The first larger works of Haydn were also Italian operas. He prized them very much himself, and they were also very pleasing to others; and it was only a deep, inward feeling for the calling he had chosen and a happy chance, which gave him the opportunity of satisfying that feeling, that saved him from a course which certainly might have secured him speedy fame and fortune, but not that immortal halo of glory which crowns the “Father of the Symphony.” He even declined an invitation from Gluck, at that time the most celebrated of the Italian opera-composers, to go to Italy! Apart from this, it may be said incidentally, we learn of no nearer relations between these two artists. Temperament, character and the objects of their ambition kept them widely apart.
Haydn now devoted himself still more earnestly to studies of a theoretical nature. From sixteen to eighteen hours daily work was his rule, two-thirds of the time being devoted to the necessities of life. Mattheson’s “Vollkommener Capellmeister” and the “Gradus ad Parnassum” of Fux, the Vienna Hofcapellmeister, were his text-books. “With unwearied determination Haydn sought to master the theory of Fux,” says Griesinger, the councilor, who met him frequently in 1800, and in 1810 published the “Biographical Notices” of him. He says: “Haydn studied out the problems, laid them aside some weeks, then looked them over again and reviewed them often enough to make sure he was master of them.” Haydn called this work (“Fux’s Theorie”), a classic, and kept a much worn copy of it all his life. Mattheson’s book was found among his relics, “completely gone.” This work certainly did not extend his knowledge of composition, but he prized the method, and educated many a scholar in it during his life, and among those scholars was—Beethoven.
“He officiated as organist at a church in the suburbs, wrote quartets and other pieces which commended him still more favorably to amateurs, so that he was universally recognized as a genius,” says Dies. One of these amateurs was the councilor, Von Furnberg, “from whom I received special marks of favor,” says Haydn himself. Von Furnberg, who was already indebted to Haydn for several trios, was accustomed to have chamber-music at his villa in Weinzerl, played by the pastor of the place, his own steward, a violoncellist, and Haydn, and one day encouraged the latter to write a string quartet. Thus an accident of his surroundings turned his inventive spirit toward that particular form of chamber-music, the string quartet, which was destined to be so wonderful in results. This occurred in 1750.
Much had been already written for the four stringed instruments, but Haydn gave to the quartet the movements and organic form which he had found in the sonatas. By the force of his knowledge of harmony he gave a more spontaneously melodious capacity to the divisions of the quartet which had hitherto been merely vague and sketchy, so that their development captivated the player and listener. It was, as it were, a scene in which four individualities, acting together, play out a complete and concrete life-picture,—artistic performances, which appeal to the player, as well as to the artist and poet, in a higher degree than the simple, plain sonata. Hence the invention of the string quartet marked an epoch in the history of music.
The first quartet (B flat, 6/8), met with such an instant success and so actively inspired Haydn himself, that in a short time he produced eighteen works in this style. And yet a Prussian major who had been made a prisoner in the Seven Years’ War, who heard these early productions, says that although every one was in raptures over his compositions, Haydn was modest even to timidity, and could not bring himself to believe that they were of any account. Twenty years later, even, he looked up to Hasse, at that time indeed famous throughout the world, as a great composer, and declared he would treasure his praise of his “Stabat Mater” like gold, though it was undeserved, “not on account of the opinion itself, but for the sake of a man so estimable.” Who knows Hasse to-day, and who that knows anything of music is not familiar with Joseph Haydn and his quartets? The English music-hunter, Burney, mentions that in 1772 he heard them played at Gluck’s!
It contributed greatly to his activity in composition that he was now in better circumstances. Furnberg had secured for him the appointment of “director” in the establishment of a music-loving count. The first quartets breathe the full, joyous humor of his child-like spirit. Though at first many a one protested against the lowering of music to mere trifling and was of the opinion that there was no earnest effort in his compositions, the verdict this time declared itself in favor of the creator of this style, and many a deeply earnest tone in these works is a souvenir of happy hours, which even now a quartet-evening with Haydn affords.
The Count, who in 1759 had installed Haydn as his director—and one in that position must also be a composer—was the Bohemian nobleman, Franz von Morzin. He passed his winters in Vienna and his summers at his country house at Lukavec, where he kept his orchestra, and while with him Haydn wrote his first symphony. There were symphonies indeed long before Haydn. Originally, all music in several parts was thus designated—at first, vocal pieces with instrumental accompaniments, but after the seventeenth century, instrumental music only. The instrumental preludes to the Italian operas, in particular, were called symphonies. The symphony in regular form consisted of an Allegro, an Adagio and a second Allegro. Haydn made the three movements, which he had transferred from the sonata-form to the quartet, richer and more independent, and added to them the Minuet, so that four movements became the rule. Haydn’s progress, therefore, was exemplified in the symphony by the freedom and vivacity which he gave to the separate instruments, but above all, by their skillful combination and the dynamic gradations of the ensemble. For these he had his models in the compositions of the Mannheim school, which Mozart so much admired afterward.
Haydn’s first symphony, in D major, is a prominent example of the clearness of his method in such larger orchestral work. We shall soon see that he developed it still farther. His position with the Count, satisfactory so far as compensation was concerned, might have been the source of prolific creation, for the Count and his young son were enthusiastic musical amateurs, but the contract stipulated that he should remain unmarried. Haydn was then twenty-seven years of age, and it was not until that time that the charms of the other sex attracted his attention, and it happened then only by an accident which reveals to us the innocence of his youth. In his later years he was fond of telling the story that once when he was accompanying the young Countess in her singing, she stooped over, so as to see better, and her neckerchief became disarranged. “It was the first time I had ever witnessed such a sight. I was embarrassed, my playing ceased, and my fingers lay idly on the keys,” he told Griesinger. “What has happened, Haydn,” said the Countess, “what are you doing?” With perfect respect, Haydn replied: “Who could retain his self-command in your gracious ladyship’s presence?” The sequel to such an unexpected revelation was not long in following.
In the autumn of 1760, Haydn was again with his scholars in Vienna. Among them were two daughters of Keller, a wig-maker, in the Ungargasse, who had frequently assisted him before this time. The younger daughter was so attractive to him, that in spite of the Count’s order, which only made her still more alluring to the fiery young fellow, he determined to marry her, but to his sorrow, she chose to enter a convent. “Haydn, you ought to marry my eldest daughter,” jokingly said the father one day, for he was particularly pleased with the smart and gifted young director;—and Haydn did so. Whatever may have been the reason—gratitude, ignorance, helplessness in practical matters, or the wish to have a wife right away—whatever may have been the motive, he married, and sorely he had to suffer for it.
His wife was older than he, and this of itself made the relations between them very uncertain. Besides this, Dies says that she was an imperious and unfeeling woman, who was incapable of any consideration, and had earned the reputation of being a spendthrift. The proofs of her quarrelsomeness and of her heartless treatment of her husband reveal to us a perfect Xantippe. As compared with the simple, frank and joyous-hearted Haydn, she was an extreme bigot and prude. Only a person of his disposition could have endured such a wretched, and above all, childless marriage. “We were affectionate together, but for all that, I soon discovered that my wife was extremely frivolous,” he very mildly said to Dies. He told Griesinger that he was obliged to carefully conceal his earnings from her on account of her passion for finery. She was also fond of inviting priests to dine, urging them to say many masses, and giving more money to them for charity than she could afford. Very many of Haydn’s masses, and smaller church-pieces, especially those scattered about in the Austrian convents, are due to the fact that she availed herself of her husband’s talent to appear generous. Under such circumstances he naturally did not accomplish his best work, but wrote in a careless style. Once, when Griesinger, for whom he had done some favor for which he would not accept anything, asked permission to make his wife a present, he resolutely replied: “She does not deserve anything. It is little matter to her whether her husband is an artist or a cobbler.” She was also particularly malicious, and purposely tried to offend her husband, using his notes, for instance, as curl-papers, and in pie dishes, occasioning the loss, undoubtedly, of many of his earlier scores. One day, when she complained that there was not money enough in the house to bury him, in case he died suddenly, Haydn called her attention to a row of canons which were framed and hung upon the wall of his chamber, in lieu of any other decoration, and told her that they would bring enough for his funeral expenses. Notwithstanding his patience and good-heartedness, he could not overcome an intuitive feeling of repugnance for his wife. In the year 1805, when the violinist Baillot was visiting him, they happened to pass a picture in the hall. Haydn stopped, and grasping Baillot by the arm, said: “That is my wife. Many a time she has maddened me.”