In the opus 14, published in 1776 by Artaria, there are some joyous sonatas. The first theme of one in G major (Pet. 11) suggests Schubert by its sweetness. There is a minuet instead of a slow movement, and the final presto is a theme with lively variations. The Alberti bass on which the fourth variation floats is irresistibly naïve. Another sonata in E-flat seems richer. It is hardly less naïve and less humorous than the others in the set, but there is a warmer coloring. The overlapping imitations in the fourth, fifth, and sixth measures are strangely poignant, especially as they appear later in the restatement. There is a minuet instead of a slow movement, of which the trio is especially beautiful. The way in which the first phrase seems to be prolonged into five measures, once more suggests Schubert.
It is, of course, nearly impossible to characterize the sonatas in words, or to distinguish any striking feature in one which may not be found in another. There are two sonatas in E-flat (Pet. 1 and 3) among the last he wrote. These appear at first sight more profound than the earlier ones, but it is hard in studying them to find them so. They are more fully scored, more fully developed, perhaps more moderately gay. But it is still the Haydn which spoke in the earlier ones. Premonitions of Schubert are again evident in the second of these sonatas (Pet. 3), in the second section of the slow movement, and in the brief passage in E-flat minor in the minuet. There are very fine moments in the first movement, too. It will be observed that the second theme is very like the first. This is frequently the case with Haydn, a feature which points to his dependence on Emanuel Bach. Even in his symphonies it shows itself, conspicuously in the great symphony in D major, No. 7, in Breitkopf and Härtel’s edition. In the sonata in question, however, there is no lack of secondary material of varied and decided character; for example, the transitional section between the first and second themes; the broad closing theme of the first section, with its alternate deep phrases and high answers; and the carefully wrought measures which open the development section.
The effect of the measures which bring this section almost to a close and then lead on into the recapitulation is almost magical. We approach the romantic. The strange power of silence in music is nowhere better employed, a power which the old convention of constant movement had kept concealed, at least in instrumental music. Mention has been made of the pauses in Emanuel Bach’s music and in Clementi’s; but here in Haydn’s sonata is a passage of more than twenty measures in which silence seems to reign. Something calls on high and there is silence. Then from some deep down range there is a faint answer. And so the high calls across silence to the deep, again and again, as if one without the other might not prevail against some spirit of silence.
Such a passage as this, and many another in Haydn’s music, suggest Beethoven. One is quick to exclaim, ‘Ah! this foreshadows the great man to come!’ Almost as if the music had no merit but by comparison. Yet Haydn’s music should be taken at its own value. Only in that way may the charm of it, and the genuine beauty as well, be fully appreciated. Surely it has a life and a spirit all its own, without which music would be poorer.
Only one clavier work of special significance, apart from the sonatas, remains to be mentioned. This is a very beautiful series of variations on a theme in F minor. They present, of course, the familiar features of Haydn’s style, clear and ‘economic’ part-writing, perfect balance and lucidity in form, abrupt, unprepared chords, furnishing what Hadow has aptly called ‘points of color’; and still, smooth, chromatic progressions which are somehow naïve. The theme itself is in two sections, with a ‘trio’ section in F major, full of ascending and descending arpeggio figures which seem in Haydn’s music like the warble of a bird’s song, odd little darts and flurries of sound. There is over the whole a changing light of plaintive and gay which is rather different from the perpetual sunshine of the sonatas.
It is needless to say that the theme undergoes no such metamorphosis in the course of the variations as Bach’s theme in his Goldberg Variations. The accompaniment may be said to remain practically the same throughout the set. The first variation leads the melody through half-steps, in syncopation, and numerous trills are brought in to beautify the almost too ingenuous major section. In the second variation the melody is dissolved, so to speak, into a clear stream of rapid counterpoint which curves and frets above and below the familiar accompaniment. The final restatement of the theme leads by abrupt soft modulations into a long coda in which traces of the theme still linger. The whole set makes up a masterpiece in pianoforte literature, and may be ranked as one of the most beautiful pieces of music in the variation form.
II
Mozart’s keyboard music is astonishingly different from Haydn’s. Because both men have fallen into the obscurity of the same shadow, one is likely to speak of them as if both were but a part of one whole. The differences between them are not merely matters of detail. In fact they may resemble each other more in detail than in general qualities. The spirit of Mozart’s music is wholly different from the spirit of Haydn’s. If with Haydn we may associate a frank good nature and something of the peasant’s sturdiness, in Mozart’s music we have to do with something far more subtle, far more graceful, and almost wholly elusive. It has been said of Mozart’s music that its inherent vitality is all-sufficient to a listener. In other words, there is neither any need nor any desire to interpret it, either in terms of another art or as an expression or a symbol of human emotion. It is perhaps unique in being sheer sound and nothing else. It is the thinnest gossamer spun between our ears and stillness. It is of all music the most ethereal, the most spiritual, one might almost say the least audible.
His life was utterly different from Haydn’s. To begin with, he was twenty-four years younger. He was most carefully and rigorously trained in his art, from infancy, by his father and by the greatest musicians in the world, whom he met on his triumphant tours over Europe. As a child he was all but adored in Vienna, in all the great cities of Italy, in London, in Paris, and in Brussels. As a youth fortune began to forsake him. He was not so much neglected as unappreciated. He was underpaid, harassed by debt. He was without an established position, chiefly apparently because in the nature of things he could not be but young. He died at last in Vienna, in more or less miserable circumstances, at the age of thirty-five. Thus a life could end that in early years had been the marvellous delight of nearly a whole world.
He was always a virtuoso as well as a composer. He played the violin excellently; he played the piano as no man in his time could play it and as perhaps no man has played it since. His playing was not so much distinguished by brilliance as by beauty. The quality of his tone was of that kind which once heard can never be forgotten. It haunted the minds of men long after he was dead. Even the memory of it brought tears.