setting the wretched idea quickly disappears, and on the piano it can not be done. I trust the critics will not treat me with severity. I am an old man and liable to make mistakes.” At the place “Oh! Industry, O noble Industry, from thee comes all Happiness,” he remarked that he had been an industrious man all his life, but it had never occurred to him to set industry to music. Notwithstanding his displeasure, he bestowed all his strength upon the work in the most literal sense, for shortly after its completion, he was attacked with a brain-fever from which he suffered torments, and during which his fancies were incessantly occupied with music. A weakness ensued which constantly increased. “The ‘Seasons’ have brought this trouble upon me. I ought not to have written it. I have overdone,” he said to Dies.
The imperious Swieten, who thought he understood things better than the teacher and professor, annoyed him very much. He complained of the aria where the countryman behind his plow sings the melody of the Andante with the kettle-drum, and wanted to substitute for it a song from a very popular opera. Haydn felt offended at the request, and replied with just pride: “I change nothing. My Andante is as good and as popular anyhow as a song from that opera.” Swieten took offense at this, and no longer visited Haydn. After a lapse of ten or twelve days, actuated by his overmastering magnanimity, he sought the haughty gentleman himself, but was kept waiting a good half hour in an ante-room. At last he lost his patience and turned to the door, when he was called back and admitted. He could no longer restrain his passion, and addressed the Director as follows: “You called me back at just the right time. A little more and I should have seen your rooms to-day for the last time.” As we think of the “Great Mogul,” and the scene with Goethe at Carlsbad, we feel, especially from a social point of view, that a full century lies between Haydn and Beethoven. Art was become of age and with it the artist. Haydn himself had helped open the way to an expression of the deeper value of our nature, and brought it, as he did pure instrumental music, to a higher standard of merit. Swieten had already personally experienced Haydn’s anger. That epistolary complaint about the “frog-croak” had certainly not been made public from anything of his doing, but yet it was very sincerely intended. Swieten made him experience his displeasure for a long time afterward, but there is nowhere any indication that he took it specially to heart.
The first performance of the “Seasons” took place April 24, 1801. Opinions were divided about the work. At this time occurred the meeting of Haydn with his scholar, Beethoven, and the conversation about the “Prometheus.” “Beethoven manifested a decided opposition to his compositions, although he laughed repeatedly at the musical painting, and found special fault with the littleness of his style. On this account the ‘Creation,’ and the ‘Seasons’ would many a time have suffered had it not been that Beethoven recognized Haydn’s higher merits,” relates his scholar, Dies. Haydn himself expressed the difference between his two oratorios very nicely. At a performance of the “Seasons,” the Emperor Francis asked him to which of the two works he gave the preference. “The Creation!” answered Haydn. “And why?” “In the ‘Creation’ the angels speak and tell of God, but in the ‘Seasons’ only peasants talk,” said he. “In his mouth there is something of the Philistine,” said Lavater of Haydn’s face. In comparison with the ideal types of the “Creation” melodies, we find again in the “Seasons” the melodious and modulatory effects of the good old times, and the humor itself is home-made. Notwithstanding this, there is much of the genuine Haydn geniality and freshness in this his last work, and the tone-painting is much in the style of the “Creation.” In these two oratorios of Haydn, and in Mozart’s “Magic Flute,” we constantly recognize the remote precursors of the powerful musical painting in Richard Wagner’s “Ring des Nibelungen.”
From this period Haydn’s biography is no longer the record of his creative power, but of his outer life, though his fame continually increased. In 1798 the Academy of Stockholm, and in 1801 that at Amsterdam, elected him to their membership. In the year 1800, copies of the “Creation” were circulated in Europe, and the musicians of the Paris opera, who were the first to perform it, sent him a large gold medal with his likeness on it. “I have often doubted whether my name would survive me, but your goodness inspires me with confidence, and the tribute with which you have honored me, perhaps justifies me in the belief that I shall not wholly die,” he replied to them. The Institut National, the Concert des Amateurs and the French Conservatory, also sent him medals. In 1804 he received the civic diploma of honor from the city of Vienna, while the year before, in consideration of the performance of his works for the benefit of the city hospitals, a gold medal had been presented him. These concerts brought in over thirty-three thousand florins, so great was Haydn’s popularity at that time. In 1805 the Paris Conservatory elected him a member, which was followed by election to the societies of Laybach, Paris and St. Petersburg.
He was thoughtful of his end, and in 1806 made his will, which is characterized by many beautiful and humane features. No one at his home, or in its immediate neighborhood, was forgotten, and there were very many in the list which may be found in the “Musical Letters.” It closes: “My soul I give to its all-merciful Creator; I desire my body to be buried in the Roman Catholic form, in consecrated ground. For my soul I bequeathe No. 1, ‘namely,’ for holy masses twelve florins.” “I am of no more use to the world; I must wait like a child and be taken care of. Would it were time for God to call me to Him,” he said to Griesinger. The agreeable change to this retired life in his quiet little house, for his wife was no longer living, showed him in what respect, friendship and love he was held, both by visits and letters. A striking proof of the source from which his creations arose is his letter of 1802 to distant Rugen, where his “Creation” had been performed with piano accompaniment. “You give me the pleasing assurance, which is the most fruitful consolation of my old age, that I am often the enviable source from which you and so many families, susceptible to true feeling, obtain pleasure and hearty enjoyment in their domestic life—a thought which causes me great happiness,” he writes to those musical friends. “Often, when struggling with obstacles opposed to my works—often, when strength failed and it was difficult for me to persevere in the course upon which I had entered—a secret feeling whispered to me, ‘there are few joyful and contented people here below; everywhere there is trouble and care; perchance your labor sometime may be the source from which those burdened with care may derive a moment’s relief.’”
He no longer cared much for his youthful works. “Dearest Ellsler: Be so good as to send me at the very first opportunity the old symphony, called ‘Die Zerstreute,’ as Her Majesty, the Empress, expresses a desire to hear the old thing,” he humorously writes to Eisenstadt in 1803. He composed nothing more after this time, although he sent twelve pieces to Artaria in 1805, and thought the old Haydn deserved a little present for them, though they belonged to his younger days.
In the spring of 1804, C. M. Von Weber writes: “I have spent some time with Haydn. The old man is exceedingly feeble. He is always cheerful and in good humor. He likes to talk of his adventures, and is specially interested in young beginners in art. He gives you the impression of a great man, and so does Vogler (the abbe), with this difference, that his literary intelligence is much more acute than Haydn’s natural power. It is touching to see full grown men approach him, call him ‘papa,’ and kiss his hand.” At this time also, he received a letter from Goethe’s friend, Zelter, at Berlin, in which he wished Haydn could hear with what “repose, devotion, purity and reverence,” his choruses were sung at the Sing Akademie. “Your spirit has entered into the sanctuary of divine wisdom. You have brought down fire from heaven, to warm our earthly hearts, and guide us to the Infinite. O, come to us! You shall be received as a god among men.” Thus writes with enthusiastic rapture this dry old master mason, wedded to forms, who could nevertheless appreciate the special quality of Haydn’s music—its popular and simple humor. Griesinger tells us how he regarded flattery. A piano player began in this wise: “You are Haydn, the great Haydn. One should fall upon his knees before you. You ought to live in a splendid palace, etc.” “Ah! my dear sir,” replied Haydn, “do not speak so to me. You see only a man to whom God has granted talent and a good heart. It went very hard with me in my young days, and, even at that time, I wearied myself with the struggle to preserve my old age from the cares of life. I have my comfortable residence, enough to eat and a good glass of wine. I can dress in fine cloth, and, if I wish to ride, a hackney coach is good enough for me.”
For the thorough quiet of his life at this time he was indebted to his last Prince, more than to any other. “The friends of harmony often flatter me and bestow excessive praise upon me. If my name deserves commendable distinction, it dates from that moment when the Prince conceded larger scope to my liberty,” he said to Dies, when the latter asked him how he could, in addition to his regular service, have written two oratorios. The family of his illustrious patron frequently visited him, and, in order to spare his feelings as much as possible, they personally brought him the news of the death of his beloved brother, Johann, who had also been in their service. In 1806, the Prince increased his compensation fully six hundred gulden, so that he could enjoy still more comfort. His excellent servant, Ellsler, father of the famous danseuse, took most faithful care of him. He had such a feeling of affectionate reverence for Haydn, that many a time when he was fumigating the sick chamber, he would stop before his master’s picture and fumigate it. Tomaschek, at that time a young musician from Prague, who is mentioned in the work “Beethoven, according to the description of his Cotemporaries,” visited him in the summer of 1808, and has given us a very detailed picture of his style and appearance.
“He sat in an arm-chair. A prim and powdered wig with side locks, a white collar with golden buckle, a richly embroidered white waistcoat of heavy silk stuff, a stately frill, a state dress of fine coffee-brown material, embroidered ruffles at the wrist, black silk knee breeches, white silk hose, shoes with large curved silver buckles over the instep, and upon the little table standing on one side, near his hat, a pair of white leather gloves—such were the items of his dress upon which shone the dawn of the 17th (18th?) century,” says Tomaschek. To this we may add Griesinger’s remark: “When he expected company, he placed his diamond ring on his finger, and ornamented his attire with the red ribbon to which the Burgher medal was attached.” “The tender feelings inspired by the sight of the fame-crowned tone-poet disposed me to sadness,” continues Tomaschek. “Haydn complained of his failing memory, which compelled him to give up composition altogether. He could not retain an idea long enough to write it out. He begged us to go into the next room and see his souvenirs of the ‘Creation.’ A bust by Gyps induced me to ask Haydn whom it represented. The poor man, bursting into tears, moaned rather than spoke, ‘My best friend, the sculptor Fischer; O, why dost thou not take me to thyself?’ The tone with which he said it pierced me to the heart, and I was vexed with myself for having made him mournful. At sight of his trinkets, however, he grew cheerful again. In short, the great Haydn was already a child in whose arms grief and joy often reposed together.”
The 27th of March witnessed one of the grandest displays of respect Haydn had ever experienced. “The old man at all times loved his fatherland, and he set an inestimable value upon the honors he received in it,” so Dies begins an account of the performance of the “Creation” in Italian, which took place in this year (1808), under Salieri’s direction. On alighting from the Prince’s carriage, he was received by distinguished personages of the nobility, and—by his scholar Beethoven. The crowd was so great that the military had to keep order. He was carried, sitting in his arm-chair, into the hall, and was greeted upon his entrance with a flourish of trumpets and joyous shouts of “long live Haydn.” He occupied a seat next his Princess, the Prince being at court that day, and on the other side sat his favorite scholar, Fraulein Kurzbeck. The highest people of rank in Vienna selected seats in his vicinity. The French ambassador noticed that Haydn wore the medal of the Paris Concert des Amateurs. “Not alone this, but all the medals which have been awarded in France you ought to have received,” said he. Haydn thought he felt a little draft. The Princess threw her shawl about him, many ladies following her example, and in a few moments he was covered with shawls. Eibler, Gyrowetz and his godson, Weigl, were also present. Poems by Collin and Carpani, the adapter of the text, were presented to him. “He could no longer conceal his feelings. His overburdened heart sought and found relief in tears,” continues Dies. “He was obliged to refresh himself with wine to raise his drooping spirits.” When the passage, “And there was Light,” came, and the audience broke out into tumultuous applause, he made a motion of his hands towards Heaven and said, “it came from thence.” He continued in such an agitated condition that he was obliged to take his leave at the close of the first part. “His departure completely overcame him. He could not address the audience, and could only give expression to his heartfelt gratitude with broken, feeble utterances and blessings. Upon every countenance there was deep pity, and tearful eyes followed him as he was taken to his carriage.”