The Virtual Haydn: Paradox of a Twenty-First-Century Keyboardist 9780226195353

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The Virtual Haydn

THE VIRTUAL

Haydn Paradox of a Twenty-First-Century Keyboardist

TOM BEGHIN

The University of Chicago Press Chicago and London

Tom Beghin is associate professor at McGill University in Montreal and an internationally active performer on historical keyboards. He is coeditor of Haydn and the Performance of Rhetoric, also published by the University of Chicago Press. The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London © 2015 by The University of Chicago All rights reserved. Published 2015. Printed in the United States of America 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 ISBN-13: 978-0-226-15677-4 ISBN-13: 978-0-226-19535-3

1 2 3 4 5 (cloth) (e-book)

DOI: 10.7208/chicago/9780226195353.001.0001 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Beghin, Tom, 1967– author. The virtual Haydn : paradox of a twenty-first-century keyboardist / Tom Beghin. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-226-15677-4 (cloth : alkaline paper) — ISBN 978-0-226-19535-3 (e-book) 1. Haydn, Joseph, 1732–1809. Keyboard music. 2. Performance practice (Music)— History—18th century. 3. Keyboard instrument music—Analysis, appreciation. 4. Keyboard instruments—Performance. I. Title. ML410.H4B34 2015 786.092—dc23 2014017216 This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

to Robert J. Litz (1950–2012) friend and partner in crime



CONTENTS



List of Illustrations

ix

The Virtual Haydn: A Recording Project Companion Website Acknowledgments

xv xvii

Abbreviations, Scores, and Translations Prologue

xiii

xxi

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1

A Composer, His Dedicatee, Her Instrument, and I

2

Delivery, Delivery, Delivery!

3

Short Octaves müssen sein!

4

“Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant”

5

An Opus for the Insightful World

6

A Contract with Posterity Epilogue

1

43 77 127

169

219

255 vii

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Contents

Appendix A: Physiognomic Analyses of Plate 5 à la Lavater

257

Appendix B: Biographical Outlines of Theresa Jansen and Magdalena von Kurzböck Notes

261

273

Works Cited Index of Names

305 321

Index of Musical Works

327



I L L U ST R AT I O N S



Figures Fig. 1.1 Fig. 1.2 Fig. 1.3 Fig. 1.4

Fig. 2.1 Fig. 2.2 Fig. 3.1

Fig. 3.2 Fig. 3.3

Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52 (London: Longman, Clementi, 1799), title page 8 Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52 (Vienna: Artaria, 1798), title page 9 Replica of a 1788 Ignaz Kober Tafelklavier by Chris Maene (Ruiselede, Belgium, 2007) 37 Stoss action (below) and prell action (above), interchangeable in the same replica of a ca. 1782 Anton Walter grand fortepiano by Chris Maene (Ruiselede, Belgium, 2005) 38 Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 major, Hob. XVI:49, autograph, first page turn, facsimile by Schott/Universal Edition (Vienna, 1964) 57 An actor in doubt. Engraving from Engel (1785–86), vol. 1, between pp. 88 and 89 58 Title page of Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, autograph. From a copy in the Gisella Selden-Goth Collection: Music Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. 80 Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 247–275, Henle score (ed. Sonja Gerlach), with author’s annotations 91 Castration of a sow in Burgenland 96 ix

x

Fig. 4.1 Fig. 4.2 Fig. 4.3 Fig. 4.4 Fig. 5.1 Fig. 5.2 Fig. 5.3 Fig. 5.4 Fig. 5.5 Fig. 5.6 Fig. 6.1 Fig. 6.2 Fig. 6.3

Illustrations

Two families joined by marriage 130 “Nicolaus Esterházy” Sonatas, Hob. XVI:21–26 (Vienna: Kurzböck, 1774), title page 135 “Auenbrugger” Sonatas, Hob. XVI:35–39, 20 (Vienna: Artaria, 1780), title page 135 “Marie Esterházy” Sonatas, Hob. XVI:40–42 (Speyer: Bossler, 1784), title page 137 Katharina Freifrau Zois Edelstein, née von Auenbrugger. Miniature by Suwis, 1808 183 Marianna von Auenbrugger, Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, with ode by Antonio Salieri (Vienna: Artaria, ca. 1783), title page 184 Daniel Niklaus Chodowiecki, Sixteen Heads in Profile, from Lavater (1776), vol. 2, supplement 193 Franz Xaver Messerschmidt, “A Willful Buffoon” (after 1770 [No. 5]) and “A Buffoon” (after 1770 [No. 13]) 197 Sonata in C ♯ Minor, Hob. XVI:36 (Vienna: Artaria, 1780), Menuet (No. 6a) and Trio (No. 6b) 202 Physiognomy and pathognomy of an opus 207 Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52, autograph, second page (recto) 232 Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52 (London: Longman, Clementi, 1799), first movement, mm. 31–43 233 Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52 (Vienna: Artaria, 1798), first movement, mm. 21–37 234

Musical Examples Ex. 1.1 Ex. 1.2 Ex. 1.3 Ex. 1.4

Ex. 1.5 Ex. 1.6 Ex. 2.1

Ex. 2.2 Ex. 2.3 Ex. 2.4

Sonata in C Major, Hob. XVI:50, first movement, mm. 1–8 and 120–124 5 Sonata in F Major, Hob. XVI:23, second movement, mm. 21–39 11 Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:39, second movement, mm. 46–62 14 (a) Sonata in C Major, Hob. XVI:21, first movement, mm. 1–6 (transcribed from first edition); (b) Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:49, first movement, mm. 1–12 (transcribed from manuscript) 23 (a) Sonata in D Major, Hob. XVI:14, first movement, mm. 1–8; (b) Sonata in C Major, Hob. XVI:48, first movement, mm. 1–10 35 Sonata in E Minor, Hob. XVI:47, mm. 8–12 41 Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:40: (a) “transition” between first and second movements; (b) first movement, mm. 73–end, with repeat: written-out performance 45–47 Sonata in D Major, Hob. XVI:42, transition between first and second movements 51 Sonata in A Major, Hob. XVI:26, Menuet al rovescio 54 Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:49, first movement: (a) mm. 24–64; (b) mm. 179–186 (transcribed from manuscript) 55–56

Illustrations

Ex. 2.5 Ex. 3.1

Ex. 3.2

Ex. 3.3 Ex. 3.4 Ex. 3.5 Ex. 3.6 Ex. 3.7 Ex. 3.8 Ex. 3.9 Ex. 3.10 Ex. 3.11 Ex. 3.12 Ex. 3.13 Ex. 3.14 Ex. 3.15 Ex. 3.16

Ex. 4.1 Ex. 4.2 Ex. 4.3 Ex. 4.4 Ex. 4.5 Ex. 4.6

xi

Sonata in E Major, Hob. XVI:22, first movement: (a) opening theme; (b) development and recapitulation 65–67 (a) Georg Christoph Wagenseil, Divertimento Op. 2 No. 2 (WV 53), third movement, mm. 35–end; (b) Wagenseil, Divertimento Op. 2 No. 6 (WV 33), first movement, mm. 89–end; (c) Wagenseil, Divertimento Op. 2 No. 6 (WV 33), third movement, mm. 13–end; (d) Johann Joseph Fux, Suite (“Parthie”) in G Minor (E 117), first movement, mm. 9–10 86 (a) Sonata in E Minor, Hob. XVI:47, first movement (Adagio), mm. 1–12; (b) Variations in A Major, Hob. XVII:2: Var. VI, mm. 97–104; Var. IX, mm. 145–148; Var. X, mm. 161–164; Var. XI, mm. 177–184; Var. XX, mm. 321–324; (c) Sonata in A Major, Hob. XVI:12, first movement, mm. 21–24; (d) Sonata in A 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:46, third movement, mm. 72–78 89–90 Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, outline 102 Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 1–23 106 Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 24–61 107 Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 62–84 108 Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 85–114 109 Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 114–157 110 Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 157–190 112 Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 114–157 113 Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 233–265 115 Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 265–273 116 Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 274–295 117 Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 296–315 118 Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 315–368 119–20 (a) Divertimento in F Major, Hob. XVIIa:1, first movement: theme, mm. 1–10; Var. III, mm. 101–106; Var. V, mm. 161–166; Var. VI, mm. 181–184; (b) Baryton Trio in A Major, Hob. XI:38, theme, mm. 1–8 122–23 Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:40 (Speyer: Bossler, 1784), first movement, mm. 1–8 154 Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:40 (Speyer: Bossler, 1784), from first movement, m. 80, to second movement, m. 5 156 Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:40, from end of first movement to beginning of second movement, rewritten without transition 157 Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:40 (Speyer: Bossler, 1784), second movement, mm. 22–52 158 Sonata in B 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:41 (Speyer: Bossler, 1784): (a) first movement, mm. 1–8; (b) second movement, mm. 1–8 161 (a) Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:40 (Speyer: Bossler, 1784), second movement, mm. 1–10; (b) Sonata in D Major, Hob. XVI:42 (Speyer: Bossler, 1784), second movement, mm. 1–8 162

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Illustrations

One idea, different executions: (a) Sonata in C♯ Minor, Hob. XVI:36, second movement, opening; (b) Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:39, first movement, opening 170 Ex. 5.2 Opus tonality of the six “Auenbrugger” Sonatas, Hob. XVI: 35–39, 20 176 Ex. 5.3 Incipits of the eighteen “Auenbrugger” pieces 194–96 Ex. 5.4 (a) “Nun ich meinen Wurstel habe,” from Die Feuersbrunst, Hob. XXIXb:A, opening line; (b) No. 6b transposed from C♯ major to D major 200 Ex. 5.5 Baryton Trio in A Major, Hob. XI:35, Trio, mm. 17–24 203 Ex. 5.6 Physiognomy of an opus 204 Ex. 5.7 Comparison of Numbers 3, 5, and 13, opening measures 205 Ex. 5.8 Comparison of Numbers 2 and 14, selected measures 205 Ex. 5.9 Pathognomy of an “Opus in C Minor” 210 Ex. 5.10 Sonata 6, third movement (No. 18), mm. 102–end 213 Ex. 5.11 Sonata 4, first movement (No. 10), development and part of recapitulation (mm. 29–57) 216 Ex. 6.1 Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52 (London: Longman, Clementi, 1799), first movement, mm. 1–13 236 Ex. 6.2 Jan Ladislav Dussek, Sonata in G Minor, Op. 13 No. 3, first movement, mm. 1–4 236 Ex. 6.3 Ludwig van Beethoven, Sonata in B 𝅗𝅥 Major, Op. 22, fourth movement, mm. 1–8 241 Ex. 6.4 Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52 (Vienna: Artaria, 1798), first movement, mm. 6–12 242 Ex. 6.5 Theresa Bartolozzi-Jansen, Grand Sonata in A Major, three movements, incipits 246 Ex. 5.1

Plates (following p. 130) Plate 1 Plate 2

Plate 3 Plate 4 Plate 5 Plate 6 Plate 7 Plate 8 Plate 9

Viennese “short octave”: close-up and diagram Lungau Sauschneider, anonymous gouache (late eighteenth century), and Hanswurst, detail from Kinderspiele, colored etching by Johann Martin Will (1780s) Letter of Princess Marie Esterházy to Empress Maria Ludovica Beatrix, March 20, 1812, first and third (final) page Letter of Haydn to Marianne von Genzinger, February 9, 1790, first and fourth (final) page Physiognomic snapshots of author’s performance Franz Xaver Messerschmidt, Character Heads, selected from Krapf (2002), passim Lobkowitz Festsaal and ca. 1790 prell-action Anton Walter fortepiano (replica by Chris Maene, 2005) Holywell Music Room and 1798 Longman, Clementi, & Company piano (replica by Chris Maene, 2004) Karl Anton Hickel, William Pitt Addressing the House of Commons, 1793–94



T H E V I R T UA L H AY D N : A R E C O R D I N G P R OJ E C T



The Virtual Haydn: Complete Works for Solo Keyboard by Joseph Haydn, performed by Tom Beghin, is available from Naxos either as a boxed set of four Blu-ray discs (Naxos NBD 0001–04, released in 2009) or twelve CDs and one DVD (Naxos 8.501203, released in 2011). Showcasing the new technology of virtual acoustics, the recordings were produced at the laboratories of the Centre for Interdisciplinary Research in Music Media and Technology (CIRMMT) and the Schulich School of Music of McGill University. Martha de Francisco was the producer; Wieslaw Woszczyk the virtual acoustics engineer/architect. Many of the concepts espoused in this book have found their sonic counterpart—or, conversely, their inspiration—in the eighteen hours’ worth of recorded material. Fifteen hours are “pure audio” (in the Blu-ray package presented as both 5.0 surround DTS-HD and high-resolution stereo PCM); three hours are HD video, including a feature-length “making of ” documentary, entitled Playing the Room, directed by Robert J. Litz and Jeremy Tusz. Listeners experience Haydn’s solo keyboard works in nine virtual rooms—replications of actual rooms where Haydn or contemporary players of his keyboard music would have performed. These have been acoustically xiii

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sampled, electronically mapped, and virtually reconstructed in the recording studio. Featured rooms range from private to public, from Haydn’s own study in his Eisenstadt home to the Holywell Music Room in Oxford, England. Enhancing the experience are the seven historical keyboards on which the music is performed. All seven instruments, from a 1760s clavichord to a 1798 English grand piano, were especially built for this project, some for the very first time since the eighteenth century. As a special bonus, the user may navigate from one virtual room to the next—or from one instrument to another—mixing, matching, and comparing the performance of a short piece for musical clock, for a total of sixtythree (seven times nine) possible combinations.



COMPANION WEBSITE



All examples printed in this book may be listened to or viewed at the designated website thevirtualhaydn.com/book. Especially for chapters 3 and 5 (where it is absolutely necessary to also “see”) and chapter 6 (where part of the argument concerns the acoustics of rooms), we recommend that the reader consult the website in tandem with the book. But the website also serves this book’s broader performance-oriented message: that image and sound take over where score or prose must stop. To allow for easy cross-navigation, captions and numbers have been kept identical between book and website. Sound and video excerpts are mostly taken from the author’s own commercially available recordings, by permission of Naxos. In addition, the website features newly recorded video material, notably, for chapter 3, the non-Haydn short-octave examples and Haydn’s four-hand Divertimento “Il maestro e lo scolare,” Hob. XVIIa:1 (with Gili Loftus); for chapter 5, Marianna von Auenbrugger’s E 𝅗𝅥 Major Sonata (by Gili Loftus) and Antonio Salieri’s Ode “Deh si piacevoli” (with April Babey); and, for chapter 6, Theresa Jansen’s Grand Sonata in A Major. Especially noteworthy too are the evocative readings in their original language of Marie Esterházy’s and Haydn’s letters (for chapter 4), by Geneviève Soly and Tom Pohl. xv



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



I now smile at the ambition of a budding performer-scholar, but for the blessing of two giants in the worlds of historical performance and musicology I will be forever grateful. Seated at that special kitchen table in Ithaca, New York, when I unveiled my plan “to study the complete Haydn,” were Malcolm Bilson and James Webster. Their support has blossomed into warm collegiality and friendship—a privilege that I’ve never ceased to cherish. Various granting agencies have sponsored my research over the years. I wish particularly to thank the National Humanities Center in Research Triangle Park, North Carolina, where I was William J. Bouwsma Fellow in 2002–3; the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRC), which supported both the recording project (2003–8) and the present book (2011–14); and the Fonds québécois de la recherche sur la société et la culture (FQRSC), which supplied crucial funds during my first years at McGill University. The Joseph Haydn-Institut in Cologne houses the world’s most significant collection of Haydn-related primary and secondary sources, and it became one of my favorite destinations, especially during my sabbatical year in 2009–10. I thank the director, Armin Raab, and his remarkable team of xvii

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Acknowledgments

researchers for their warm welcome. The institute has furthermore helped me develop friendships with scholars I greatly admire, such as László Somfai (whose wisdom and inimitable pragmatism in Haydn-related matters I’ve always taken to heart) and Elaine Sisman (whose originality and excellence have continued to inspire me). On the home front in Montreal, I must salute the hardworking and delightfully supportive team of librarians at the Marvin Duchow Music Library under the directorship of Cynthia Leive. Both at the undergraduate and graduate levels, at the University of California, Los Angeles (1997–2002) and at McGill University (2003–present), I have submitted many students to my developing ideas on eighteenth-century performance and Haydn. It has been particularly fulfilling to see some of them explore uncharted territories on their own—I think of Erin Helyard’s work on Muzio Clementi and Katelyn Clark’s on Theresa Jansen. Over the years my historical-piano studio has grown into a true laboratory, where knowledge and insight have emerged collectively. The accomplished musicians I’ve had the privilege of working with include, among others, Katharina Brand, Erin Helyard, Alejandro Ochoa, Katelyn Clark, Pascale Roy, Gili Loftus, Meagan Milatz, Ruxandra Oancea, Andrea Botticelli, Ethan Liang, Mélisande McNabney, and Michael Pecak. One crucial element in our laboratory has been the actual musical instrument itself. I thank Alfons Huber, curator of the instrument collection of the Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna, for his groundbreaking research into eighteenth-century keyboards, and for his example of always putting evidence over assumption. My admiration for the skill and genius of Chris Maene has only increased since he built my first fortepiano back in 1991. I have since had the good fortune to collaborate with other extraordinary builders or restorers, all of whom have become dear friends: Yves Beaupré, Rob Loomis (who sadly passed away in 2013), Joris Potvlieghe, and Martin Pühringer. It was in Montreal and at the newly established Centre for Interdisciplinary Research in Music Media and Technology (CIRMMT) that sound technology added a new dimension to my work. I owe the “virtual” in the title of this book—and much more—to my colleague Wieslaw Woszczyk, an expert in the domain of virtual acoustics. Together with Tonmeister Martha de Francisco we formed what felt like a dream team, our collaborations culminating in a special boxed set of recordings. With its catalog number of NBD0001 (as Naxos’s first Blu-ray release), I like to think we wrote a bit of history. I thank Klaus Heymann for his trust and vision. But the recording couldn’t say it all. After Haydn and the Performance of

Acknowledgments

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Rhetoric, coedited with the classicist Sander Goldberg (itself an immensely inspiring partnership), I was thrilled to receive renewed confidence from the University of Chicago Press. Editor Kathleen Hansell encouraged me to submit my first draft; her successor, Marta Tonegutti, along with her assistant, Sophie Wereley, expertly guided me through the production process; the professionalism of copy editor Barbara Norton and manuscript editor Erik Carlson helped make the last stage remarkably stress-free. I thank the two reviewers for their astute and helpful comments. One of them formally disclosed her identity, allowing me to thank Elisabeth Le Guin for her inspiring artistry and scholarship, for her friendship, and for the opportunity to make music together, mostly in partnership with Elizabeth Blumenstock. I long for more Trio Galatea moments and sometimes wish that shifting institutional affiliations hadn’t sent us in opposite geographic directions. Kathleen Hansell and Marta Tonegutti went beyond the call of duty to help me with Italian translations, as did Thomas Pohl, an Austria-based German actor featured on the website, with some challenging eighteenthcentury German. The multitalented Erin Helyard took precious time away from his own academic duties to typeset the complex musical examples, and Robert Giglio lent meticulous assistance in matters of copyright and permissions and prepared the two indexes. Jonathan Hong, Jeremy Tusz, and Ryan Frizell were instrumental in constructing the accompanying website. For their support over the years, especially in matters relating to Haydn, I thank Koen Uvin, producer of Klara (Belgian Public Radio), and Geert Robberechts, who has helped me with much more than just the business side of being a musician. Three chapters are expanded versions of previously published work. Chapter 1 is based on an essay with the same title originally published in The Cambridge Companion to Haydn, edited by Caryl Clark (Cambridge University Press, 2005). Chapter 2 was revised from Haydn and the Performance of Rhetoric, edited by the present author and Sander Goldberg (University of Chicago Press, 2007). A much shorter version of chapter 4, in German, was first printed in Haydn Studien 9 (2006) as “‘Votre très humble & très obéissant serviteur’: Männliche und weibliche Rhetorik in Haydns Sonate Hob. XVI:40.” Finally, I thank my wife, Griet Vankeerberghen, for her critical yet encouraging eye every time I showed her what I thought was going to be that next “killer” draft, and for her love and support. My sons, sixteen-year-old Oscar and eleven-year-old August, are two remarkable individuals who continue to teach me a lot beyond historical keyboards (even as their knowledge

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of them must be far above average). Robert J. Litz was a family friend and my creative soul mate. His extended stays at our house—while working on a theatrical play, a movie documentary, or a movie script—were invigorating beyond words. More than a year after his passing, I dedicate this book to him. Tom Beghin Montreal, March 4, 2014



A B B R EV I AT I O N S, S C O R ES, A N D T R A N S L AT I O N S



AmZ = Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung JHW = Joseph Haydn Werke WUE = Wiener Urtext Edition

Unless indicated otherwise, all musical examples are transcribed from JHW, with special permission of G. Henle Verlag (Munich). In accordance with JHW’s editorial practice, material derived from important secondary sources appears in parentheses. Additions and clarifications not found in any authoritative source but deemed essential by the editor appear in square brackets. All translations, unless otherwise specified, are my own. The original foreign-language quotes (often with slightly more context) may be found as an electronic document posted on the website, organized chapter by chapter. Capitals C, D, E, and so on are used to indicate musical notes. Context makes clear whether “A” refers to the single note A or the tonality of A major. When more clarity about an actual pitch is required, the following Helmholtz-like notation has been adopted: FF (for the lowest key of a traditional five-octave keyboard), F, f, f 1, f 2, and f 3 (for the highest key). Our modern-day middle C is thus c1. xxi



PROLOGUE



September 16 2007, 1:00 p.m. I board the one o’clock ferry in Calais, bound for Dover. Fragments of a letter from Haydn to his dear friend Marianne von Genzinger keep invading my thoughts: After attending Holy Mass, I boarded the ship, at 7:30 a.m. [on New Year’s Day 1791], and at 5 p.m., God be thanked!, I arrived safe and sound in Dover. . . . During the entire passage I stayed on deck, so as to gaze my fill at that mighty animal, the sea. As long as there was no wind, I wasn’t afraid, but as the wind grew stronger and stronger, and I saw those frighteningly high waves slamming into the ship, a little fear took hold of me, along with a little nausea. But I survived it all without . . . you know, and arrived safely to shore. (January 8, 1791)1

Like Haydn, I too stayed on deck for the entire voyage. Unlike Haydn’s, my stomach was fine. But then, there were no “frighteningly high waves” and my crossing took ninety minutes, against Haydn’s nine-and-a-half fraught hours. The purpose of my trip was to bring a newly built replica of a 1798 Longman, Clementi, & Company piano from its present home in Belgium back to xxiii

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Prologue

England, specifically to Oxford’s Holywell Music Room, which my team and I had chosen as the venue for the recording of Haydn’s English Concert Sonatas Hob. XVI: 50 and 52. We had deemed it a viable substitute for the London Hanover Square Rooms, which are no longer extant. Built in 1748 and dubbed “the oldest music room in Europe” by John Henry Mee in 1911, the Holywell Music Room was, from the start, a public venture, that is, funded by public subscription and conceived as a public music venue. “Music for the chamber” was performed there: sonatas, quartets, trios, concertos, symphonies, and Handel oratorios. Our task was to sample the room—to take many acoustical “digital snapshots” of the space—and make a reference recording of the instrument, positioned in recital style, on the stage, lid up. I would be playing Haydn’s Grand Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥, No. 52, a piece that Haydn wrote for the London-based, professionally trained pianist Theresa Jansen, pupil of the “father of the pianoforte,” Muzio Clementi. To create for myself a sense of what it would be like to present a concert in this famous room—mimicking Ms. Jansen—I invited a few British guests to fill Holywell’s built-in benches. In its simplest terms, an acoustical map of a room is a digital record of its distinctive first and subsequent reverberation responses: how sound waves from a certain source bounce from the walls, windows, niches, floor, ceiling, and seats of a particular room. “Sampling” a room such as Holywell involved placing sensitive microphones at different elevations and multiple locations within the room. What was recorded was not my piano. The purpose of my playing the Longman & Clementi piano was to determine the position of where I would ideally wish to be seated—in other words, where in the room I would deem the instrument to sound “best.” (In this particular case, this choice turned out also the most obvious: we selected the modest-size stage, erected around the organ at the front of the room.) The actual recording of Haydn’s sonata would take place a few months and many thousands of miles away. Still, a recorded document of the “real” interaction of room and instrument would be very useful as a reference later on. Once we felt satisfied with our “real” results, we replaced the instrument with a large array of speakers, of various shapes and characteristics, assembled to imitate the complex acoustic behavior of a keyboard instrument, radiating sounds in all possible directions. Recorded in eight channels was an eighty-second “sound sweep,” as emitted by the various speakers, beginning with subaudible frequencies and gradually rising in pitch to frequencies that only dogs and hummingbirds could hear. Some five hundred such “snapshots” were taken, from all possible listening positions: low and high,

Prologue

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close and far. During the actual sampling, every member of the crew wore protective ear guards, visually monitoring the recording of this “sweep” on their computer screens. I was told to wait outside. With the digital data from the room scans logged on our hard drives and vivid memories of playing in the actual room, the team flew back to our home base in Montreal, Canada. There, in the Immersive Laboratory on the top floor of the New Music Building of McGill University, we replicated everything. Thus, sitting at a 2004 replica of the same Longman, Clementi, & Company grand, in a three-dimensional “dome” of twenty-four loudspeakers, I play as if I were in the Holywell Music Room, ever so conscious of the acoustical spaciousness that surrounds me. As microphones pick up the sounds of the piano, the computer makes the fastest of calculations, sending reverberation responses identical to those in Oxford back through the loudspeakers. (This process of calculating and transmitting takes less than ten milliseconds.) With the confidence expected of a recitalist, I project those grand opening chords of Sonata No. 52 into a virtual hall. Then, as I play those repetitions in the higher register, dropping silences in between, I actively engage with the acoustical feedback, which complements those lazily dampened, resonant though somewhat muffled English tones amazingly well. Through those moments of “staged” hesitation, I assert my authority as a professional performer, at the English instrument, in a virtual concert space, with an imaginary audience. (Corresponding video of these contrasted of scenes—“actual” vs. “virtual”—may be found on the website.)2 This, by way of example, is the story of a collaborative project conducted at the Centre for Interdisciplinary Studies in Music Media and Technology (CIRMMT). Over the course of four months in 2007, we recorded the complete Haydn for solo keyboard (Hob. XVI, the sonatas, and Hob. XVII, the so-called Klavierstücke) divided over ten programs: 1. “Courting Nobility,” ca. 1755–69, on a Viennese harpsichord in the salon of a noble household; 2. “Quality Time,” ca. 1750–72, on a German clavichord in the music room of an upper middle class household; 3. “The Music Lesson,” ca. 1755–67, on a Viennese harpsichord in a private room of a noble household; 4. “Haydn’s Workshop,” ca. 1760–71, on a German clavichord in Haydn’s study; 5. “‘Your Most Serene Highness!’” (“Nicolaus Esterházy” Sonatas, published 1774), on a French harpsichord in the Eszterháza Ceremonial Room;

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6. “The Score” (“Anno 776” Sonatas, 1776), on a Viennese square piano, “faraway” location; 7. “‘Equal to the Finest Masters’” (“Auenbrugger” Sonatas, published 1780), on a Viennese fortepiano with Stossmechanik in a formal salon; 8. “Musical Letters to a Princess” (“Marie Esterházy” Sonatas, published 1784), on a Viennese square piano in a private salon; 9. “Viennese Culture,” 1789–98, on a Viennese fortepiano with Prellmechanik in a formal music salon; 10. “The London Scene,” 1794–95, on an English grand piano in an English concert hall.3

I had long been a “historical keyboardist”—or “keyboardist” for short, in the C. P. E. Bach sense of Clavierist, or someone who has made it a point to be adept on a variety of keyboard instruments. Making “space” an essential ingredient of my recorded performances attracted me immensely. But, as this opportunity for a remarkable technological experiment presented itself, the trap of “historical reconstruction” also felt wide open. Instruments, rooms— what would be next: clothes, to empathize with the restricted movements of an eighteenth-century keyboard-playing lady? Candles, to experience what it is like to sight-read from typeset or engraved scores in an environment lacking electricity? Non-controlled humidity, to appreciate the labor of tuning, especially in those simple-key sonatas that typically open a set of six, enjoying the freshness of a well-tempered tuning while it lasts? Though each of these realities in fact raises intriguing issues for modern-day interpretation and performance, I feared that recording “in historical rooms” or in carefully created digital clones of those rooms would make me an easy target for such fierce “authenticity” critics as Richard Taruskin or Peter Kivy.4 (This kind of conceptual fear has undoubtedly been conditioned by my formative years as a graduate student in the early 1990s, the heydays of such debates between proponents and critics of what was then still called a historical performance “movement.”) But I did accept the invitation of my McGill sound recording colleagues, and the presence of yet another “reconstructive” component in my performances, rather than complicating my approach to Haydn, ended up providing a reassuringly real context for it. Virtuality provided me with choices I didn’t know I’d need or have, inviting me to accept the virtual almost as more real than reality itself—embracing, perhaps, what the cultural philosopher Slavoj Žižek has called “the reality of the virtual.”5 I no longer felt on the receiving end of things, but had to make decisions as concrete as Haydn’s

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when embarking on another sonata-writing project. For Haydn, these may not have been decisions per se, but concrete elements or circumstances nonetheless that he would have taken into account, even if he did not actively use or exploit them. Virtual acoustics forced me to be articulate but also allowed my musicological sensitivities to sociocultural context to come to the fore, resulting not just in some interesting liner notes for my listeners, but in clearly assembled and enacted storyboards that informed my performative choices in the most direct of ways. In good rhetorical tradition, “ten” programs stands for “many”: undoubtedly, there are more stories of a virtual Haydn to be told, but the crucial point is that they are stories, involving real instruments, rooms, people—the three aspects combining and conspiring to take the singular out of “repertoire,” or (with the ethnomusicologist Christopher Small) to put the verb back in musicking.6 But none of this happens in spite of “me”—and the quotation marks become all the more essential as we now move from recording project to academic monograph. “I” am a professional twenty-first-century keyboardist, well versed in historical performance practices, but burdened—like most of us in the “classical music” world—with the post-1800 custom of learning, interpreting, and performing only “masterworks” of the past. The fact that, in the case of Haydn’s keyboard music, these “works of a master” (the reversal to bring us closer to a pre-1800 way of thinking about them) were mostly intended for the female amateur leaves us with a paradox—one that will permeate many pages of this book. (The example given at the outset, of Ms. Jansen playing a concert sonata, is a major exception for Haydn.) Like Diderot’s actor performing a script by Molière or Shakespeare, how can “I” imbue my professional renditions of a Haydn sonata with skill, with conviction, with “sincerity”?7 The answer cannot be simple. Maybe the anachronism of “me now” versus “her then” makes the question itself fallacious. Nonetheless, “I” (and many like me) do exist, and we create careers out of performing repertoires like Haydn’s. So the question seems worth exploring. Since the pioneering work of David Schroeder, Mark Evan Bonds, Elaine Sisman, James Webster, and others, scholars and musicians have started piecing together an ever more rewarding understanding of “Haydn, the rhetorical man.”8 Some of these named authors teamed up with colleagues from other fields of the humanities and contributed to the volume Haydn and the Performance of Rhetoric, coedited by the classics scholar Sander Goldberg and me (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2007). The primary aim of that publication was to make performance front and center again

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of modern-day music-rhetorical discourse—that is, not to think of performance as some finishing stage in a longer process of creative invention and execution, but to appreciate performance as the culminating arena that once defined the very rules and structures of the discipline for classical rhetoric and eighteenth-century music alike. This performance-anchored paradigm of “Haydn, the rhetorical man,” to be understood as both a broader and a more flexible version of “Haydn, the orator,” continues to elicit many of the questions explored in this present book.9 When performing the rhetoric of Haydn’s solo keyboard music, one important preliminary question concerns the issue of performing and/or listening personae. We now commonly separate the two activities, but the division could not be taken for granted for a genre that revolved around private musicking. Sometimes it is more useful—whether transforming or reflecting a real-life social interaction—to think of the player of a Haydn sonata as the pupil of a real-time musical lesson, the interlocutor of some musical conversation, or the addressee of some musical letter. After some practicing—but not too much, because there’s always the next piece to play—this “letter” may be shared, yes, “performed” for someone else than your music teacher or governess. It may even evolve into an actual “declamation” or “oration,” entirely worthy of third-party listening. But as this process unfolds, initial interactions—spontaneous and surprising—yield “something” more rehearsed and predictable. This “after,” however, is not necessarily more interesting than the “before.” Often, it’s not. How, then, do I hang on to those initial meanings and incorporate them in my polished renditions of a sonata or piece? This is one challenge I would like to explore in this book. It goes to the heart of the oratorical paradox of ars versus natura. Internalizing this paradox for the keyboardist, then (as Diderot did for the actor), I found myself interested more in playing Haydn her way than in playing him his way.10 My quest—my obsession, even—to learn as much as possible about the personalities of my female counterparts has led to some serious perusal of primary documents, a number of which make it into modern-day print here for the first time. Honoring the factual value of these new documents (which deserve to become a part of Haydn scholarship in their own right) while remaining true to my artistic mission as a performer (where fact and fiction almost must merge) was not an easy balance to strike. I can imagine that for some readers I did not go far enough, while others might find my at times deliberate “gray zones” unnecessarily speculative. However strongly I identify with various female dedicatees, the driving presence throughout the book remains my own as a longtime performer of

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Haydn—“Haydn” here implying more than the usual metonymy of person for work. About her relationship with Boccherini, the cellist Elisabeth Le Guin has evoked a “virtual presence” of her subject-composer, to the extent of her “becoming him,” that is, “not just his hands, but his binding agent, the continuity, the consciousness.”11 As I perform or write about Haydn, I too like to imagine him as a living presence—not necessarily “in” or not even “next to” me, but still as a real-life person, someone whose rhetorical outlook on art and life I ought to try and understand. This book has six chapters, the first two of which contemplate the kind of existential questions initiated here. Chapter 1 sketches a conceptual triangle of a composer, “his” dedicatee, and “her” instrument, and asks where “I” might belong. Chapter 2 shows me eager to sidestep “her,” wishing instead to form a team with Haydn as a single “musical orator.” Chapter 3, then, examines the implications of the “Viennese short octave” for Haydn’s Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1 (“Acht Sauschneider müssen sein”), remarkable for its slapstick humor. Chapter 4 has a fifteen-year-old princess as its star, whose persona must have inspired Haydn to write three of his finest “ladies’ sonatas” (Hob. XVI:40–42). In chapter 5 we invite ourselves to a distinguished Viennese salon where the topic of the day is physiognomy, enlivened (and provoked) by a performance of Haydn’s six “Auenbrugger” Sonatas, Hob. XVI:35–39 and 20. Chapter 6, finally, addresses the double dedication for Haydn’s last piano sonata, Hob. XVI:52, asking whether Haydn was simply transferring the triangle of “composer, dedicatee, and instrument” from England to the Continent, or whether more is at stake. With a “complete” edition of his keyboard works by Breitkopf & Härtel just around the corner, was Haydn endorsing the inevitable separation of “work” from life? I invite the reader to visit the designated website thevirtualhaydn.com (for its contents, see p. xv), where all musical examples reproduced in this book may be listened to and/or looked at. This visual aspect is crucial especially for chapters 3 and 5. The website also offers original recordings of complete works, such as Haydn’s four-hand Divertimento “Il maestro e lo scolare,” Hob. XVIIa:1, and three works written by or associated with the Haydn dedicatees Marianna von Auenbrugger and Theresa Jansen. Finally, though by no means essential for an appreciation of this book, my own recordings of the complete solo Haydn may be gauged from the various Naxos releases (see p. xiii). Let us now enter Haydn’s virtual world. I’m especially eager to meet “her,” my playmate in a repertoire that so resists behaving like one.

Rhetorical man [homo rhetoricus] must have felt an overpowering self-consciousness about language. . . . Whatever sins [he] might enregister, stylistic naivete would not be one. . . . His sense of identity, his self, depends on the reassurance of daily histrionic reenactment. He is thus centered in time and concrete local event. The lowest common denominator of his life is a social situation. R I C H A R D A . L A N H A M (1976), 3–4



CHAPTER 1



A Composer, His Dedicatee, Her Instrument, and I Imagine that we’ve just opened a copy of the score of Joseph Haydn’s Grand Sonata for the Piano Forte in C Major, Hob. XVI:50, which he composed during his second trip to London in 1794–95. Our edition is the authoritative hardcover from Joseph Haydn Werke, by far the best and cleanest Urtext on the market. As an experiment, let us try to describe its opening measures (ex. 1.1) from three different perspectives—those of a musical analyst, of the composer, and of a performer. Each comes with a different response or inner narrative: Inner Narrative 1 A naked triad, in the simplest of keys, is spelled out as a matter of fact, without any trace of hurry. But gradually, as if adding spice to a bland dish, Haydn throws in a few dissonances.1 First, a passing tone, D, between E and C. Then, on the downbeat of m. 3, an upper neighbor, F, which resolves to E by the middle of the measure. (This relationship is marked as y.) But this upper neighbor (or appoggiatura, that quintessential eighteenth-century ornament) was itself preceded by a lower one (marked x). To understand this double tension is as essential as it is puzzling. On the one hand, a slur 1

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Chapter 1

(which, according to mid to late eighteenth-century German sources, turns the first tone into the more expressive one) conveys the message that E is an embellishing tone to F.2 But here the usual interval of a second (two adjacent tones imitating the inflection of a sigh) has been inverted to a seventh. Does this inversion allow F to emancipate itself, as a dissonance itself, from the preceding E? And, if so, does F challenge the dissonance status of E, which should actually be understood as a consonance? In other words: which should be believed, x or y? With delightful delay m. 6 provides an answer: not only is the interval of the second restored to a dissonance-consonance pair, but the effect of a slur, with its strong/long first note and its soft/short resolution, is materialized by three of the strongest performance directives: sforzando, fermata, and diminuendo. Curious whether this struggle between x and y will be the driving force throughout the movement, we skip a few pages. Our eyes now fall on mm. 120ff, which harmonize this passage. “Y or x” no longer matters: E and F have both become part of a descending chain of suspensions, adjusting to the laws of voice leading and counterpoint, fluidly moving in and out of dissonance or consonance status.

Now imagine putting ourselves in the role of the composer, alone in a private study, sitting down for the first time at an unfamiliar instrument, the musical ideas that will soon become the Grand Sonata already percolating but not yet inked on the page: Inner Narrative 2 I sit down at the keyboard (an English one by Broadwood or Longman & Broderip) and think how different the whole instrument is to what I am used to (a Viennese fortepiano by Walter or Schanz).3 Let’s try something simple: a C major triad, just one note at the time. I expect to be able to play clean, short notes. But how efficient are these dampers? (My Viennese piano has wedge-shaped dampers, which nestle themselves perfectly between the strings, stopping their sound almost instantaneously after the key is released. But here I see dampers that look like tiny feather dusters, hardly able, I would think, to dampen the vibrations of those thick strings— much thicker than those back home.) Let’s start softly: c2, g1, e1. This is different! So much after-ring, no matter how soft and short I play! It’s almost impossible to create silences! But what potential! Listen to those moments after the attack, the delightful memory of these single tones! Let’s try some dissonances. Back home I’ve always been able to lean into them, to give dis-

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tinct attacks on dissonances and connect subsequent consonances all the more softly and crisply. But here I can’t. (English hammerheads are thicker than Viennese and are covered with softer leather.) This is interesting . . . but confusing. How am I to differentiate between dissonance and consonance? I try again. An experiment. Gain some momentum first, perhaps. Throw in a few slurs and upbeats. Now aim for the high appoggiatura and really go for it: sforzando! Amazing. How long I can hold this note before it even starts to decay! (Viennese pianos, because of their more articulate hammers, thinner soundboard, and overall lighter construction, produce a much faster decay in sound.) I decide to really explore what this piano can do. Since I’ve already heard the owner of this piano play, I imitate some of the things he’s done: full chords, lots of resonance, orchestral sounds.4 Now I’m getting the hang of it!

Finally, imagine that we’re in a concert hall for a public performance. Listeners have just returned to their seats after intermission. The hum of conversation, punctuated by the electronic tinkle of cell phones being silenced, fades as the house lights fall. With sympathetic applause, they welcome the pianist back to the stage, eagerly awaiting the next piece. Putting ourselves in the role of the pianist as she starts to play, we hear her thoughts: Inner Narrative 3 No need to grab them the way I did at the beginning of the concert.5 I have their attention. So let me open not with the grandest of chords but with the simplest of triads, which I play ever so softly. In anticipation of my first sounds, I cant my neck slightly toward my left shoulder, and, as I play the first two measures, I gradually lean my right ear further toward the strings (which I aim to brush rather than to hit).6 With these subtle bodily gestures, which my listeners won’t fail to notice, I invite them into my piano, into a space defined by the soundboard and the lid. I add dissonances, accelerate my pace, and increase my sound to a long sforzato. I show them that I’m fully aware of the larger acoustical space that envelops every single person in the room. As I force everyone’s ears to follow the decay of the sound all the way to that final moment of release, evaporating almost instantaneously into silence, we momentarily absorb ourselves in no other sound than that of the room itself. It is at this carefully created moment of collective awareness that I surprise my audience and play those thick, grand chords after all,7 my open lid projecting them fully into the hall. (A few years ago, following the example of an excellent colleague, I made it a habit of mine

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Chapter 1

to turn my piano sideways during public concerts and to use a prop to keep the lid open.)8 My opening statement may have appeared timid, too slight for a “grand sonata.” But, as a skillful musical orator, I will stick with my choice until the very end.9 I can’t wait for m. 120, the point when the recapitulation will have to remain in the home key (instead of wander off to the dominant, as in the prior exposition). At this important juncture my audience will expect big, loud, celebratory music, since I will have set up this very expectation by playing a grand version of the theme in the dominant key of the exposition, in m. 21. But I’m convinced that my listeners will be enchanted when I revisit that intimate space from the opening. They’ll hear me mix those soft tones of the opening statement with new ones, pianissimo, legatissimo, in the highest register and with raised dampers (or “open Pedal,” as the English call it), in evocation, as it were, of an etherealsounding dulcimer. I played some Dussek and Clementi before intermission and spoke to the audience about a late eighteenth-century “English Piano School.” By now they should be able to recognize some of the idiomatic effects, this evocation of a dulcimer or pantalon being one of them. To witness all of these reappear, in a masterfully staged way, will utterly impress them. Thank you, Haydn, for writing me such a fine concert piece!

Each of these inner narratives describes an encounter with the same piece of music, yet each differs dramatically in tone, perspective, and circumstance. Each narrative presumes some knowledge of the historical facts surrounding the sonata’s genesis: The Austrian composer Haydn travels to London. While there he develops a keen interest in English pianos and pianists. He befriends Theresa Jansen, a rising star on the London scene, and then “compose[s] expressly” for her a “grand concert sonata,”10 a subgenre of piano sonata that Haydn had never attempted before, at least not explicitly and certainly not in comparable sociological circumstances. But none of these three inner narratives is exclusive in time or person. They deliberately mix facts from the past with experiences of the present, and the imagined “I” of narratives 2 and 3, although inspired by Haydn or Theresa Jansen, is not restricted to either of those personages: that “I” is the modern performer of Haydn sonatas, adopting the various personas of analyst, composer, and performer, with the special concerns of each persona coloring her engagement with the score, piano, and audience. The framework for each of the narratives is assertively rhetorical. They correspond with three key stages in the so-called rhetorical process, a fivestage process rationalized by the classical rhetoricians to teach the writing of

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Ex. 1.1. Sonata in C Major, Hob. XVI:50, first movement, mm. 1–8 and 120–124

an oration that, ever since the rediscovery of Quintilian’s Institutio oratoria in 1492, has been keenly applied to many other forms of artistic creation: (1) inventio, or the finding and developing of ideas (res); (2) dispositio, or the ordering of them in an overall structure; (3) elocutio, or the expression of invented ideas through appropriate words (verba); (4) memoria, or the memorization of the words; and (5) pronuntiatio or actio, the delivery of the oration in full awareness of one’s body and gestures. Thus, narrative 1 describes and appraises the finished score (the most advanced state of elocutio); narrative 2 goes back to the brainstorming phase (intellectio, or the first moments of inventio); and narrative 3 places us on the pulpit, properly dressed and prepared (actio). If we include, from narrative 3, the hint of a larger structure (dispositio), and if we assume that “I” played from memory (memoria), then all five rhetorical stages are represented here, from the initial creation of the sonata to its eventual performance. Each stage feeds the next, and by completing them the orator/musician produces a “work.” But what is the relation between the invented and the performed work? And who does the speaking? Is it “I,” Haydn, his dedicatee, the piano, or some idealized combination? Can persona be separated from work? Does

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the one define the other? Is there even such a thing as “the work”? These questions have informed my performances, both live and on recording, and they permeate the various essays presented in this book. This chapter offers some preliminary answers as well as follow-up questions under the headings of “the weight of an ideology,” “the keyboardist as orator,” “dedicatees,” and “keyboards.” We end with a brief introduction of two historical keyboard types that both complicate and enrich our understanding of Haydn at the keyboard. The Weight of an Ideology

Arguably no other classical repertoire has suffered more under the modern ideology of “musical works” than Haydn’s works for solo keyboard. Despite the genuine efforts of scholars and individual performers, these fifty-plus works have largely remained in the shadow of those by Haydn’s younger colleagues Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and Ludwig van Beethoven.11 Why? Nowadays, when we speak of a “sonata by Haydn,” we think first and foremost of a musical score that we gain access to through performing, listening, or, if one feels up to it, simply looking at it. (As Richard Taruskin likes to remind us, Johannes Brahms declined an invitation to an opera, “saying that if he sat at home with the score he’d hear a better performance.”)12 But none of these activities is considered an unfiltered, direct conduit to the true identity of the work, whose “perfect” proportions dazzle us for reasons that keep warranting more study and interpretation. It is from this “imaginary museum of musical works” that musicians borrow scores— reflections of “the work”—to be shared with their audiences.13 A recent reviewer of a piano recital, which included two Haydn sonatas, describes the pianist as “turning to the audience with a smile after the final chord, as if to say, ‘Quite a masterpiece, don’t you agree?’”14 (Incidentally, the piece in question was not a Haydn sonata, but one by Mozart.) All too often the communication between performer and listener begins and ends with this tacit agreement. Consider again the particulars of our opening example of Sonata No. 50 and the theme of Haydn in London. At first glance we find ourselves relating to Theresa Jansen’s gratitude upon receiving a score from Haydn (that great composer from Vienna, that bastion of Classical Music), her eagerness to learn the piece (then and now, the only way to get to either the Hanover Square Rooms or Carnegie Hall is through practice), and her ambition to

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deliver it onstage (every note exactly as written). But as we look more closely, we begin to realize that, having traveled from Vienna to London and now working for a new and unfamiliar market, Haydn may have needed Jansen more than she needed him. When Haydn met Theresa, both Jan Ladislav Dussek and Muzio Clementi, two major figures on the London scene, had already dedicated sonatas to her. Who better than la celebre Signora Terese de Janson (as Haydn calls her in his manuscript) to advise the famous outof-town guest on the possibilities of the English instruments (which were fundamentally different from the Viennese ones) and to school him in the demands of a professional concert sonata (a design totally new to Haydn)? In his second and final attempt, the Sonata No. 52 in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, arguably more than in the C Major Sonata (which included a precomposed Adagio brought along from Vienna), we find Haydn enjoying the English realities of instrument, style, and venue. But after composing the sonata in 1794, again “expressly for Mrs. Bartolozzi” (Theresa had married the painter and engraver’s son Gaetano Bartolozzi, an event to which Haydn was official witness), Haydn apparently succumbed to the temptation of making the score available to the Continental public, offering it to Artaria, his Viennese publisher, in 1798. Jansen quickly took steps to release her own edition in 1799 through Longman, Clementi, & Company in London (fig. 1.1), emphasizing that the sonata is “new” (“New Grand Sonata”) and was “expressly composed” for her. But Haydn also rededicated the Viennese edition to Magdalena von Kurzböck (fig. 1.2). On May 15, 1799, the German reviewer of the Allgemeine musikalische Zeitung wrote that “it speaks well for the lady named on the title page that the honorable Haydn, who surely has no inclination nor the time to give empty compliments, dedicated such a sonata to her, of all people.”15 Who, then, is the true dedicatee: Mademoiselle Kurzbek or Mrs. Bartolozzi? The two women had strikingly similar profiles—both were in their mid to late twenties, both were accomplished players, and both had studied or were about to study with Maestro Clementi. For Haydn the two personas simply may have been interchangeable. Having returned from London a celebrity and having just written the Austrian Kaiserhymne (“Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser”), Haydn may no longer have felt any constraints of social decorum when it came to his business as a composer. Never mind Theresa or Madeleine—it’s his sonata. With the Vienna print Haydn seems to have endorsed, for the first time, a conceptual separation of context and work. From a larger historical perspective, it seems no coincidence that this double edition occurred at a time when from various sides—publishers,

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Fig. 1.1. Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52 (London: Longman, Clementi, 1799), title page. Reproduced by permission of the British Library Board. Music Collections, g.75.xx.

biographers, secretaries—he was being encouraged to start thinking about his legacy. The Keyboardist as Orator

I vividly remember a crisis. I was two-thirds of the way through an extended cycle of concerts featuring “the complete Haydn.” Nearing the end, I supposedly should have felt energized, happy to finally reach my goal of grasping

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9

Fig. 1.2. Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52 (Vienna: Artaria, 1798), title page. Reproduced by permission of the British Library Board. Music Collections, Hirsch IV.1617.

a repertoire. Instead I felt regret and dissatisfaction. The typical two-part process for a performer of today—preparation in the practice room, consummation in the concert hall—clearly did not apply. This frustration led to the following confession in the form of a program note: When I embarked on this cycle of concerts, my goal was to grasp a complete and well-defined repertoire: Haydn’s Keyboard Sonatas, or shorter, Hoboken XVI. The further I advance in the project, however, the more I find myself not caring so much about “surveying” the repertoire as a whole. Instead, I become more and more intrigued by the actual forces that created it. Whenever I learn a new sonata, I find myself trying to enter Haydn’s mind: why am I playing this particular statement, what does it mean, what do I want to achieve with the sonata as a whole, how can I do so best? This is exactly what eighteenth-century sources tell me to do: the ideal of composer and performer as one persona is strongly present in most treatises on performance known to me, particularly in those on playing the keyboard (where it is most easily assumed by the listener that the player

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Chapter 1

also is the composer). And even if one played pieces by someone else, one still was expected to perform them as if one had composed them oneself. In fact, a recital such as tonight’s would have been altogether embarrassing for someone like myself, who claims to be a “professional.” It wouldn’t be long before I heard someone in the first row grumble: “Why doesn’t he play anything of his own?”16

One of the pieces on the program was the Sonata in F Major, Hob. XVI:23, with a slow movement in F minor (ex. 1.2). This heartrending Adagio draws its melancholic character more from its harmonies, strung together by continuous Alberti-style pulsations in the left hand, than from melodic elaboration in the right, which, in spite of the promise of a siciliano-type cantilena at the outset, never commits to much beyond triadic meanderings, long trills (no fewer than two “ascending” ones—the longest possible—in mm. 30 and 31), sketches of melodic shapes that are repeated as if the composer/performer were in reverie, doubt, or pain. Toward the end (m. 34) the keyboardist breaks out of this interiorized mode: with a strong octave in the bass she proactively, even aggressively plays a diminished-seventh secondary dominant, announcing an equally assertive six-four dominant chord. The insistence on the latter (it is not hard to imagine a fermata here), the chromatically sequential melodic figurations in mm. 34–35 (more active and urgent than before), and the harmonic progressions (circling around but targeting a structural, root-position dominant) are those of a cadenza, a quite dramatic one, bringing the movement to a dark close in mm. 38–39. The analyst in me is thrilled by this “topical” recognition of Haydn’s own improvisation, which has transformed itself into becoming part of the composition and the score. The performer in me is also thankful because, in contrast to comparable slow movements of earlier sonatas (such as Hob. XVI:6 in G Major, XVI:19 in D Major, or XVI:46 in A 𝅗𝅥 Major), where Haydn had used a customary fermata sign to call upon my improvisational skills, I am now presented with material that can be put to direct use and that bears Haydn’s authoritative stamp. This observation is useful in itself. It allows me to loosen up and play Haydn’s notated bars in a free, quasi-improvising manner. But gratitude turns to frustration as I anticipate the delivery of the piece on stage as a musical orator. At the outset of his comments on musical delivery (Vortrag), Johann Joachim Quantz states—quite bluntly—that it “can be compared to the delivery [Vortrag] of an orator.” Of cadenzas, he writes that their purpose is “none other than to surprise the unsuspected listener

Ex. 1.2. Sonata in F Major, Hob. XVI:23, second movement, mm. 21–39

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once more at the end, and to leave a special mark in their mind. Therefore, and according to this purpose, one cadenza should suffice in one piece” (emphasis mine).17 To put the problem plainly: in this Adagio movement, should I play the cadenzalike passage twice, since Haydn (as is to be expected in a binary movement) prescribes a repeat sign? Would this not counter the very purpose of a cadenza and eventually undermine my credibility (or ethos) as a musician? Why did I so enthusiastically absorb the teachings of Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach and others (as the young Haydn once did himself ), only to now find myself unable to apply them?18 In my own renditions of this movement, I have decided to uphold the rhetorical axiom that ornaments should be applied “only after a simple version has been heard” and play the B section first without Haydn’s cadenza,19 which I save for the repeat. The advantage of such an intervention is significant: the keyboardist-orator remains longer in her melancholic shell, further imprinting this emotion on her listener, thereby dramatically enhancing the effect of the cadenza, which heralds the end of the movement. The contrast with the following contradanse movement (which is entertaining rather than emotive) gains in effectiveness as well. The interest, thus, is both local (within a movement) and global (for the sonata as a whole). My own reluctance—inability, even—to offer my “performed” version here in print helps explain what I perceive as a crucial turning point in Haydn’s keyboard sonata output.20 In 1774 he prepared for publication a set of six sonatas, appropriately dedicating them to his employer, Prince Nicolaus Esterházy. Our example, Hob. XVI:23, was one of them. It was not just Haydn’s first set of keyboard sonatas to be published, but altogether “the very first work to appear in an edition authorized by Haydn.”21 This special event, carried out in collaboration with Joseph Edler von Kurzböck, imperial printer in Vienna (not just of music) and father of Magdalena, who grew up to become our Viennese dedicatee of Sonata No. 52, must have carried substantial psychological weight.22 Haydn meticulously prepared the scores from which the plates were to be produced, paying careful attention to the notation of ornaments, both essential (marked by shorthand notation) and arbitrary (to be added by the performer).23 This focus led him to combine his own performative skills with his compositional goals, which more critically than ever before were made to cohabit in a single space—that of the printed page. With wider and more prestigious distribution in sight (previous sonatas had been distributed in handwritten copies through less strictly controlled channels) and preparing a whole opus of sonatas (instead of single ones that someone else may have collated in a larger manuscript), Haydn’s

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reputation was at stake as an all-round musical orator. Not only inventio, dispositio, and elocutio had to coexist—those being the three phases involved in the making of a text—but actio (delivery) now claimed room for itself as well. And so, studying the resulting score as modern-day musicians with the “advantage” of knowing the repertoire as a whole, we find many instances that impress us as striking fingerprints of a familiar master, such as the varied repeats and transitions in the minuet-finale of the Sonata in E Major, Hob. XVI:22, the attaca to the finale of the Sonata in D Major, Hob. XVI:24, and our “cadenza.”24 But how novel were these features? Is it possible that similar versions—less polished but far more fanciful—would have been improvised in the absence of a printed script, especially at the moment of a repeat, when any master deliverer would be inspired to engage his listener more and differently? Are Haydn’s scores descriptive rather than prescriptive of actual performance? It has been suggested that Empress Maria Theresa’s visit to Eszterháza in September 1773 prompted the idea of an “Opus 1” of keyboard sonatas.25 It has also been suggested that the keyboardist who is documented to have performed for her during this visit “must have been Haydn himself.”26 Did Haydn play earlier versions of these published pieces in which the alternation between text and improvisation was more fluid? Finally, when preparing the best of himself for print (customary repeat signs creating a Procrustean mold for his ever-developing ideas), did Haydn mix simple and embellished run-throughs of the same material into one, surpassing both? Answers to these questions aside, in no other group of Haydn sonatas do we see such a learned keyboardist-orator so at ease with a formal style of delivery.27 Haydn, the maestro di capella, performs for His Excellency not in the magnificent Eszterháza music room, but on typeset plates, the published scores serving as a virtual and public platform for Haydn’s private performance. In the “Anno 776” and “Auenbrugger” sonata sets (of 1776 and 1780, respectively) Haydn gradually reconnected with a context of live performance no longer featuring himself or select students (such as Marianna Martines or the Countesses Thun and Morzin), but more and more the generic keyboard player, almost exclusively female and dilettante, in Vienna and elsewhere in Europe. (Haydn’s renegotiated contract with the Esterházy court of 1779 officially cleared the way for out-of-court publishing.)28 Slowly he resolved problems such as the one we have examined. Thus, in the slow movement of the Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:39, of 1780 (ex. 1.3), we find Haydn prescribing a fermata—the first of its kind before 1774—to indicate the need for a cadenza. Instead of pushing himself to the fore, obliterating the distinction

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Ex. 1.3. Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:39, second movement, mm. 46–62

between text and performance, he now hands the performer a realized cadenza, to be interpolated into her own performance.29 There’s no mistaking: the boundaries of the cadenza, to be played (in Türk’s words) “as if invented on the spur of the moment,”30 are drawn clearly by the fermata and the sixfour chord on the one end (m. 47) and a double trill on the other (m. 59), the resolution of which, in the high register, is left to be imagined. But what is the player to do in the repeat? In his first collaboration with Artaria, a new and promising firm in Vienna, whose specialized music publishing targeted

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a growing market of players, Haydn resolves the dilemma before it ever becomes one: he simply removes the repeat sign.31 Here is the big picture. In the single prepublication sonatas the distinction between text and performance, or between elocutio and actio, is relatively clear. But in the 1774 “Esterházy” Sonatas Haydn presents himself as a keyboardist-orator, using typeset plates as his distinguished venue. From the late 1770s, then, he begins directing a continued series of publications to a growing pool of (female) amateur players: the medium (the notated text) adjusts its conventions and expectations to a more consumer-friendly coexistence of elocutio and actio. To someone trying to perform all of these works, these three phases present a curious paradox. A modern-day professional pianist, trained in eighteenth-century musical-oratorical practices and principles, actually receives most satisfaction from performing the “early” pieces, including those that Joseph Haydn Werke labels as “small” (neun kleine frühe Sonaten), where one can apply one’s skills in embellishment and variation to great effect, improvise a transition here or there, be swayed by the affect of the moment to apply a fermata, find a spot (whether explicitly invited or not) for a cadenza.32 (My own favorite example for the latter is the small and charming Andante of the Sonata in C Major, Hob. XVI:1.) The later pieces, of the 1770s and 1780s, although seemingly more tailored to the performer’s needs, come with a greater sense of wonder into the “why” or “why now” of certain ideas or statements, inspiring the investigative interpreter into questioning and actively shaping a narrative that may or may not end up deviating from the written text. Finally, the two English Grand Sonatas (Hob. XVI:50 and 52), written for a fellow professional pianist, also sit best with our society’s two most conventional modes of performances, those of the public recital and the compact disc. Catering to professional need and pride, these sonatas nonetheless lend themselves to an almost word-for-word execution: their script is well calculated for public performance. Dedicatees

Two dedicatees have left their mark thus far: Prince Nicolaus Esterházy and Theresa Jansen. Despite the differences in their profiles (he was a serious connoisseur of music; she was a professional pianist) and context of performance (the “Nicolaus Esterházy” Sonatas, Hob. XVI:21–26, were staged as an exclusive event at court; the two English Grand Sonatas, Hob. XVI:50 and 52, were designed for performance on a public stage), the oratorical stance in both groups of pieces is remarkably similar: that of one keyboardist-orator

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formally addressing an audience. Whether in concert or on a recording, this is the persona that I like to adopt. Interestingly, in the case of the English sonatas, this persona is also the dedicatee. But the dedicatee of the “Esterházy” Sonatas, as I have suggested, was himself the primary audience. Why is it that I have no hesitation whatsoever in identifying myself with the dedicatee of the grand sonatas whereas in the earlier pieces I feel I must claim my rights to be composer as well, unsatisfied with the role of mere recipient? In his last grand sonatas Haydn appears to have separated “composer” from “performer” to a degree nonexistent in his earlier work. With Hob. XVI:52, particularly, he wrote a full script that “works” perfectly in concert performance, omitting second repeat signs in the first and last movements, making the oratorical gestures grand and fantastic, anticipating every detail of live performance. Miss Jansen represents a type of pianist that I know: one who is proud to publicly perform a piece not of her own creation.33 She is proud, furthermore, to have studied with a famous master, Muzio Clementi, the “father of the piano,” who almost singlehandedly set the terms of piano, pianism, piano repertoire, and piano pedagogy, from the performer’s point of view, for the next two centuries.34 Thus it is no surprise that, for Haydn, the divorce of performer and composer—inevitable from a larger historical perspective—occurred in London, since it was this metropolis that had inspired him to write his first real concert sonatas. The “Esterházy” Sonatas, in contrast, had been idiomatically Haydn’s own, his performances, indistinguishable from his compositions, to be admired by the outside world. In the spectrum of the relationship between composer and performer, the “Nicolaus Esterházy” Sonatas and Sonata No. 52 might be said to represent the two extremes: the unity of performer and composer in one person is strongest in the former; separation of composer and performer sharpest in the latter. Not surprisingly, the former provokes me, as a performer, to rearrange passages to match my own skills and needs, whereas the latter allows me to join effortlessly in the creative process at an advanced stage. In both cases, however, my identification with the performing persona is one to one: first I identify with Haydn, then with Jansen. The search for the singular performing persona becomes much more complex when approaching the sonatas written and published in Vienna between 1780 and 1790. These sonatas particularly, and much more urgently than those for Theresa Jansen (who was a woman but also a generic “professional pianist”), raise important questions about the role of the ded-

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TABLE 1.1. Known dedicatees of Haydn’s solo keyboard works Prince Nicolaus Esterházy: Hob. XVI:21–26 (pub. 1774 by Kurzböck) dedicated to by Haydn Katharina and Marianna von Auenbrugger: Hob. XVI: 35–39, 20 (pub. 1780 by Artaria) dedicated to by Artaria but, in a letter to Artaria, Haydn regretted not having had the honor Maria Hermenegild Esterházy, née Princess Liechtenstein: Hob. XVI:40–42 (pub. 1784 by Bossler) composed for and dedicated to by Haydn Marianne von Genzinger: Hob. XVI:49 (comp. 1789–90, pub. 1791 by Artaria) composed for but, as per manuscript copy, dedicated to Maria Anna Gerlischek by Haydn; published without Haydn’s knowledge and without dedication Antonia von Ployer, née von Spaun: Hob. XVII:6 (comp. 1793) composed for, as written in Haydn’s hand on early copy of manuscript? Josepha (Josephine) von Braun: Hob. XVII:6 (comp. 1793, pub. 1799 by Artaria) composed for and dedicated to by Haydn Maria Hester Park: Hob. XVI:51 (comp. 1794–95, pub. ca. 1805 by Breitkopf & Härtel) composed for and dedicated to by Haydn? published without dedication Theresa Jansen: 1. Hob. XVI: 50 (comp. 1794–95, pub. 1801 by J. and H. Caulfield) composed expressly for and dedicated to by Haydn 2. Hob. XVI: 52 (comp. 1794; pub. 1799 by Longman, Clementi, & Co.) composed expressly for by Haydn Magdalena von Kurzböck: Hob. XVI: 52 (comp. 1794; pub. 1798 by Artaria) composed for and dedicated to by Haydn Note: Underscored passages are as they appear on the published title page.

icatee and, particularly, her gender. Table 1.1 shows all known dedicatees of Haydn’s keyboard works; we will acquaint ourselves with almost all of them throughout this book.35 How does “dedicatee,” that is, the type she represents rather than her actual person, position itself in relation to our “keyboardist-orator”? Is she listener or orator? If the former, is Haydn addressing his listener on his own terms, or is he adjusting his rhetoric to his female addressee? If the latter, what kind of oratory does he expect her to demonstrate in her own performances of his own pieces or, for that matter,

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of any piece? Finally, and more pressingly, what about “me”? Do I remain simply an observer of these interactions, or can I actively take part in them, perhaps even transform them into something that neither Haydn nor his dedicatees would have predicted? It might be useful, at this point, to compare two pieces of prose by Haydn—two letters. The first is directed to his prince, his only male dedicatee, and the second to his close friend Marianne von Genzinger, recipient (though not official dedicatee) of the “Genzinger” Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:49.36 Both were written on the occasion of a name day, in Catholic Austrian tradition considered more important than one’s actual birthday. On December 5, 1766, one day before St. Nicolas’s Day, Haydn wrote to his prince (and the following transcription, including the occasional empty space in the middle of a line, reflects Haydn’s careful layout): Most Serene Highness and High Born Prince of the Empire! Most Gracious and Dread Lord Lord! The most joyous Name Feast (which, Your Highness, with the grace of God, may spend in most complete fortune and felicity) obliged me most duly not only to deliver to Him, in all humbleness, 6 new divertimenti but also (because, a few days ago, we were most strongly consoled by those new winter clothes) to kiss Your Highness’ robe most obediently, [in thanks] for this special [act of ] grace, [not without] adding that we, in spite of Your Highness’ absence, much regretted by us, nevertheless venture to appear with these new clothes for the first time at Your Higness’ high Name Day during the celebratory Solemn Mass. Furthermore, I received the high order to have the divertimenti composed by me (twelve pieces in all) bound. but since Your Highness had returned to me some of them to be changed and I did not annotate those changes into my score, I ask you most obediently to let come to me the first 12 pieces only for the duration of three days, thereafter also the others, one by one, so that everything, including the changes, could be copied well and correctly, and bound. in this respect, I would like to inquire most respectfully in which way to have them bound? which to Your Highness’ liking would be? Incidentally, the two oboe players report to me (and also I myself must agree with them) that their 2 oboes are disintegrating with age, and no lon-

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ger possess the proper pitch, wherefore I make the most humble suggestion that there is a Master Rockobauer in Vienna who in my opinion is the most skilful in such things. Because, however, this master is constantly occupied with this kind of work, but also invests a lot of precious time to build a pair of good and durable oboes with an extra joint to each set (whereby all the necessary tones can be played), as a result of which, however, the lowest price is 8 ducats. therefore, I must await Your Highness’ high consent whether the mentioned 2 most necessary oboes may be acquired at the aforementioned price. To whom I commend myself for [your] high favor and grace, Your Princely Highness’ Most obedient Joseph Haydn.37

This letter strikes us as formal, written in elevated style, respectful of the prince, yet clear in its requests. Haydn’s congratulatory wishes (cast in parentheses) are in fact part of a larger securing of goodwill (captatio benevolentiae), along with the enclosed gift of “6 new divertimenti” (baryton trios, to be performed by the prince) and the expression of thanks for “new winter clothes.” The real purpose of the letter reveals itself in two requests (petitiones): return of a set of divertimenti for copying and permission for Haydn to order two new oboes. The latter request, involving money, is clearly the trickier one. Haydn wisely keeps it for last, devoting a separate paragraph to it. He first presents a sketch of the present miserable situation, drops the name of an instrument maker in Vienna, justifies his choice, and only then proceeds to mention a price, the lowest possible. After this narratio he formulates the actual petitio, the permission to place an order, and signs the letter. The traditional five parts of a letter—salutatio, captatio benevolentiae, narratio, petitio, and conclusio—are represented here, practically in textbook fashion.38 Haydn’s style, furthermore, is appropriately grave in a letter directed to a superior: “I” is avoided at the beginning of sentences, or altogether; impersonal, passive language is favored; subordinate constructions result in complex periodic structures, held together by a multitude of conjunctions; punctuation marks, especially periods, are used for syntactical clarity; and carefully chosen capitals at the beginning of sentences (“The,” “Furthermore,” “Incidentally,” “Because,” “To whom”) reveal a remarkably logical grouping of thought somewhere between the levels of period and paragraph. By contrast, the letter that Haydn wrote to Marianne von Genzinger on

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July 23, 1790, resists such grouping. Clearly, Haydn designed it to read in one flow toward his signature: High and Well born Most Esteemed Frau v. Genzinger! Already last week would it have been my obligation to reply to Your Grace’s received writing, only, because this present day had already long before lain close to my heart, I, however, in anticipation, constantly made every imaginable effort [as to] how, in which way, and what exactly I should wish for Your Grace, thus those 8 days fled away, and now that my wish should express itself, my short wits come to a standstill, and know (all embarrassed) nothing at all to say: why? because? because I have not been able to fulfill those musical hopes, which Your Grace at this day would have a right to have! o if only you would know, if only you could catch a glimpse, dearest, gracious Patroness, into my depressed heart, you would certainly feel sympathy and have forbearance with me: ever since your order, this poor, promised symphony has been floating in my fantasy, but some (unfortunately) until now pressingly urgent matters have not let this symphony come into the world! however, the hope of gracious forbearance of this delay and the eventual arrival of a better time for its fulfillment will turn into reality this wish, which for Your Grace was perhaps only one among those of today and the so many hundreds of yesterday, “perhaps” I say, because it would be bold of me to think that Your Grace should not wish herself anything better: you see thus, dearest Madam, that I cannot wish you anything for your Name Day because my wishes are too weak for you, and therefore do not bear fruit! I, I must wish myself, and in particular [wish myself ] gracious forbearance and maintenance of your continued friendship, which is so dear to me, and your affection; this is my warmest wish! if, however, there is still room in you for one wish from me, then this wish of mine should change itself into yours, then I will be assured that nothing more remains save to wish myself privileged to eternally call myself Your Grace’s most sincere friend and servant Josephus Haydn mppria My faithful respect to Mr. Husband and the whole family

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after tomorrow I expect an answer about the forte piano. then Your Grace will receive the alteration in the Adagio.39

The suggested date for this letter of July 23, 1790 (offered here in rectification of previous scholarship) makes us recognize a congratulatory letter that is both highly sensitive and exquisitely clever. Haydn speaks of wishes “today” and those of “yesterday,” which must refer to the name days of “Maria” (St. Mary, on July 23) and “Anne” (St. Anne, on July 22), together “Maria Anna” or “Marianne.”40 (Haydn’s wife was also a Marianne. All too gladly, one can speculate, would Haydn have transferred this consciousness of back-toback name days from his longtime spouse to a new female friend.) Only two capitals are used: once at the very beginning (“Already last week”) and then at the very end, introducing the postscript (“My faithful respect”). The full letter instead reads as a long series of shorter phrases, loosely strung together by commas, the continuous stream of words and phrases slowed down (but not interrupted) by moments of hesitation (“why? because?”) and a rhetorical pause (“I, I must wish”), or intensified by exclamations (“this is my warmest wish!”) or self-citation and elaboration (“‘perhaps’ I say, because [etc.]”). When reading the letter, aloud or silently, one is struck by its fine rhythm and the intense focus of composition from beginning to end, abandoned only in the postscript, which, interestingly enough, is the only informative part of the letter, picking up as it does on two requests from Her Grace’s previous letter (dated July 11, 1790; see below). Unlike the letter to the prince, it is the congratulatory message that dominates here, not couched in a captatio benevolentiae, but as the bread and butter of the letter itself. With extraordinary skill Haydn is able to transform his embarrassment over not yet having provided his friend with the symphony she has long asked for into the finest wish of all, “to call myself your friend forever,” itself a standard concluding formula that is ingeniously incorporated into the contents and structure of the letter. Throughout this process of transformation, Haydn draws and exploits fine distinctions between wish, promise, hope, and gift; between “your” wish and “mine”; between the act of wishing (“o if only you would know”) and the object that is wished for (“symphony” or “friendship”). Haydn uses the actual word (verbum) “wish” twelve times, but the idea (res) of “wish” is represented at least seventeen times. But to compare Haydn’s letters to his prince and a female friend and claim that the one is “more” rhetorical than the other would be to miss the point. Rather, their respective rhetorics (if such a plural may be indulged) differ in kind. The one is formal, more public, adopts a learned and writ-

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ten style, is clear in its logic, and favors rehearsed structure. The other is informal, more private, adopts a conversational style, deliberately tests the limits of logic, and invents its own structure. All eighteenth-century commentators would have agreed: Haydn’s princely letter is more oratorical in spirit and outcome, but the private letter to his friend is ultimately a better letter. Indeed, as the same male commentators would have pointed out, women were particularly good at this free, conversational style of writing, precisely because of their “unlearnedness.”41 But Haydn clearly had a knack for it too, and, in this particular case, his version of a “congratulatory letter on the name day of a female friend” outclassed by far the following model provided in the letter-writing manual that he owned: Most precious friend [Freundin]! Tomorrow is your name day, if I can trust my calendar. Now, I wish you well from the bottom of my heart. May you continue to experience [this day] many more years in the best prosperity, with lasting health, in uninterrupted enjoyment, in sweetest contentment. With all this good luck, however, never forget Your earnest friend.42

If Madame von Genzinger, as a woman, drew a certain type of rhetoric from Haydn as a letter writer, could the same have been true for his music? Is there anything like a male-inspired versus a female-inspired musical rhetoric? Chapter 4 will explore just this question, but ex. 1.4 puts to the test two opening statements of two sonatas, the Sonata in C Major, Hob. XVI:21, for Prince Nicolaus Esterházy (de facto, our only male point of reference), and the single “Genzinger” Sonata, Hob. XVI:49, in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, “since ever destined for Your Grace alone” (bloß auf ewig für Ihro gnaden bestimmt).43 Wearing his newest clothes, Haydn sits down at the most impressive harpsichord at court—a French double, conforming to the prince’s taste.44 Haydn opens the score of his newly published sonatas (which the prince has just handed back to him) and makes his musical entrée (see ex. 1.4a, transcribed from the first edition). Both manuals are coupled to engage the fullest possible voice of the instrument. Dotted rhythms, C major, an ascending arpeggio—Haydn anticipated a festive moment. The ascending sixth from e2 to c3 (m. 1, marked exclamatio) allows him to bend right wrist, hand, and arm sideways and forward, an elegant hand gesture acknowledging his spe-

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Ex. 1.4. (a) Sonata in C Major, Hob. XVI:21, first movement, mm. 1–6 (transcribed from first edition); (b) Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:49, first movement, mm. 1–12 (transcribed from manuscript)

cial listener, whom we imagine to be seated a respectful ten feet away, within the radius of the instrument’s curve. The lid has been removed, and, for this special occasion, the harpsichord has been positioned in the center of the palace’s Ceremonial Room, where its luscious acoustics may be enjoyed at its optimum. The room’s generous reverberation time (two to three seconds) conforms almost exactly to how long it takes for each of the two main ideas, x and y, to unfold. The room itself has the dimensions of an almost exact cube (thirteen by eleven by nine meters). The combination of reflective materials (mirrors, plastered walls, painted ceiling) with sound-absorbing carpets, chairs, and garments result in a peculiar “boom” in the middle and lower registers.45 Using single notes (since in this alto register they are sufficiently full by themselves), Haydn has the left hand “walk” along with the right. The three first notes (an octave of tonic C,

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followed by its overtone-enhancing third) superbly fill up the tonal spectrum that the right hand has started to construct. In any “well-tempered” historical tuning, the major third C–E would be either pure or very close to pure. Purity, authority, and respect—these are qualities associated with the key of C major, but also those that Haydn chooses to extol in his dedication to His Most Serene Highness, printed by Kurzböck in 1774 in lofty Italian:

AltezzaSerenissima! [Most Serene Highness!] Among the unique attributes, and much noted qualities, which adorn Your Most Serene Highness, is also found the complete command of all music, not only of the violin, and of the baryton, which you play exquisitely and equal to any expert teacher. This knowledge [cognizione] and the goodness [bontà] with which Your Most Serene Highness has never hesitated to look upon my faithful service, as well as to bestow upon my compositions, makes me eager to dedicate to the superabundance of your merits this small portion of my talent. May Your Most Serene Highness deign to receive with your customary Magnanimity [Magnanimità], as always encouraging and honoring with your high patronage him who humbly commends himself with the same offering [and] who bows in deepest respect, of Your Most Serene Highness the most humble, devoted, respectful servant Giuseppe Haydn.

The opening statement (and, by extension, the whole opening sonata) is a celebration of C major—on a magnificent instrument, in a room known for its superb acoustics, under a splendid ceiling.46 Activity and release are balanced to perfection within a six-bar phrase. Three arsis/thesis ideas follow one another, the reverb decay of the former always mingling with the direct sound of the latter, arsis characterized by notes inégales and thesis by 4–3 suspensions. The two main dissonances of a C major key—the seventh of a dominant seventh (m. 2, the resolution of the first suspension) and the leading tone (m. 3, resolution of the second suspension)—together resolve into 3 (m. 4, resolution of the third suspension). In a descent from c3 to e2, every scale degree is systematically highlighted (8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3). At the cadence (PAC), the two dissonances B and F reappear in one single chord (the dominant seventh in m. 5, 2), announcing a clear punctuation mark (1).

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While the overall balance and pace of this courtly statement is designed to impress, the twelve-bar opening theme of the “Genzinger” Sonata alerts the performer’s mind to fine detail. (See ex. 1.4b, here transcribed from the manuscript to sidestep editorial prejudice.)47 Consider the melodic shape of the various arsis figures in the first four-bar phrase a: up (x), down (but still x), then up again (now triadic, hence y), then down (without slur and diatonic, hence z). We land on a diminished-fifth melodic figure, on a weak dominant harmony (viio6, m. 4), the now thesis idea y familiar from its arsis version before, but with a more complex articulation (dotted, and a 𝅗𝅥1 as a single note separated from the slur).48 In the following phrase (which we understand to be a response of some sort), the resumed x motives begin to reflect more self-consciousness too: Haydn starts adding shape to them (those small slurs in mm. 4 and 5). Are these emerging thirds significant for our understanding of musical intent or subject? The two slurs for the second x (m. 5) seem to suggest so, its pitches d1 and f1 creating a link with the identical left-hand third two bars further, indicated by the arrow in the example. But before we can fully contemplate the connection, we’re back to y in m. 8, which we play with more urgency than its dominant counterpart in m. 4—however, not on a conclusive tonic harmony (yet), but one in first inversion. Does the snapped turn on the downbeat of m. 8 convey frustration at not finishing a period (which technically already consisted of an antecedent with consequent), or does it show a determination to keep accumulating energy?49 We embark on a third continuation phrase c, with material of x, z, and, only at the very end, y again, but now in opposite direction. Through this continued activity of x, y, and z, appearing in front of our eyes in ever changing shape and direction (as we play from the score), each of the four-bar phrases introduces a moment of repose: we get a suspension (a descending 7–6) in the third measures of phrases a and b on non-rootposition chords; then an ascending 2–3 suspension in phrase c, in its second measure, on a root-position chord. (Also the “Prince Esterházy” excerpt, we should remember, had regularly recurring 4–3 suspensions, but those were all firmly grounded, their succession conveying a solemn stride.) If the effect of the two earlier moments is still one of lightness (a temporary focusing as we busily tiptoe along), the third has the effect of a surprisingly forceful halt—like a deceptive cadence, except that it isn’t: we’re in the middle of a stretched-out perfect cadence, starting with I6 in m. 9 and ending with I in m. 12, or the complete phrase c. But somehow the rather pompous A 𝅗𝅥 major sound sticks and (so an attentive listener might predict) will have to be reckoned with later on (see chapter 2).

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The sophistication involved in transforming simple ideas, already related to one another, into ever new manifestations is impressive—a procedure that is strikingly similar, in fact, to the clever distinctions (distinctiones) of “wish” at the levels of idea (res) and word (verbum) that Haydn used in his congratulatory letter to Frau von Genzinger. The incorporation of “wish” in the closing formula of the letter—the mechanics of letter writing itself becoming subject matter—also finds its musical parallel. Of the two opening measures of E 𝅗𝅥 material, in which the left hand introduces a basic pulse, y is the first motive to distinguish itself in m. 3—with its own articulation mark of a slur. Haydn’s first slur demands special attention from the performer: on the one hand, it tells her to play diminuendo; on the other, each note is higher than the one before, requiring an ever more intense delivery—an exquisite paradox, if attended to properly.50 Phrase a ends with y, a diminished interval on a dominant harmony, inviting a response of some sort—as in an antecedent phrase. The response does come, leading us back to a tonic version of y, but does not quite deliver closure, thus “failing” as a consequent. Throughout the continuation phrase c Haydn sustains a focus on the surface elements x and z. When the performer finally plays three consecutive sigh figures (m. 11), her efforts go into shaping each of them individually respectively as a seventh, an octave, and a diminished fifth—all three gestures reminiscent of the earlier expressive appoggiaturas. But as we catch the third sigh figure with our left hand—anchoring it with a root-position dominant harmony—we make a mental connection back to y from m. 4 and its promise of resolution, which at this point does indeed materialize but, because the promise itself had faded away, happens rather abruptly and in the form of what in different circumstances would be a structurally inessential stock formula: a descending arpeggio after the moment of tonic resolution. (The ascending arpeggio in our “Nicolaus Esterházy” Sonata is exactly such an example: the left hand’s figure beyond resolution 1 is clarifying, but not essential.) By way of summary, ex. 1.4b adds squares around these four key moments. First, imagine playing or hearing them in isolation, the one after the other. You will hear a tonic harmony sink to an unstable dominant one; then the reverse, but now closing in a stable fashion. Now, read the full theme as written. The final arpeggio, starting on a weak part of the beat in m. 12 and descending rather than ascending, somehow fails to have the impact of an ending. In my own performance, I always feel the need to “up-play” this final arpeggio, turning it into a “properly” resolving version of y. I do so by stretching the lower notes in time—making their corresponding strings on

Composer, Dedicatee, Instrument

27

the piano sound longer and more important. But my “professional” efforts may be ill-informed. Perhaps I am inappropriately prioritizing structure over style, projecting dispositio (here the end of an opening statement) into focus where Haydn had intended it to be eclipsed by elocutio. When nearing the end of Haydn’s congratulatory letter to Genzinger, as Haydn develops his last “wish,” it takes a moment to recognize that we’re actually reading the closing formula. But, of course, we do recognize it by the layout of the closing lines, and when we come to the word “servant,” we suddenly pause, as if making up for out-of-phase delivery, before reading the writer’s signature: “Josephus Haydn,” the stylistic cleverness leaving us in a tone of amusement as we process the contents of the full letter. This jolt of confusion and recognition—a closing formula also providing the key for what came before—may be exactly what Haydn intended to stir in his addressee, both in his sonata and his letter. But these are highly private moments, to be shared by two friends, either from a distance (in the case of both letter and sonata) or elucidated and elaborated upon together, at the next occasion (in the case of the sonata). My own delivery of the sonata, by contrast, is designed to survive—and serve me well—at my one and only shot to get it right before an audience or microphone. But by fine-tuning my onetime delivery of the sonata, am I distancing myself from Haydn, his dedicatee, their piece? Have I imposed an inappropriate authority and finality to what is, arguably, playful and as open-ended as a conversation or an ongoing correspondence? Keyboards

In his study of the Viennese School (1740–80), Daniel Heartz asserts about Haydn’s keyboard music: Works for solo keyboard played a subordinate role in Haydn’s oeuvre. In this book they will not receive the more extensive treatment accorded [to] his quartets and symphonies. Hiller in 1768 went so far as to say that “the clavier does not suit Haydn as well as the other instruments, which he uses in the most fiery and galant symphonies.” It is true that Haydn was not a keyboard virtuoso, as were Wagenseil and Steffan, with whom Hiller placed Haydn. The keyboard music of all three, being mainly for amateur performers on the harpsichord, is stylistically very similar. Amateurs evidently appreciated Haydn. Keyboard works under his name began to circulate widely in the 1760s; Breitkopf offered one as early as 1763.51

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Several assumptions are implicit here: Haydn is not a keyboard virtuoso; Haydn, as composer, is poorly served by keyboard instruments; nevertheless, his works, intended for amateurs, were “evidently” appreciated by them, more so than those of Joseph Anton Steffan or Georg Christoph Wagenseil, perhaps precisely because Haydn himself was the nonvirtuoso of the three. A. Peter Brown (cited by Heartz himself “for a counterargument”) would have protested loudly: in his book Brown seeks to revise that hard-to-kill notion that Haydn was not much interested in the keyboard. Numerous primary documents make clear, on the contrary, that the keyboard played a consistently central role throughout Haydn’s life, not only for improvisation or composition, but also for performance proper and everyday logistics. He “even had to tune his harpsichord in the orchestra.”52 Haydn was genuinely interested in the keyboard and its various forms (organs, clavichords, harpsichords, pianos) as well as the developments these underwent during his lifetime, and he was an active and praised performer on the instrument.53 Table 1.2, based on the information collected and summarized from Brown (1986), Horst Walter (1970), and others, shows Haydn’s lifelong contacts with various keyboard types. Unlike Brown, however, I do not feel compelled to refute the basic premise that “Haydn was not a keyboard virtuoso.” I would argue, on the contrary, that it is precisely because he was not a virtuoso that his keyboard compositions are so uniquely instrumental. That is, they register—often more clearly than those of C. P. E. Bach or Mozart—his own creative responses to instrumental realities, which often become such a part of the compositional narrative itself. The clearest examples, because so convincingly based on organological parameters, are Haydn’s English sonatas, both solo and accompanied. Imagine the following scientific paradigm. Hypothesis: “There exist two distinct schools in piano building, playing, and writing—all three interconnected.” Experiment: “Take a Viennese composer, transfer him to an English environment, and observe him: will he change his style?” The answer is a resounding yes, remarkably so for a sixty-two-year-old master, who had nothing to prove; on the contrary, he had been invited to London on the strength of his existing reputation. Haydn had made such adjustments before. In a 1790 letter to Marianne von Genzinger, he explains that “I know I ought to have arranged this sonata in accordance with your kind of keyboard [while Haydn calls it a Clavier, it is clear from a few sentences before that he is referring to a harpsichord], but I found this impossible because I am no longer accustomed to it [weil ich es ganz aus aller gewohnheit habe].”54 It is interesting that Haydn formulates

TABLE 1.2. Haydn’s lifelong contacts with various keyboards 1739–49

1750s

Choirboy in Vienna

Freelance

“Very competent teachers

Clavichord

on different instruments”

Harpsichord

(Griesinger 1810/1954, 10)

Organ

“When I was at my old

Clavichord

Klavier, eaten up by the worms, I did not envy any king his luck.” (Griesinger 1810/1954, 11) Teaching students

“Haydn had to give Miss

Harpsichord/clavichord

Martinez lessons in singing and Klavierspielen.” (Griesinger 1810/1954, 11) “Every day you will give me

Harpsichord

harpsichord and singing lessons.” (Countess Thun; Framery 1810, 11) Organ

Employed by hospital of the Barmherzigen Brüder (Leopoldstadt) and at chapel of Count Harrach (Vienna) ca. 1753 and on ca. 1758–60

Working for Nicola Porpora

Vocal accompaniment

Harpsichord Harpsichord

Kapellmeister for Count Morzin teaching the countess

1761

Vice Kapellmeister for

“To coach the singers”;

Esterházy

“because of his experience

Harpsichord

on different instruments, to make himself useful” (contract, 8th clause; Bartha 1965, 43) “I sit at the keyboard [Kla-

Clavichord?

vier] and begin to search.” (to J. A. P. Schulz, 1770, reported by Reichardt, AmZLeipzig III/11, 1800, 176) 1765–66

† Werner; becomes

Now also liturgical works

Organ

Kapellmeister (continued)

TABLE 1.2. (continued ) 1776

New opera house

Playing continuo dur-

Harpsichord

ing opera rehearsals and productions Winter months

At Esterházy Palais in the

Acquaintance with

Walnerstrasse, Vienna, and

fortepiano

guest at other Viennese houses 1778

Artaria expands publishing activities to music

1779

New contract

Exclusivity clause is dropped: composing for outside clients now is allowed

1780

Publication of “Auenbrug-

Fortepiano

ger” Sonatas by Artaria 1781

Performs in Vienna

“Wait until I have per-

Fortepiano

formed these songs in the best houses of Vienna” (letter to Artaria, July 20; Bartha 1965, 101) 1787

Visit by Gaetano Bartolozzi

“A miserable apartment in

“Old” spinet or

the barracks, in which are

clavichord

his bed and an old spinet, or clavichord” (Gazetteer and New Daily Advertiser, Feb. 2, 1787) 1788

Buys Schanz piano

“I was forced to buy a new

“New” fortepiano

Forte-piano [from Wenzel

(square)

Schanz]” (letter to Artaria, Oct. 26; Bartha 1965, 195) 1790

“Genzinger” Sonata

“I should like Your Grace to try one by Herr Schanz” (letter to Genzinger, July 4; Bartha 1965, 244)

1790

Prince Nicolaus dies, Haydn moves to Vienna, J. P. Salomon takes him to London

Fortepiano (grand?)

Jan. 1, 1791

In London

“Presiding at the

English piano

pianoforte” Giving lessons to high

English piano (grand

personages

and square)

Accompanying cantata

English harpsichord?

Arianna a Naxos [After 2 symphonies:] “[I]ch

English piano

Accompagnirte [Madame Mara] ganz allein mit dem piano forte eine sehr difficult English Aria von Purcell.” (First London Note Book, June 1, 1792; Bartha 1965, 491) Sings and plays at piano-

English piano (grand)

forte for King George III Plays Andante mit dem

English piano (square)

Paukenschlag for A. Gyrowetz “on his square piano” (auf seinem viereckigen Fortepiano) (Einstein 1915, 75) Visits Charles Clagget to

Teliochord

check out his invention Receives studio at Broad-

Broadwood piano

wood’s; uses Dussek’s grand piano? Has keen interest in pianists “His Performance on

English (grand) piano

the Piano Forte . . . was indisputably neat and distinct.” (S. Wesley 1836, on premiere of Symphony Hob. I:98) 1794–95

Second visit to London

Production of sonatas, trios,

English piano (grand

songs, vocal duets for The-

and square)

resa Jansen, Maria Hester Park, Rebecca Schroeter (continued)

TABLE 1.2. (continued )

1797

Own house in Gumpendorf

Visits William Stodart

Bookcase piano

Brings home a Longman &

Longman & Broderip

Broderip grand

piano

1 trio, obbligato piano

Fortepiano

parts in vocal compositions (part songs, Scottish arrangements)

1801

6 masses

Organ

Composes on Bohak

Clavichord

Receives a mahogany Érard

Érard grand piano

with bronze ornamentation as a gift Listens to his fortepiano

English, French,

played by others, but the

Viennese?

noise is stressful Every morning

“He let himself be brought

English, French,

to the room in the back, to

Viennese?

only play his Lied ‘Gott, erhalte Franz den Kaiser!’ on the fortepiano” (Griesinger 1810/1954, 50) 1802

Has to buy a extremely

Clavichord

light Klavier for compos-

(Unidentified) Viennese

ing because playing on his

grand?

old Fortepiano becomes too strenuous (Griesinger 1810/1954, 42) 1806

Das kleine Klavier removed

Clavichord?

from his living room (Griesinger 1810/1954, 48) 1809

“Today April 1st I sold my

(Unidentified) Viennese

beautiful Fortepiano for

grand?

200 ducats.” May 26, 1809,

Plays the hymn (his

12:30 p.m.

“prayer”) for the last time, three times in a row

Note: Dates in italics indicate turning points in Haydn’s life.

Clavichord?

Composer, Dedicatee, Instrument

33

this statement as an excuse: the etiquette of writing a piece for someone obviously included taking into account the type of instrument this person owned. Equally interesting are his expressions, throughout the course of the correspondence, of a desire to personally perform the piece for her (“Oh! how I wish that I could only play this sonata to you a few times!”), only partly satisfied by a report that he performed the new sonata “at our Mademoiselle Nanette’s [von Gerlischek] in the presence of my gracious prince.” But it was not the prince’s approbation that Haydn now sought (though his presence, of course, would have been meaningful), but rather Mademoiselle Nanette’s, who had, after all, commissioned the work. And when he tells Her Grace that the Mademoiselle had expressed her approval, symbolized by the gift of a golden tobacco box, Haydn is clearly relieved: “At first I rather doubted, because of [the sonata’s] difficulty [Schwürigkeit], whether I would receive any applause.” Here’s a discrepancy. Haydn writes a piece for his friend, whose musicianship and instrument are known to him, yet he arranges it for his own instrument and takes pride in his own successful performance in her absence. Haydn’s solution: to convince his friend to buy a piano herself, preferably one identical or similar to his. (He had purchased “a new Forte-piano” from Wenzel Schanz in October 1788, almost certainly a square.)55 So it is that, in his first letter of June 20, 1790, after describing the contents of the piece and famously saying about the Adagio that “it contains many things which I shall analyze for Your Grace when the time comes; it is rather difficult but full of feeling,” he broaches the subject of instrument: “It is a pity that Your Grace has not one of Schanz’s fortepianos, for Your Grace could then produce twice the effect.”56 This troubling thought continues to weigh on Haydn. Still affected by his recent successful performance of the piece (either playing Mademoiselle Nanette’s piano or moving his own to her apartment for the occasion),57 Haydn, on June 27, picks up his old thought and elaborates: “It’s only a pity that Your Grace doesn’t own a Schantz fortepiano, on which everything is better expressed. I thought that Your Grace might turn over your still tolerable harpsichord to Fräulein Peperl [her daughter Josepha], and buy a new fortepiano for yourself. Your beautiful hands and their acquired velocity deserve this and much more. I know I ought to have arranged this sonata in accordance with your kind of keyboard, but I found this impossible because I am no longer accustomed to it.”58 If there is any feeling of guilt, then Haydn more than makes up for it. Subsequent letters show that he convinced the prince himself to buy a piano for Frau von Genzinger (whose husband, Peter, was physician-in-ordinary at the Esterházy court). In his let-

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ter of July 4, Haydn details why she should buy a Schanz rather than a Walter, again in service of the sonata: “Therefore I should like Your Grace to try one made by Herr Schanz, his fortepianos are particularly light in touch and the mechanism very agreeable. A good fortepiano is absolutely necessary for Your Grace, and my Sonata will gain double its effect by it.” In her reply (a draft dated July 11, 1790), von Genzinger expresses that “it is quite all right with me [es ist mir auch recht] to buy one from Schanz,” her rather neutral choice of words perhaps revealing a social pressure among the higher Viennese circles to buy a Walter, who, after all, enjoyed a de facto endorsement from the imperial court, which owned no fewer than four of his instruments.59 Although noticeably less engaged than Haydn, she also goes on to mention the sonata (which “pleases her well”) and requests one change: that Haydn alter the passage in the slow movement (mm. 57ff ) where the hands cross each other, invoking the same excuse that Haydn had used for not writing the sonata for her instrument: “because I am not used to it” (weilen ich solches nicht gewöhnet bin). That she singles out these rather than the seemingly much harder crossovers in the first movement (mm. 42ff ) need not necessarily surprise us: crossing left over right (rather than right over left) requires a contortion of arms and body that any well-postured, right-handed noblewoman would have resisted. In the same letter she makes sure the sonata does not replace Haydn’s old promise of a symphony. Haydn’s response is the July 23 congratulatory letter analyzed above. Over the course of this fascinating correspondence, we are offered glimpses into a complex network of connections among composer, dedicatee, composition, and instrument, all stemming from Haydn’s confession that he is “no longer used to writing for harpsichord.” From a larger perspective (which Frau von Genzinger would have lacked) it is clear what he means. A good test of his statement would be to play the opening of Hob. XVI:14 (in D major, from the early 1760s) and Hob. XVI:48 (in C major, from 1789, his first solo sonata after purchasing his piano) on the “wrong” instrument (the former on fortepiano, the latter on harpsichord). We can begin to empathize with Haydn’s frustration. In Sonata No. 14 (ex. 1.5a), a simple but beautifully shaped two-voice texture sounds fresh and vibrant on the harpsichord but loses its liveliness once the pianistic instinct to “do things” with slurs and decays of sound takes over. But Haydn exploits these very possibilities in Sonata No. 48 (ex. 1.5b). With painstaking accuracy he defines the loudness of each note within the larger gestures of a bar, two bars, three bars—all the way to the end of a long ten-bar phrase, the resolution of which he plays not with a single note or three notes or five notes (all of which would have been

Composer, Dedicatee, Instrument

35

Ex. 1.5. (a) Sonata in D Major, Hob. XVI:14, first movement, mm. 1–8; (b) Sonata in C Major, Hob. XVI:48, first movement, mm. 1–10

quite sufficient), but with eight notes, four in each hand, as if to say, “see what I can do, playing all these notes, my fingers barely touching the keys, pianissimo?” This is one of Haydn’s most wonderful examples of emphasis or understatement (“less” meaning “more”). Texture and dynamics, so closely synced before, are here deliberately unsynced: a new trick, which we enjoy with almost childlike enchantment. (This is one special moment that I would not vary at the repeat: on the contrary, I can hardly wait to do it again, exactly the same.) This clear example of two pieces almost thirty years apart should not set us on a quest to try and pin down the exact turning point in Haydn’s writing style, such as establishing when he abandoned the harpsichord in favor of the piano—a favorite topic among scholars in the 1970s and 1980s, when the revived but still unfamiliar “fortepiano” became a new historical point of

36

Chapter 1

reference.60 To do so would be to deny a whole group of pieces from 1776 to 1780 their capacity to embody a synthesis of instrumental styles, of old and new together. Even speaking in terms of “old” and “new” may be a mistake: the clavichord, with its touch sensitivity and other expressive powers, to this day remains seriously undervalued in our reception of Haydn’s keyboard music. Recent organological research on Viennese harpsichords and pianos, furthermore, has given the modern performer of Haydn much to discover. We end this chapter with two such “discoveries.” Viennese Stosszungenmechanik

When in 1997 Michael Latcham published his study of eighteen extant Anton Walter fortepianos, he lobbed a bombshell. The fortepiano long referred to as “Mozart’s piano”—a true icon of the “classical” fortepiano—had in fact been substantially altered, almost certainly by Walter himself as the original builder.61 The piano would originally not have had the Prellmechanik or “flipping action” it presently has. (This type of action is known as “the Viennese action.”) Knee levers were added, superseding the original damper-raising hand stops. What action did it first have? Almost certainly a Stossmechanik (or “pushing action”), with a built-in escapement and hammer directed toward the player, exactly as in several extant pianos from Walter’s colleagues.62 Stoss actions, as scholarship has since confirmed, remained not the exception but the norm in fortepiano building in southern Germany and Austria “until long after 1780.”63 That this realization conforms, furthermore, to a reality in Viennese square pianos, not just those from the 1780s but those built until well after 1800, adds yet another layer of continuity and insight.64 With his own 1788 square piano from Schanz, then, Haydn quickly accustomed himself to playing a Viennese stoss action (not a contradiction in terms!) while having available two hand stops, one to engage the moderator (sliding a piece of felt between the tiny hammers and the strings), the other to lift the dampers (until the hand stop is pushed back in again). Leading up to my “Virtual Haydn” recordings, Chris Maene (Ruiselede, Belgium) made two stoss-action Viennese pianos: a circa 1782 Anton Walter grand and an Ignaz Kober square of 1788 (see fig. 1.3), the year Haydn bought his Schanz.65 The Walter replica was designed as a response to the spectacular findings about Mozart’s piano. If Walter succeeded in updating the instrument’s technology, then it should be possible to go the other way. Within the existing structural design of Mozart’s Walter, Maene reverse-

Composer, Dedicatee, Instrument

37

Fig. 1.3. Replica of a 1788 Ignaz Kober Tafelklavier by Chris Maene (Ruiselede, Belgium, 2007). Photo by Jeremy Tusz.

engineered a stoss action while restoring an independent use of the original hand stops. But he also built the modernized prell action to slide into the same case and provided an independently operating set of knee levers as well. Pull one action out, replace it with the other, and you get a “before” and “after.”66 Regardless of Mozart, however, this two-in-one instrument also reveals two ways of building pianos in the 1780s that coexisted for at least a decade before prell took over from stoss and became the defining factor of what we now call a “Viennese fortepiano”—however, and here is the catch, for grands more than (or even to the exclusion) of squares. Fig. 1.4 shows the alternative actions from the Walter grand. In the stoss version (bottom), a hopper or Stosszunge pushes the hammer toward the string, catapulting it into free flight. The hammer hangs in its own rail over the key. (This hammer rail is not shown in the picture.) At a certain point, the hopper “escapes” its ascent, which allows the hammer to fall back. There’s no back-check to catch the falling hammer. Though the action is light in principle, a minimum of finger pressure is required for the hammers to hit the strings at all. Hammers are covered with only one layer of leather. The result-

38

Chapter 1

Fig. 1.4. Stoss action (below) and prell action (above), interchangeable in the same replica of a ca. 1782 Anton Walter grand fortepiano by Chris Maene (Ruiselede, Belgium, 2005). Photo courtesy of Chris Maene.

ing tones are either crisp and harpsichordlike or disarmingly warm and tender, with surprisingly little in between. For the player, the choice is between hitting the string with wood (the actual hammer) or gently caressing it with leather (the hammer’s cap). In the prell action (top), the hammer hangs in a brass Kapsel, which is attached to the key. When the keyboardist’s finger goes down, the hammer is pulled up at the back by the escapement, the ascending hammer perfectly paralleling the descending motion of the finger. A back-check (not shown in the photo) catches the hammer as it falls down. There’s no dependence on “free flight”: the keyboardist perfectly controls the movement of the hammer, either slow or fast. The hammer reaches the string in a slightly curving fashion (rather than the direct straight line on the stoss), resulting in a significantly larger contact surface between leather and string. This invites a

Composer, Dedicatee, Instrument

39

focus more on leather (the quality of the sound) than on wood (the instigator of the sound). For the builder, the invitation is to experiment with more layers and different kinds of leather; for the player, it is to exploit this cushion of leather in order to give more depth and color to one’s tone, as well as to look for ever more dynamic shades between loud ( forte) and soft ( piano). This significant gain in expressivity, however, comes with a loss in percussive bite and overall intimacy. The new action turns the instrument into one that is more expansive, more bel canto, more capable of projecting in a larger room—which in my experience is especially important when playing a concerto. Mostly, however, the action is potentially heavier—and “potentially” must be stressed here, since it is the player’s and/or builder’s choice to increase the mass of the hammers, resulting in more weight for the finger to press, or for the escapement to pull. If Walter so enthusiastically championed the progressive prell action that he “modernized” several of his earlier instruments (and not just Mozart’s),67 then Wenzel Schanz (of whom no instruments are known to survive) may well have continued to favor the directness and lightness of a Viennese stoss action and/or build his version of a prell action in the spirit of its famous inventor, Johann Andreas Stein, in Augsburg as an ingenious new system that did not quite challenge any older aesthetic virtues.68 We can rephrase this in socioeconomic terms: if Walter put his money on players with more professional ambition,69 then Schanz may have continued to cater to the “delicate hands” of the affluent female amateur, who, like Frau von Genzinger, would have had her first lessons on the harpsichord and would have been used to the feel of jacks and quills, behaving in as a direct manner as hoppers and thinly clad hammers.70 Almost inevitably (whether responding to Frau von Genzinger’s dropping his name in a previous communication, as in, “Herr von Nickl raves about his Walter,” or anticipating her skepticism, as in, “Why not one by Walter?”), Haydn came to talk about the star artisan in his letter of July 4, 1790. “It is quite true,” he wrote, “that my friend Herr Walther is very celebrated, and that every year I receive the greatest civility from that gentleman, but between ourselves, and speaking frankly, sometimes there is not more than one instrument in ten which you could really describe as good, and apart from that they are very expensive. I know H: von Nickl’s fortepiano: it’s excellent, but too heavy for Your Grace’s hand, and one can’t play everything on it with the necessary delicacy.”71 “Herr von Nickl” may well be Carl Nickl von Nickelsberg (ca. 1738–1805), treasury official and later dedi-

40

Chapter 1

catee of Beethoven’s Second Piano Concerto, Op. 19. Two of his children, as reported in Johann Ferdinand von Schönfeld’s 1796 Yearbook on Music in Vienna and Prague, became dedicated musicians—son Heinrich Nickl on the piano (Fortepiano) and on the cello; daughter Magdalena, a pupil of the virtuoso Steffan, on the piano.72 With this level of pianistic activity in the house, involving at least one male member of the family, the von Nickls almost certainly owned a Walter grand fortepiano, which by 1790 without any doubt had an original prell action. By association (why else even bring up von Nickl’s instrument?), Haydn may have assumed that Frau von Genzinger “needed” a grand as well. Back in his Eszterháza apartment, Haydn did not have the social incentive, the desire, nor the space to order one himself; but she may have, living in the center of vibrant Vienna and mingling with musicians as prominent as Haydn. That Haydn even suggests that she keep her old Flügel for one of her daughters implies, furthermore, that space was not an issue for the von Genzingers.73 But with a Schanz, she can have the best of both worlds: a grand with the same sparkling touch and sound of Haydn’s square—two inextricable perceptions that would go a long way toward playing the opening of her sonata in a conversational manner, articulate, yes, but not overly enunciated. (Frau von Genzinger may be serious about her keyboard playing, but she does not have the ambition to go out performing in some grand salon or other formal venue in Vienna.) Judging by her misgivings about the hand crossings in the Adagio, she would almost certainly have preferred the physical comfort and decorum of a damper-raising hand stop, to be employed to great effect in exactly that minore middle section of the Adagio that features those uncomfortable hand crossings.74 “After tomorrow I expect an answer about the forte piano,” Haydn wrote to her after the decision about Schanz had been taken (see the letter reproduced above). The postscript continues, “Then Your Grace will receive the alteration in the Adagio.” There’s a simple enough solution: from m. 57 to m. 66 one may interchange rather than cross one’s hands. The left hand can take over the accompaniment from the right as the latter shifts to the top. But to do so unobtrusively, you’d better leave the dampers raised throughout. No need to keep your thigh pressed against the knee lever for the entire time or—worse!—have to keep adjusting it with every new harmony (a technique we nowadays take for granted: we call it “pedaling”). “Just enjoy the pantalon effect,” Haydn may have told her when they met next—exactly as he would have done when fantasizing these exquisitely dramatic moments on his little square.

Composer, Dedicatee, Instrument

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The Eighteenth-Century Austrian Harpsichord

Prell-action fortepianos with knee levers by Stein and Walter have been the single two most popular models for modern-day builders of Viennese fortepianos. While their technology is close enough for us to appreciate the sonatas Haydn wrote beginning around 1780, a true missing link for the performance of early Haydn has long been the eighteenth-century Austrian harpsichord. I commissioned one from Martin Pühringer (Haslach, Austria), a replica of a 1755 one-manual, double strung harpsichord by court organ builder Johann Leydecker.75 This model—more Italian than German, yet idiomatically Austrian—resolutely takes the “early” out of circa 1755–70 Haydn, showing him instead as a young and progressive exponent of a preclassical school of keyboardists in Vienna (including his teacher Johann Georg Reutter, Gottlieb Muffat, and Wagenseil). The instrument’s most striking feature undoubtedly is its “multiple-broken short octave,” a picture and diagram of which are reproduced as plate 1 and which will be the focus of chapter 3. One tantalizing example may suffice here. The low D in m. 11 of ex. 1.6 is not playable on a fully chromatic keyboard (“with a “French octave,” as it was called in Vienna at the time).76 But what matters, when playing this excerpt on a contemporary Austrian harpsichord, is not so much that but how you can play the D major chord. In keyboardtechnical terms, D would be the equivalent of an F ♯. The tenth from D to f ♯, then, may be grasped with a hand span equivalent to an octave. Your second finger, in the mean time, firmly locks the middle d as part of the chord. The low key dip of the Austrian harpsichord allows for a smooth slide between mm. 11 and 12, or between one felt octave (a firm, sustained grip, delightfully “deep” in sound) and a “real” other one (relaxed, light, and rejoining a siciliano pulse). There’s no impression of a brusque new attack. What we instead feel, hear, and see is a ravishing resolution, that essential feature of a Viennese keyboard style.

Ex. 1.6. Sonata in E Minor, Hob. XVI:47, mm. 8–12

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Marianne Edle von Kayser (to remind us of Frau von Genzinger’s maiden name) would have been around fifteen when Haydn wrote this Sonata in E Minor, Hob. XVI:47 (ca. 1765).77 She might well have learned it on her old Flügel, which would have yielded exactly the kind of sophistication that Haydn calls for in this delicate Adagio. Neither Haydn nor she may have realized this in 1790, but her harpsichord (if built by a local Meister) and the new fortepiano she was about to receive were not so different after all. Above all, and in the grander scheme of things, they were both inherently Viennese. The transition from old to new in Viennese keyboard construction, from 1765 to 1790, was fluid, yet complex. It involved quills, tangents, stoss hoppers, prell escapements, hand stops, and knee levers: Haydn tried them all.

Neque enim tam refert, qualia sint, quae intra nosmet ipsos composuimus, quam quo modo efferantur; nam ita quisque, ut audit, movetur. For whatever we have composed in ourselves [i.e., in our minds] is not as important as the manner in which it is executed; because that’s how whoever hears it is moved. Q U I N T I L I A N , Institutio oratoria, XI, iii, 2



CHAPTER 2



Delivery, Delivery, Delivery!

When asked to identify the single most important aspect of oratory, the Greek orator Demosthenes replied: “Delivery.” When asked to identify the second most important aspect, Demosthenes replied: “Delivery.” When asked for the third, he once more replied: “Delivery.” Cicero too considered actio paramount. Quintilian, for his part, did not hesitate to acknowledge that a mediocre speech delivered with great skill would be more impressive than a brilliant speech delivered poorly.1 It is hard to believe, however, that either Cicero or Demosthenes, whose preserved speeches have been read, analyzed, and memorized by generations of schoolboys and have come to embody the summum of classical Greek and Latin speechwriting, meant to downplay in any way the importance of developing and composing a logically argued and ordered, stylistically elegant oration. Indeed, as Quintilian observes: “Since words in themselves count for much and the voice adds force of its own to the matter of which it speaks, while gesture and motion are full of significance, we may be sure of finding something like perfection when all these qualities are combined.”2 This sentence, from the penultimate book of Quintilian’s Institutio oratoria, coming to the end of the complete training of an orator, unites all categories of oratory: matter (res), words (verba), voice 43

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(vox), gesture (gestus), and motion (motus). These categories are not only complementary but also interdependent: no ideas without words to express them, no words without a voice to speak them, and so on. Good delivery, then, is nothing more or less than a proper fulfillment of previous stages: good inventio (inventing ideas), good dispositio (ordering them), good elocutio (clothing them in proper words), good memoria (memorization). On this continuum, the “text” is neither a goal nor a point of departure: it is an intermediate stage between invention and delivery. Delivery is of the “ideas” rather than the words; conversely, the purpose of inventing ideas is not to have them reflected in elegant prose, but for them to be orally effective; in judicial oratory, being “effective” means winning one’s case.3 In the specific context of a trial, being effective might sometimes mean not adhering to one’s well-prepared text, which—and this was no contradiction—the Roman orator held in his left hand, rolled up into a scroll, keeping his right arm free for gestures.4 What to do, for instance, Quintilian asks, when one must reply to one’s opponent? “For often the arguments we expected and against which we prepared our written text fail to appear, and the whole cause is suddenly changed.”5 The following famous anecdote, recalled by Cicero in his defense of Cluentius, illustrates how a too cleverly prepared text may be derailed in actual delivery, with disastrous results. (Caepasius in this extract is the defender; Fabricius is his client.) [Caepasius] thought he was pleading very cleverly, and produced from the secrets of his stock-in-trade these weighty words: “Look back, gentlemen, upon the lot of mortal man; look back upon its changes and chances; look back upon the old age of Fabricius!” After frequent repetitions of the phrase “Look back,” by way of ornamenting his speech [using the figure anaphora, i.e., starting consecutive phrases with the same word], he finally looked back himself: and lo! Fabricius had left his seat with hanging head. Thereupon the court burst out laughing; counsel lost his temper, in annoyance that his case was slipping through his fingers, and that he could not complete his stock passage beginning “Look back”: and he was as near as possible to pursuing his client and dragging him back to his seat by the scruff of his neck, so that he could conclude his peroration.6

The ability to improvise in such circumstances is essential, and the man who fails to acquire that knack had better abandon advocacy and devote his powers of writing to other branches of literature.7

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Repeating a Transition . . . An Oratorical Catastrophe?

Imagine a performance of Haydn’s Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:40 (ex. 2.1), by a pianist-orator not in an ancient courtroom but in a modern concert hall. After an extended fermata over a dominant seventh chord, which indicates the end of a movement—a series of alternating variations, in major and minor keys— the keyboardist presents the opening theme one final time, first in its original, unadorned version. But soon he (or she) parses the statement: grotesque, arpeggiated chords (using the rhetorical figure of hyperbole, or exaggeration);8 then two individual questioning figures (the rhetorical figure would be dubitatio, or the casting of doubt, asking two short questions: “What do I say? Where am I?”);9 finally a suspensio, a holding in suspense of a certain outcome, which in this case, to the listener’s delight, happens to be exactly what she had expected, but—surprise!—is thrown right in her face, a truly Haydnesque twist of events.10 The whole passage functions as a transitio between the two movements.11 And the tonic chord at the very end, in one sweeping gesture, sets a totally new tone, a delightful attacca into the presto finale: a transition, indeed, often involves aversio, a turning away from the matter at hand.12

Ex. 2.1a. Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:40, “transition” between first and second movements

Ex. 2.1b. Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:40, first movement, mm. 73–end, with repeat: writtenout performance

Ex. 2.1b (continued)

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But what to do, in performance, with the repeat? Haydn clearly intended one by indicating the upbeat (for the repeat) and the fermata (as the conclusion of the movement) in the last bar. How can one recognize Haydn’s “oratorical” skills in producing such an effective transition, which hinges on perfect timing, and yet abolish the very effect that one has so carefully achieved by retracing one’s steps and preparing the transition all over again? This would be like a magician who explains his trick to the audience before performing it, or like the orator, mocked by Cicero, who is so out of touch with his external surroundings that he becomes a victim of his own “cleverness.” “Haydn as orator” is the paradigm I wish to explore in this chapter. In classical times, an orator would of course be male, would have enjoyed long and thorough schooling, and would be in a position to practice his acquired knowledge and skill either in court or politics. If we substitute the concert hall for the courtroom or assembly, those same characteristics would apply to the modern-day professional pianist as well. There is, admittedly, a flaw in this historical analogy. A “master of music” (to use a more historical term) would not have performed Haydn’s sonatas; he (masculine by overwhelming majority) might have been curious about them and studied them (at least those available to him, as they circulated through Europe at a rate of three to six every half decade or so, but his own merits as a professional would have been judged in the composition and performance of his own sonatas, or more prestigiously still, his concertos. Mozart, Steffan, or Kozeluch come to mind as obvious examples. Haydn’s clientele, by contrast, as we have seen in the previous chapter, was overwhelmingly female, socially well established, financially independent, and with the abundant free time of a dilettante (the latter term applied here not pejoratively but rather in the context of the general cultural and artistic development of a lady, demonstrated especially in her ability to play the keyboard). Nonetheless, I here propose to explore the oratorical model as far as possible, if only for the simple reason that the genre of the solo keyboard sonata invites the analogy. First, there is the one-to-one relationship of keyboardist—as one orator—to his audience, whether in actual performance (in a concert space, small or large) or in anticipation thereof (in the practice room). Second, because the performer acts alone, there is ample room for initiative and flexibility, and specifically to take part in the eighteenthcentury practice of varied reprise, that is, of improvising variants during the repeated section of an existing score.13 Toward the end of the eighteenth century these two elements—a clear

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oratorical stance and the musical convention of repeat—were increasingly seen as opposing one another. In his Mémoires, ou Essais sur la musique (1797), André-Ernest-Modeste Grétry famously wrote that “a sonata is an oration. What would we think of a man who, cutting his discourse in half, were to repeat each half? ‘I was at your house this morning; yes, I was at your house this morning to talk to you about something; to talk with you about something.’”14 I contend that oratorical stance and the convention of the repeat, for a very long time, had been understood as not being in conflict, but rather that, on the contrary, a skillful performer, someone we would now call a “professional,” would have understood how to combine the energies of each to create an effective performance. The essential question, then, is: how do I, a modern performer trained in eighteenth-century music practices, judged by professional standards, perform a Haydn sonata? This question arises especially from those moments of crisis described in the previous chapter. Some of the answers might bring us closer to understanding and defining the oratorical qualities of this music, which remain palpable and real. But then there is the matter of my historical (female) counterparts and what influence their self-awareness of oratorical posture and the convention of repeat had on their performance and how that awareness (if it exists) might have to shape my own. “They” and “I”— with Haydn hovering somewhere in the middle—create an interesting field of tensions, in which the issue of repeat will prove to be as essential as it is enigmatic.15 Taking on the Problem: A Performer’s Approach

If Haydn held dearly to the idea of a transition between the movements, a typical twentieth-century response, shaped by the ideology of urtext, would be: “Why then did he not take better care in avoiding the absurdity of the repeat in Sonata No. 40; why did he not convey his intentions on paper?” I propose to adopt a more positive approach and argue that, precisely because Haydn was so taken by his own transition, which surely originated in his own “fantasizing,” he made it part of the written text, while adhering to conventional repeat signs.16 The worst that could happen—from Haydn’s point of view—is that the anonymous performer would play the same passage twice. A better scenario, however, would be that she would recognize Haydn’s own “improvised” variant as the repeat and venture to reconstruct a regular, nontransitional version of the theme first (itself part of the final variation). The significance of notational convention in the perception of what

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I felt to be a “problem” is not to be underestimated. My ex. 2.1a restores the final bar (m. 99) from the original 1784 edition, with a fermata over the final rest. Modern editions, including JHW, routinely specify primo and secundo endings of the final bar, with and without the upbeat to the repeated section. While producing a more correct look (eliminating an upbeat left hanging from the first run-through), the modern print makes the score also look more “final” than its historical counterpart.17 Circumstantial proof for this hypothesis—that Haydn’s transition conceptually belongs to the repeat alone—may be found in the continuation of the set of sonatas. As László Somfai has pointed out, Haydn tended to be occupied with certain compositional or notational challenges during the course of writing an opus of pieces.18 This particular G major sonata is Haydn’s first “attempt” at a two-movement sonata with a first variation movement and a fast, capricious finale. He repeated the experiment in the third and final sonata of the set, No. 42 in D major. There Haydn did what it seems, in retrospect, he could have done in No. 40, namely write out the repeats of the final variation. This solution, furthermore, seems to have propelled Haydn toward an idea altogether novel: the writing of a separate transition (m. 102 to the end) between the two movements (see ex. 2.2). In several ways this transition reminds us of the G major transition: both have similar melodic fragmentation; both look backward as well as forward (as any transition should); and both come at a similarly crucial moment in their sonatas’ trajectories, at the turning point between their sentimental opening variations and their delightful, witty finales. But the D major transition enjoys a structural clarity that the one in G major lacks. Whereas the D major transition, clearly situated between the end and beginning of two movements, has the same identity both on the page and in performance, the G major transition, incorporated within the structural boundaries of the first movement itself, emanates from its position in the printed text and adopts its structural identity only in the realm of performance (actio). Guided by Haydn’s own example of No. 42 and enjoying a sufficient stock of melodic-harmonic material bearing his signature in No. 40, I present in ex. 2.1b what a fully written out final variation might have looked like. In this ABA′ I embellish the A′ section in the manner of A, not modulating to V but rounding off with an authentic cadence. I furthermore save the printed version of mm. 84–91, an extended half cadence on V, for last. Not only is this version much more forceful than the previous ones (which remained wonderfully understated, with piano dropping to pianissimo, before a final forte on the last dominant seventh chord, never an outright fortissimo), the

Ex. 2.2. Sonata in D Major, Hob. XVI:42, transition between first and second movements

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two modes of the previous variations (G major and G minor) are now aptly combined in mm. 86–87, one last pathetic-dramatic gesture before the conclusion of the movement, which is now, in the true sense, a transition to the next as well. Haydn the Performer

Haydn’s texts are merely one stage in a rhetorical process. Like Cicero’s texts, they reflect performance but are not the whole performance.19 That Haydn’s primary interest, as a composer, was the performance of his texts may be corroborated by many statements about his desire to create certain effects and to provoke certain reactions from his audience. In a letter to Frau von Genzinger, from London, he explains why he cannot send her quite yet the symphony (Hob. I:93 in D major) that he is dedicating to her: “First, because I intend to change and make its last movement [das letzte Stück] more beautiful, since it is too weak in comparison with the preceding movements [in rücksicht der Ersteren Stücke]; I became convinced of this on my own and also by the audience [von dem Publico] when I produced [producirte] the symphony for the first time last Friday.”20 In his well-known “Applausus” letter, accompanying the score of a cantata commissioned by the abbey of Zwettl in Lower Austria, Haydn complained that his ignorance of performers and place of performance made his work on the cantata “sour.”21 And in a letter to his publisher, he asked Artaria to hold off publishing a collection of lieder before he himself had the chance to perform them—that is, singing and playing at the same time—in the “critical houses” [critischen Häusern] of Vienna, explaining that “a master [ein Meister] must see to his rights by his presence and by true performance [wahrer Vortrag].”22 Vortrag happens to be the German term used for rhetorical “delivery” as well. The Swedish diplomat Fredrik Samuel Silverstolpe remembered Haydn standing in front of the orchestra at the official premiere of The Creation (on April 30, 1798) and, as Light was about to be Created, having “the expression of someone who is thinking of biting his tongue, either to hide his embarrassment or to conceal a secret.”23 “No one, not even Baron von Swieten” had seen this particular page of the score. Haydn’s oratorical confidence, both in anticipation and at the moment itself—“when Light broke . . . one would have said that lightrays darted from the composer’s blazing eyes”—rivals that of Cicero, who, just before his third oration against Catiline, “had a newly completed statue of Jupiter erected so that it was prominently visible from the Forum,” audaciously planning to exploit the shame that his listeners would feel under the

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stern eyes of the god, pointing to it as “that statue which you now see.”24 Cicero, by then the most prominent politician of Rome, and Haydn, returning to Vienna from London an international celebrity, had both become masters at controlling the emotional responses of their listeners. But who is in control of what in the keyboard sonatas? As we saw in chapter 1, during the 1770s Haydn started to react to two new realities in Vienna—the expansion of music publishing, and a new and growing market of amateur players, almost exclusively women. He stopped producing manuscript copies of sonatas written for specific students or for his own use and began writing for the generic, amateur keyboard player in Vienna. As if to compensate for the loss of control over the performance of his compositions, Haydn’s notation became more explicit. To guide the buyers of his scores, Haydn started to incorporate ornamentation, slightly varied repeats of the Hauptsätze (main statements), cadenzas, Eingänge (lead-ins), and so on. In his Sonata in A Major, Hob. XVI:26 (ex. 2.3), he clearly enjoyed his new role of “invisible master” setting his “imaginary pupil” an unusual assignment: she must play the minuet and trio backward (al rovescio). To reconstruct this private moment—a master chuckling as his poor pupil works her way backward through the prescribed tones—is hard if not impossible to do in a modern-day concert performance. Modern editions (including JHW ) consistently provide the “solution” in print, not even inviting the performer to ponder this peculiarity. Its spontaneity lost forever, the modern performer can only recreate the effect theatrically: he literally scratches his head, tells his audience what Haydn asks him to do, and sets forth on his task, as if prima vista, with appropriate hesitation and mistakes. Puzzled surprise, however, gives way to admiring recognition, as performer and listener gradually make sense of this seeming nonsense, and at every new occurrence (four in total for the minuet, two for the trio) appreciation builds for the contrapuntal skill involved in composing such a palindrome.25 There’s a possible third level, in which the performer adds ornaments or variants, then plays those backward too, claiming his share of the listeners’ admiration. This rich example of relationships among listener, performer, and composer, who reposition themselves even as the performance develops, should not make us forget the simple reality of Haydn performing his own sonatas. He not only dedicated his first published set of sonatas to his Prince Nicolaus Esterházy but must surely have played them for him as well, possibly in the presence of distinguished guests.26 We know from a note in a certain Father Rettensteiner’s score of the “Marie Esterházy” Sonatas, Nos. 40–42, that Haydn performed these particular pieces for him.27 And, as we saw in

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Ex. 2.3. Sonata in A Major, Hob. XVI:26, Menuet al rovescio

chapter 1, when Haydn sent off his newest sonata (No. 49) to Frau von Genzinger, he expressed a desire to perform the piece for her (“Oh! how I wish that I could only play this sonata to you a few times!”). This is puzzling from a social point of view: it might have been more proper to express a wish to hear her perform the piece—after all, Haydn had “destined [the sonata] for Your Grace already since last year.” But this spontaneous exclamation, part of a postscriptum in a private letter, demonstrates the composer’s urge to be his own performer.28 The autograph of the same “Genzinger” Sonata presents remarkable testimony to Haydn’s integrated approach, from conceived idea, through rhetorical figure, to declamatory gesture (see ex. 2.4a and fig. 2.1). Toward the second page of the first movement, after confirming the dominant key of B 𝅗𝅥, Haydn appears to be heading toward closure in that key, rounding off the exposition. Nothing can stop him from doing so. In the context of this

Ex. 2.4a. Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:49, first movement, mm. 24–64 (transcribed from manuscript)

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Ex. 2.4b. Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:49, first movement, mm. 179–186

expectation Haydn plays out the rhetorical figure of dubitatio, or the feigned expression of doubt. Although at first he does seem to confirm B 𝅗𝅥, he suddenly finds himself stumbling over a harmonic progression that threatens to run wild. As if struck by panic, he brings himself to a halt with a deceptive cadence in C minor (m. 52). A painful silence follows. It is exactly here that Haydn leaves blank almost half a staff of what must have been expensive manuscript paper.29 He turns the page, as if visually performing the dubitatio. (One can only speculate what his facial expression would have been.) What now? The first thing that springs to mind is: gaining time! He repeats the A 𝅗𝅥 chord in a rhythmic form vaguely familiar from before, from the motive that in chapter 1 we called y (m. 2: see ex. 1.4b), and clinging to the harmony that had made such a forceful entry in the third opening phrase (phrase c, m. 10). Only at the fourth attempt toward an outcome—any outcome—does he succeed in bending back the modulation to B 𝅗𝅥, pulling off a chromatic tour de force: a German sixth followed by a dominant. The technical ease with which the orator is able to free himself from an apparent dead end is astonishing. The eventual confirmation of the dominant key and the end of the exposition sound the more convincing for it. And this is exactly the purpose of a dubitatio. Quintilian writes: “Dubitatio offers a particular faith in truth, when we pretend to be searching where to begin, where to end, what preferably needs to be said or whether something needs to be said at all” (IX, ii, 19; my translation). “Pretend” is the key word here: if the doubt were genuine, it would not be a rhetorical figure.30 It is hard, if not impossible, to repeat a certain figure of thought such as dubitatio with similar, let alone stronger

Fig. 2.1. Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 major, Hob. XVI:49, autograph, first page turn, facsimile by Schott/Universal Edition (Vienna, 1964)

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Fig. 2.2. An actor in doubt. Engraving from Engel (1785–86), vol. 1, between pp. 88 and 89.

effect. In mm. 181–182 of the recapitulation, Haydn, indeed, playfully adds appoggiaturas (see ex. 2.4b). It is as if he invites his listener to partake in his own delight: “Remember the time I tricked you before?” In Johann Jacob Engel’s Ideen zur Mimik (1785–86) we find an engraved picture of an actor in doubt (reproduced here as fig. 2.2): arms folded, head bent down, eyes staring at the ground. The image is fitting also for the keyboardist, who, at the most intense moment of doubt, stares into the emptiness of the music desk and, for lack of a better idea, turns the page. Engel’s prose too, which carefully describes the hand movements of the actor in preparation of this moment—hands at first interacting easily and smoothly with one another, their movements increasingly becoming irregular, arms indecisively folded and unfolded again, then suddenly coming to a halt— resonates strikingly well with Haydn’s choreography of the keyboardist’s hands in mm. 24–64. The crossings and uncrossings of mm. 42–50—unusual for Haydn—offer an especially intriguing analogy to the folding and unfolding of the actor’s arms. Table 2.1 juxtaposes Engel’s prose with my description of the keyboardist’s movements.31 But to propose Engel as a model (although chronologically it would be conceivable; and Engel’s book quickly

TABLE 2.1. An actor in doubt compared to a keyboardist in doubt The actor in doubta

The keyboardist in doubtb

The movement of the hands . . . is easy, unhindered,

[mm. 24–32:] Left and right hands are well coor-

free, when the overall development of ideas is going

dinated. They counter one another’s movements

well and one [idea] follows from another without

in an easygoing, playful way. A variety of ideas is

difficulty;

expressed. The left hand’s Alberti figurations provide secure support for smooth, wavelike movements up and down in the right.

[the movement] becomes nervous, irregular, the

[mm. 33–41:] An unexpected harmonic shift in the

hands reach here and there, make this, then that

left hand gives way, first, to a fragmented cantilena

movement, toward one’s breast, toward one’s head;

in the right. Then (m. 37), the left hand stops its previous activity and falls out of its accompanying role altogether, at one point engaging nervously with its right counterpart (m. 39).

the arms are folded, then unfolded again, when

[mm. 42–51:] The left hand resumes its Alberti

one’s thinking is obstructed in its free flow and

activity, but repeats itself over and over, without clear

deflected to various foreign shores:

purpose. The right hand, in the mean time, crosses deep down on the keyboard, then high up. As a result, arms twist (fold) and untwist (unfold) several times in a row.

when all of a sudden one indecision, one difficulty

[m. 52:] A deceptive cadence catches the keyboard-

arises, the whole play [of the hands] comes to a

ist off guard; everything comes to a complete stop.

standstill; the outstretched hand is contracted and pulled to-

[mm. 53ff:] One hand turns the page—what else

wards one’s breast, or the arms are folded in a posi-

is there to do? The other just waits. The silence is

tion of inactivity. The eye, which, when thinking was

painful. The pianist stares down to the keyboard, his

going well, moved along with the whole head just

head bent in disbelief. Cautiously, one hand takes

lightly and smoothly; or which, when the soul was

the initiative, followed, equally cautiously, by the

knocked from the one idea to the next, wandered

other. Momentum is slowly regained. On a striking

nervously from this to that corner, now only stares

harmony, both hands regain their old confidence and,

straight in front of itself, and the head reclines or

in forceful coordination, bring the section to a close.

hangs forward, until after the first astonishment of the doubt, if I can call it so, the obstructed activity resumes itself. a

Engel (1785), 87–88.

b

Author’s commentary on mm. 24–64 of Haydn’s Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:49 (1789–90).

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became a must-read in musical circles)32 misses the more important point that Haydn’s interest (like Engel’s) was first and foremost in executing a wellknown and recognizable oratorical pose, to be seen as well as to be heard. The Eighteenth-Century Keyboardist-Orator

One need not, however, invoke Haydn himself as the “ideal” orator. The ideal of the composer-performer is ubiquitous in almost all eighteenth-century treatises on performance, especially those on playing the keyboard, where the listener may be easily led to assume that the player also is the composer. For C. P. E. Bach, the fact that a performer may be playing someone else’s pieces is ultimately irrelevant. In 1753 he wrote that the obligation [for the performer to be able to transport himself in all affects] especially holds in those pieces that are meant to be expressive, they may originate from himself or from someone else [sie mögen von ihm selbst oder von jemanden anders herrühren]; in the latter case he must perceive in himself the same passions that the author [Urheber] of the foreign composition [des fremden Stücks] experienced at its creation [Verfertigung].33 (Emphasis mine.)

In other words, the performer must recapture the very invention of the piece, and in order to do so, she must understand both the emotions and thoughts (Empfindungen and Gedanken), as well as the figures (Figuren), that express those thoughts and emotions. For instance, Bach warns against an “exaggerated violent attack” when portraying rage (Raserey) or anger (Zorn), explaining that the expression of these “violent emotions” should be “rather through [the proper selection of ] harmonic and melodic figures.”34 It is interesting to observe the subtle change in the composer-performer relationship by the time Daniel Gottlob Türk wrote his treatise, in 1789, one generation after Bach. Türk’s concept, it seems, sees composer and performer as more of a team, in which each partner divides up tasks and knowledge: there are certain technical things that a performer no longer needs to know.35 While Bach’s treatise can be read as a Gradus ad Parnassum toward fantasieren, the professional ability to improvise a free fantasy (eine freye Fantasie), Türk’s approach to improvisation is more pragmatic. Türk implores his reader, for instance, to carefully prepare and write out a cadenza but then perform “as if it were merely invented on the spur of the moment”—a subtle but important distinction that foreshadows the eventual separation between professional

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composers (who may also be performers) and professional performers in the centuries to come.36 Throughout the eighteenth century, the act of performance was described and, one may assume, conceived of in rhetorical terms. Striking parallels can be drawn between the terms and phrases used by Bach, Agricola, Quantz, and Türk, and those of Gottsched, Quintilian, or any other author on classical rhetoric. In fact, Agricola specifically refers his aspiring singers, who, like orators, should be able to match declamation to affect and rhetorical figure, to Johann Christoph Gottsched’s Ausführliche Redekunst, first published in 1739.37 Drawing up a list of all these parallels is an almost impossible task, and perhaps an unnecessary one, since it would simply belabor the obvious: that rhetoric provided the all-embracing conceptual framework. I will give just a few examples, somewhat more subtle than Quantz’s rather blunt opening statement that “musical performance [Vortrag] can be compared to the delivery [Vortrag] of an orator.”38 In his first paragraph on Vortrag, C. P. E. Bach speaks of the ideal performer as an “intelligible, pleasing, moving keyboardist” (ein deutlicher, ein gefälliger, ein rührender Clavieriste), a clear reference to the three duties of an orator: to teach, to please, and to move (docere, delectare, movere). It is true, however, that the requirement “to move” in German music aesthetics outshone the other two, becoming the very goal of performance, on a par almost with rhetoric’s overall objective of “persuasion” (persuadere).39 In his famous “paragraph 13” (with the opening line “A musician cannot move others unless he is moved himself,” a direct recollection of Horace’s famous si vis me flere, dolendum est primum ipsi tibi [If you wish me to weep, first you yourself must grieve]), Bach draws the picture of a performer growing weak and sad in weak and sad passages: “One sees and hears it from him,” he writes. Man sieht und hört es ihm an. The translation of William Mitchell, which combines “seeing” and “hearing” into one neutral “perceiving,”40 unfortunately diminishes the visual importance of appropriate facial expressions and gestures for orators and musicians alike: “inappropriate grimaces” or “harmful bad gestures” are contrasted with “appropriate facial expressions” (i.e., those that match the expression of the words or music) and “good gestures” (i.e., those that, as Bach writes, “help bring our intentions across to the listeners”).41 Quintilian, addressing the same point, tells the story of Demosthenes practicing his delivery in front of a large mirror.42 Bach’s own inspired look while fantasizing at the clavichord—“His eyes were fixed, his under lip fell, and drops of effervescence distilled from his countenance”— has been famously described by Charles Burney.43

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In most of the treatises, the topos that a “mediocre speech [or piece] supported by all the power of delivery will be more impressive than the best speech unaccompanied by such power”44 is repeated and applied to music composition and performance.45 In this respect, Türk pities those composers who have to submit their pieces to the mercies of unworthy performers: “Other artists are more assured of their earned acclaim, because they perform their works mostly themselves” (emphasis mine).46 A composer who would be a mediocre performer of his own works, interestingly, is not yet considered an option. The concept of composer-performer as a single persona, more specifically as a single orator, provides a context for understanding C. P. E. Bach’s 1760 experiment of publishing Six Sonatas with Varied Reprises, Wq. 50 (VI. Sonates pour le clavecin avec des reprises variées), in which there are plenty of repeats but no repeat signs, or in which the execution of all repeats has been spelled out, almost doubling the amount of printed pages. Bach did not intend to widen the gap between the amateur performer and professional composer. On the contrary, he wished to provide the amateur with the opportunity to sound like a professional musical orator. He wrote as much in his preface, itself demonstrative of flowery, self-varying language: With the composition of these sonatas, I primarily had those beginners and amateurs in mind [ces Commençans & ces Amateurs], who, because of their age or their occupation, do not have the time nor patience to engage in exercises of a certain difficulty. I wanted to provide [procurer] them with the easy means to provide [procurer] themselves the satisfaction of adding some alterations [changemens] to the pieces [Pieces] they perform, without having to resort to either inventing them themselves or getting someone else to prescribe things that they would learn only with extreme effort [recourir à d’autres qui leur prescrivent des choses qu’ils n’apprendroient qu’avec une extrème peine]. Thus, I expressed in the most formal way [de la manière la plus formelle] everything that might convey the merit [débit] of these pieces most advantageously, so that they may play them with complete liberty, also when they are not too well disposed [lors même qu’ils ne sont pas trop bien disposés].47

C. P. E. Bach may have had the well-being of the ladies in mind (“how happy I will be if this publication puts in evidence my eagerness to be of service!”), but it is ultimately his pride as a composer that shines through. His explicit

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intent is not to demonstrate them how to make good alterations, but to remind us that these alterations should be designed to underscore the “merit” of his own “pieces.” It is remarkable, indeed, that for two-thirds of the preface, he abhors the practice of adding alterations that are “most disagreeable to the composers” by ridiculing those who, “already at the first time around, do not have the patience to play the notes exactly as written, because it is unbearable for them to wait for the Bravo,” only to then take pride in being “the first, as far as I know” to upgrade this very practice to a formal “genre” (genre).48 As a genre, however, the “sonata with varied reprise” never took off—not in Emanuel Bach’s proposed format, anyway. To be sure, Bach does not argue against performance-inspired alterations, since “the good ones always keep their value”; but his publication seems designed to sternly remind the amateur to know her place —and be content with it—rather than to extend an invitation to the amateur player to enter his own world as a musical orator. “In the most formal way”—that is, through printed notation—he takes full control, as if sitting by her side, not just during lessons but during “formal” performance as well.49 “Orating” Haydn’s Keyboard Sonatas

Regarding the question of altered repeats, Haydn’s sonatas present some challenging problems for a performer like me, who claims to be a “professional.” The rules for varying are clear: one’s material should be presented from simple to complex; any alteration must be an improvement on the written text;50 and it is best to present something unadorned first, so that the listener will recognize one’s alterations at the repeat of a passage. But how should one reconcile these licenses, duties even, of the performer with the following piece of advice by Quantz directed to composers: “It is much more advantageous for a composer to keep something of his knowledge [Wissenschaft] always in reserve so that he can surprise his listener more than once; than already to throw away all he knows [seine ganze Wissenschaft] the first time around, [in which case] one has heard everything already at once.”51 How can a composer respect the performer’s right to improvise, vary, or alter passages and still remain in control of his own agenda, or the overall intended effect of the piece? For a composer like Haydn, who thrives on surprising his audience, this must have been an especially hard balance to strike: how could he incorporate these “surprises” without “giving them away” in their first occurrence on the written page? I would argue that we

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can recapture Haydn’s “true performance” (wahren Vortrag) only if we recognize, understand, and internalize his rhetorical approach to the invention, disposition, and elocution of his pieces. This approach, I further argue, applies to the piece as a whole,52 not just single movements; in other words, the rhetorical strategy of a whole piece will determine the performance of events within the individual movements. Johann Nikolaus Forkel provided a model for such an approach in a 1783 essay on C. P. E. Bach’s Keyboard Sonata in F Minor, Wq. 57/6.53 More than merely an analysis of one particular piece, the essay purports to be a “theory of the sonata überhaupt,” and it was embraced as such by his contemporaries (such as Johann Abraham Peter Schulz and Johann Georg Sulzer or Carl Friedrich Cramer).54 Treating the sonata as a cycle of several movements with one overall rhetorical message, Forkel proclaims three possible ways of ordering it: The first order is the one in which a pleasant main emotion [eine angenehme Hauptempfindung] dominates and is maintained during an entire piece through all possible appropriate and supporting, pleasant side emotions. The second is the one in which an unpleasant main emotion [eine unangenehme Hauptempfindung] is suppressed, soothed, and little by little turned into a pleasant one. The third is the one in which a pleasant main emotion is not sustained and pursued but is, by the interposition of at first weak, then stronger unpleasant emotions, eradicated and finally turned into an unpleasant emotion altogether.55

Forkel’s schema, in shorthand, is: 1. from pleasant to pleasant; 2. from unpleasant to pleasant; 3. from pleasant to unpleasant. In keeping with aesthetic theories of his time, Forkel expresses moral reservations about the third ordering: it can be “an exercise in expression [ein Werk zur Uebung im Ausdruck] only, but by no means a useful and usable work of art [brauchbares und anwendbares Kunstwerk].”56 In effect, Forkel dismisses the third option, leaving only two possible ways of ordering: from pleasant to pleasant, and from unpleasant to pleasant. Forkel’s way of thinking is very much rooted in the German idea of music as a “language of emotions” (Empfindungssprache). Restating Forkel’s model in its oratorical equivalents, for “from pleasant to pleasant,” one would start with a correct statement (this is the orator’s own), offer proofs to support it, refute the contrary (that is, the “opponent’s” statement), and, finally, confirm “one’s own,” original statement; for “from

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unpleasant to pleasant,” one would begin with a wrong statement, disprove it, and then replace it with one’s own, correct version. With this enlarged paradigm in mind—the performer-composer as orator, and the sonata as a larger rhetorical narrative, equivalent to one oration— let us now consider the performance of a larger “excerpt,” the first movement of Haydn’s Sonata in E Major, Hob. XVI:22 (see ex. 2.5). The sonata is the second in the opus of six dedicated to his prince in 1774. The tone of the opening statement (ex. 2.5a) is very controlled and rational. Two multivoiced chords—on the harpsichord, as clear and assertive as they come—divide the statement into two logical halves and help establish a calm, confident impression. Whichever “questions” are asked during the exposition (there are many moments of restarts, one step higher, or of standstill after a similarly rising inflection), the initial tone (which lasts for quite a long time, if one takes the repeat) is one of refined pensiveness. In contrast, after turning the page, itself a lively gesture, the development loosens, at times even loses control: questioning figures (marked y in ex. 2.5b, mm. 33–36) are heaped one atop the other, along a rising chromatic line, to the point of utter confusion, captured by the fermata in m. 36. In these moments of doubt (dubitatio), our orator pretends to be bereft of fresh ideas, stuck with the uninspired choice of confirming the key of G ♯ minor. But in one sweeping gesture (using the rhetorical figure aversio), he forcefully turns away from the muddle he has created and claims renewed attention for his original statement, again in E major.57 Once things have normalized (and we would be more than ready to continue the movement in the home key), our orator finds it necessary to revisit and emphasize the dominant seventh chord of E major in m. 49. Topically, mm. 50ff represent an embellished, improvised fermata, leading into a renewed, structural “return” of the tonic. (The “adagio” indication in m. 54, so common in Haydn, hints at

Ex. 2.5a. Sonata in E Major, Hob. XVI:22, first movement, opening theme

Ex. 2.5b. Sonata in E Major, Hob. XVI:22, first movement, development and recapitulation

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Ex. 2.5b (continued)

an improvisational context, which has come to a close.) But the tonic had already returned at the beginning of the recapitulation—so the fermata comes too late. It is a displaced version of what should have happened in m. 41. In some way, it makes up for those moments of doubt in mm. 37–40 and the suddenness of the aversion in m. 41. The effect is that of what rhetoricians call a hyperbaton, a dislocation of the regular or grammatical word order, caused by strong feelings, as in the following excerpt from Shakespeare’s Othello: “Yet I’ll not shed her blood, / Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow.”58 The ancient treatise On the Sublime, formerly ascribed to Longinus, praises Demosthenes for his “lavish” use of hyperbaton. The following passage, which itself employs the figure, is also significant for our purpose because it links the use of hyperbaton to the impression of extempore speaking:

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Demosthenes . . . is never tired of the use of this figure in all its applications; the effect of vehemence which he produces by transposition is great, and also that of speaking on the call of the moment; besides all this he draws his hearers with him to face the hazards of his long Hyperbata. For he often leaves suspended the thought with which he began, and interposes, as though he struck into a train of reasoning foreign to it and dissimilar, matter which he rolls upon other matter, all drawn from some source outside, till he strikes his hearer with fear that an entire collapse of the sentence will follow, and forces him by mere vehemence to share the risk with the speaker: then, when you least expect, after a long interval, he makes good the thought which has so long been owing, and works in his own way to a happy conclusion: making the whole a great deal more impressive by the very hazard and imminence of failure which goes with his Hyperbata. (Emphasis mine.)59

This critical description combines hyperbaton with the related figure of suspensio, the leaving of one’s audience in suspense. And that is exactly what Haydn does in mm. 61–66. What could have been said in one measure is spread out over six, not only stirring an emotional response as the figure develops (increased by the rhythmic dislocation of both hands and the left hand’s insistent octaves) but also heightening the sense of relief as the dominant seventh chord enters once again in m. 67, stronger than ever, and this time announcing the end of the movement. Haydn’s tight grip on the beginning of the sonata contrasts sharply with his perceived loss of control in the development and recapitulation. Such a contrast surely has affective implications for performance. Can I pull off such a drastic shift? When playing the repeat of the second half (i.e., development and recapitulation), do I jeopardize my listener’s faith in my ethos as an orator if I appear to be out of control for too long? Hearing Haydn’s rhetorical figures twice in exactly the same way, listeners may better recognize them, but in performing them this way, will I be allowing the composer’s craft to get in the way of the performer’s effect? (“Longinus” is well-known for saying that “a figure is best when the fact that it is a figure is concealed.”)60 Such questions confront any performer preparing to present a formal delivery of this sonata. In my own performance, I feel the need to make use of those four rhetorical figures—dubitatio, aversio, hyperbaton, and suspensio—and make them more effective by not repeating them. On the contrary, I regard them as ornamentation in their own right. Rhetorical figures, after all, are materi-

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alizations of the virtue ornatus (ornament), in the best sense of the word: the Latin ornamentum can mean “equipment or accoutrements, a soldier’s gear or weapons.”61 Following the general guideline for performers that “variants should be applied only after the simple melody has been heard, otherwise the listener cannot know that they are variants,” I play a relatively unadorned version first, treating Haydn’s as the adorned one.62 Now we have entered into the highly speculative realm of musical oratory. Not that he would have had many clients (for the reasons described above), but if Haydn had directed his opus of keyboard sonatas à l’usage de l’orateur musical, he might have included the following warning and guidelines: AVERTISSEMENT: In the first movement of the Sonata in E, especially in the development and recapitulation, I have provided you with a varied repeat that, due to its clear ornamentation, and particularly its use of strong rhetorical figures of thought, will not fail to have its impact on your listener. But I leave it in your expert hands to reconstruct, so to speak, a somewhat more reserved first run-through of this portion of my composition. The repeat (as printed) will be all the more effective for it. For the first time around, I suggest the following interventions (which, of course, you may adapt to your own judgment): 1. do not forcibly break away from A major (m. 33) to G ♯ minor (in which key you pretend to be at a loss) but, using similar melodic figures as I did, build a more conventional and secure progression toward the dominant of home key E; 2. this becomes your usual pre-recapitulatory fermata, shifting the present dominant seventh (m. 50), which (as you will have noticed) I have displaced for emphatic reasons, back to where it “belongs”; improvise a transition [Eingang] to the recapitulated theme (you may wish to use the corresponding moments from Sonatas in F Major [No. 23] and A Major [No. 26] of this opus as your model); 3. adjust the transition from the first to the second group accordingly (mm. 48–54), since there’s no longer any need to revisit our home-key dominant seventh: connect straight from the tonic at the end of the first group (m. 48; compare with the parallel moment in the exposition) to the beginning of the second group, also in the home key (upbeat to m. 55); improvise an Eingang if you feel this is needed;

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4. finally, take out the suspensio that I added in mm. 62–66 and connect m. 61 straight with m. 67 (if in doubt, check the exposition for reference).

The rhetorical advantage of playing an unadorned version first, with Haydn’s adorned version in the repeat, is twofold. Not only can I impress my audience with my skills to speak extempore (ex tempore dicendi facultas, which according to Quintilian is “the fruit of lengthy practice”),63 but I also create for myself an enormous dispositional advantage for the delivery of the sonata as a whole: after my narration, that is, the elaborate exposé of my version of the facts, my audience is not exhausted and ready for further proofs, possible refutation of contrary proofs, and my eventual conclusion in the two movements to come—a pensive andante and a minuet-finale. Through carefully written out varied reprises, the final movement steadily progresses to a peroratio, the last varied reprise of the minuet, which combines emotion—chromatic language reminiscent of the doubts and meanderings in the first movement (y)—and reason—the delivery of the final chords recapturing the orator’s confident tone at the outset of his oration (x). Haydn’s Sonatas as Published Examples of Declamations

The practice of a repeated narration existed as part of declamatio, as a student exercise or showcase for a skilled orator delivering an extempore speech on a randomly assigned theme. Within this improvised speech, the part after the opening statement, the narratio, was sometimes presented in two versions: the “first narratio observes the virtue of brevitas (brevity), while the repetita narratio celebrates the virtue of ornatus (ornament) and brings emotions into play.”64 Although this repeated narration is known in actual oratorical practice, Quintilian advises against a too obvious use of it and never “in such a way as to repeat the whole sequence of events.” His own declamations do demonstrate a more sophisticated use, but the underlying principle of switching from a strictly narrative style (using short, clear, affirmative sentences) to a more passionate one (with exclamations and questions engaging with the facts in a subjective manner) permeates the narrations of all of them. In his Case of the Beached Corpse, for instance, a pleading father switches from a narrating tone (“To resume, my son sailed through rough seas, past the roaring coasts, and foaming rocks”) to a much more ornamented style, as in the following apostrophe in invocation of the gods: “I call on you, the immortal gods, the guardians of the heavens, etc.”65

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I believe that the same pendulum between brevitas and ornatus, between fact and interpretation, between a well-prepared text and an extempore departure from it, would have swung in the delivery of any eighteenth-century keyboard sonata. What then about Haydn’s scores? In chapter 1 we observed a transformation from the sonatas of the 1750s, ’60s, and early ’70s, which circulated in handwritten copies and were primarily intended for use by students or by Haydn himself, to those published for a wider market in the 1770s and ’80s. In the earlier group the written text still allowed for new or different ornaments, invited the performer (typically by way of a fermata) to improvise a cadenza, and offered inexhaustible options for varied reprises. The latter group increasingly incorporated these improvisations in the text itself—actio and elocutio, previously separated, beginning to cohabit the same printed medium. In this transformation the “Nicolaus Esterházy” Sonatas of 1774 constitute a clear turning point. The example just given—the development and recapitulation in No. 22—is one of many in this set of Haydn trying “to get it right” on the typeset plates, to show his mastery—from invention all the way to delivery—at the very first occurrence of certain ideas, repeat sign or not. The performer—anonymous, and far removed from the master’s physical presence—is no longer entrusted with a template, to be elaborated on in performance, but is immediately shown the elaboration of the template, performed by the master who, in his eagerness to please and impress, skips a crucial stage in delivery, that of brevitas. Wilfried Stroh has argued that Cicero’s published speeches should be seen as exempla, “model pieces of rhetoric, not so much intended for the general public as more specifically for the studying youth, in other words: for rhetorical education.”66 Similarly, I propose to view Haydn’s published sonatas as models of music-oratorical declamation, aimed specifically at the growing market of female amateur players in Vienna and abroad. Like Cicero, who edited his orations after their actual delivery to incorporate extempore responses to unexpected twists and turns in the cases at hand, along the way polishing his style or making individual arguments stronger (turning, in Stroh’s words, an “oration actually delivered” into one “that could have been delivered”), Haydn, from 1774 onward, strove to offer his target users a complete package, including those aspects that characterize the delivery by a master such as himself, upgrading “real” circumstances to “ideal” ones. In this light, we should reassess the yearning that Haydn expressed to Frau von Genzinger that he deeply wished he could play the sonata to her “a

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few times” (ein baarmahl [sic]). What would he have played? Looking at the score of the first movement, we are struck by two particular “features”: an elaborate Eingang before the recapitulation and an unusual coda at the end. The presence itself of the former, a rather standard extempore moment in delivery, is not exceptional, but its meticulous notation is: Haydn’s improvisation must have become the less random for it. The latter, an extended coda within the boundaries of a repeat in a first movement sonata form, is unique in Haydn’s keyboard sonatas. Assuming that Haydn would have played the whole sonata twice (the minimum suggested by “a few times”), would he have played these features literally the same way all four times, two consecutive times for each run-through? In my own performance I deliberately do not play the same Eingang twice and omit the coda the first time around, leaving it for the “real” end at the repeat. Haydn, I believe, would have endorsed these decisions. But imagine him performing the music for the first time for Frau von Genzinger as she looked over his shoulder. Haydn’s own words suggest, if only casually, that the sooner Genzinger became familiar with his new sonata, the better. Why not familiarize her with the one, “ideal” version, as Haydn wrote it? Why, as she turns back his pages, would he even make her aware of the oratorical pitfall of repeating a transition, a conclusion, an especially strong figure of thought? Surely she will perform the piece herself again and again, and, one would have hoped, more than just a few times. Haydn’s “Genzinger” Sonata, then, is not designed for one special performance in place and time, like a concerto, a mass, or the “Applausus” Cantata; it is an oration written not “how it was delivered” nor “how it could have been delivered,” but “to be delivered,” enjoyed, and admired over and over again, twice, four times, six times. Here our analogy with Cicero relaxes. The aspiring orator’s Carnegie Hall was not a fantasy; it was tough reality. Studying a model and delivering it as if it were written by himself was part of his well-rounded education, which revolved around the three pillars of theory (ars), imitation (imitatio), and practice (exercitatio).67 Imitation showed theory at work, and through the practice of both, the student became an orator, himself ready for a career at one of the Roman courts or in politics. But for the female performer of Haydn’s sonatas there was no theory to study or to practice. There was only imitation. The latter could be practiced, but only to perfect the imitation itself. Some notable exceptions aside (such as Marianne Martines or Charlotte von Greiner),68 eighteenth-century women remained excluded from the serious study of music theory and composition in the same way that they were discouraged from learning Latin and rhetoric. The role of education was “to

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maintain the social order that rested upon it.”69 Why teach oratory if there is no opportunity for public speaking? Nonetheless, teaching oratory appears to be exactly what Haydn does in his published keyboard sonatas. Here, more than in any other genre, he demonstrates to his female student what it takes to address an audience, how to exploit listeners’ expectations of form (along the way instilling in them what those expectations are), how to apply rhetorical figures effectively, and how to “improvise” a transition between movements. Playing a concerto in the theater may have been far beyond her imagining, but to practice a Haydn sonata at home and possibly even perform it in the more public context of a salon gathering must have empowered her—not only because the “exercise” would render her more knowledgeable, making her a better listener of others, but also because she herself is offered the opportunity to present herself as a professional musical orator. Unlike the rhetorician’s male pupil, however, who, under the watchful eye of his teacher, made the case that Agamemnon should sacrifice his daughter Iphigenia or defended the blind son against his stepmother’s accusation of parricide,70 her training is not geared toward inventing thoughts or words, only in reproducing them. She may be offered a glimpse into the world of the male professional musical orator, on occasion even acting like one, but she will never become one herself. She is a character—the only one—in the long prosopopoeia that Haydn has cast her in, and it is his thoughts, words, voice, and gestures that she adopts. His profile embossed on the printed page, Haydn remains the undisputed master, imitable at best, but unattainable. In a subtle way, one of Haydn’s letters to his business partner, Artaria, reveals the unbridgeable gap between him and his female performers. Agreeing to dedicate the opus (Hob. XVI:35–39, 20 [1780]) to the sisters Katharina and Marianna von Auenbrugger, he proclaimed, in what amounts to his strongest written endorsement of any female performer, “their manner of performance [spielarth] and genuine insight in composition [Tonkunst] equal to those of the greatest masters” (emphasis mine).71 The daughters of the respected scholar and physician Leopold von Auenbrugger had studied counterpoint with no less an authority than Salieri; Marianna’s own keyboard sonata was published by Artaria a few years later (in 1782–83). Yet Haydn stopped conspicuously short of calling them masters in their own right. Surely it was not merely their youth—Katharina was twenty-five and Marianna, twenty-one—that kept him from doing so. “Both deserve to be known in all of Europe through the press (durch offentliche [sic] Blätter),” he continued in his letter, significantly addressed to a fellow male professional contact. Their reputation was

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linked to his, and not the other way around. Self-fashioning—a motive considered increasingly relevant in Cicero scholarship72—was clearly also on Haydn’s mind. He may have paid lip service to the sisters (“the approval of the Demoiselles von Auenbrugger is the most important to me”), but his real concern was with the critics—the male and professional ones. He spent twothirds of the letter seeking to forestall their objections, urging his publisher to print an extraordinary avertissement, which inspired my own (admittedly slightly anachronistic) avertissement to the “Esterházy” Sonatas above and which will be the point of departure for chapter 5. In his letters and published scores we’ve observed Haydn grow increasingly aware of his public persona as composer, a role that in its historical context wore the robes of an orator. And yet a clear image of Haydn as orator still eludes us. What exactly did he mean when he said that “a master must see to his own rights”? In his keyboard sonatas, Haydn’s finger was clearly on the pulse of changing realities: of a growing market of performers who were not and did not wish to be composers or, given the gender bias of the times, were de facto excluded from that activity; and of performers who were becoming increasingly professional, illustrated by the two Grand Sonatas, in C Major, Hob. XVI:50, and in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52, for the concert pianist Theresa Jansen in London. On the issue of repeats, scholarship has pointed to a gradual shift from a mid-eighteenth century rococo desire for symmetry (by which each of the two halves of a sonata form must be repeated for reasons of balance) to a nineteenth-century model of organicism (revealed in composers’ collective decision more and more often to omit the second repeat sign of a sonata).73 It is true that, in the first movement of his last “big” concert sonata, No. 52, Haydn omits the second repeat sign, and that the first movement of the chamber sonata No. 51 in D major (for Mrs. Park) is through-composed altogether, without repeat signs.74 But these trends, I suggest, reflect not so much a change in conceptual framework as a change in interaction between composer and performer, coupled with the emergence of the new medium of publishing, and, ultimately, the dying out of a rhetorical tradition. In this rhetorical tradition, delivery had always constituted the crowning stage in a continuous, multiphase process. Returning to Grétry’s sneer against the conventional repeat in the conventional sonata, written in postrevolutionary Paris, one might expect him to do away with them altogether, both sonata and repeat. Surprisingly, he does not, but proposes the following solution to the composer: “The first point of a sonata . . . can have some very characteristic traits; and after resting on the dominant, who can keep one from taking up these same traits,

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carried out differently and varied in their direction, their melody and their harmony? It would be, if one may say so, like bringing in proofs for what one has done first. It would be to follow the [course of ] nature.”75 In a footnote he expresses his hope that these particular comments would fall into the hands of “Haydn, that man par excellence. What novelties would his inexhaustible genius still be capable of introducing to that most ungrateful of all genres of composition, if only he applies himself to it!”76 We do not know if Haydn actually read citoyen Grétry’s comments. If he did, he must have dismissed such pseudo-revolutionary talk as naive. Back in Austria, Werigand Rettensteiner, a priest and good friend of Haydn’s brother Michael, wrote in his score of Sonatas Nos. 40–42: “The following 3 sonatas were given to me as a present by Herr Joseph Haydn at Esterhasz on June 3rd 1785 during an entertaining, hour-long visit, and they were performed by him.”77 This note, in contrast to Grétry’s verbose missive, is rather factual and dry. Still, we are left to wonder: which was the greater gift, the score itself or Haydn’s performance of it?

Bernardon hatte als burlesker Schauspieler in der That unterscheidende Fähigkeit, und alle seine Nachahmer sind noch zu kurz gefallen. As a burlesque actor, Bernardon indeed had superior skill, and all his imitators have come up short. J OS E P H VO N S O N N E N F E LS (1768–69/1884), 316



CHAPTER 3



Short Octaves müssen sein!

The Viennese Hanswurst and His Comical Travel Reports from Salzburg to Different Countries is the title of the tongue-in-cheek autobiography of Joseph Stranitzky, the creator of the first Hanswurst (“Jack Sausage”), who was to embody the good-for-nothing stock character of the underdog on the Viennese comical stage for more than half a century. In 1712 the real Stranitzky, while working as a registered dentist on the side, exchanged his life as a wandering comic actor for a permanent home in Vienna, obtaining a lease of the Stadttheater am Kärntnertor for exclusive use by his company. He was succeeded by Gottfried Prehauser, who also inherited the copyright over the “autobiography,” which Prehauser reissued under his own name in the 1760s, at a time when Haydn could have known it.1 The book opens with Hanswurst’s “vacation-petitioning speech to his Salzburg farmer-employer Riepel.” Self-pity combines with hyperbole as Hanswurst strings together a long line of petty arguments: “Shall I say it? / I may just as well sadly tell you: / In our Salzburg land I do not have / a fortunate hand for Kraut- and Sauschneiden / however I lay down or turn the animal / everything just croaks under my hands / besides it always rains here / water just keeps pouring in my shoes / and there are plenty of Krautschnei77

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der / hardly ten come back home / and already forty take their place.”2 Riepel responds by recalling the honor of the guild of Krautschneider (“herb cutters”), which is “widely praised for its zeal in the art throughout the whole of Germany.” He then implores Hanswurst to be aware of the dangers of presenting himself as a Sauschneider (“pig cutter”) at the door of a foreign household, since, according to the Annals of the Guild, chapter 17, on the Killing of Pigs (Kunst-Buch am 17. Capitl von Sau-tödten), “Jews and Turks don’t eat pork.” “But,” Riepel asks, “my dear Wurstl, if you still want to leave, which country would you go to?” And Hanswurst replies: My journey takes me on distant roads / O Riepel, you’ll be hard-pressed to understand / because, first, I take the shortest road from Salzburg to Moscow / then straight on to Tyrol / from Tyrol to Sweden / from Sweden to Styria / from Styria to Swabia / after I’ve arrived in Swabia / I have Croatia within hand’s reach / then I take a left / and have Holland pretty close by / from Holland I go to Westphalen / from Westphalen it’s always flat toward Italy / from there I reach Bohemia and Turkey / finally I’ll make it to Vienna in Austria / all this shouldn’t take longer than one day.3

The mapping of his route—“all this shouldn’t take more than one day”— anticipates the loose episodic structure of the novel, which, after the introduction, consists of twelve unnumbered sections narrated in the first person by Hanswurst, with each section given a descriptive title such as “Hanns Wurst recounts his departure from Salzburg, as well as a ridiculous assault on a voyager, so as to arrive in Moscow all the more comfortably,” or “Hanns Wurst arrives in Tyrol from Moscow and recounts the adventures that he encounters over there.” Finally, after summarizing what has happened to him in the ten countries along the way, “Hanns Wurst arrives in Vienna, stumbles upon the comedy theater, seeks service, is accepted by the troupe as a peasant, and concludes his journey.” Clearly, this is absurdist humor, a fact I should have appreciated before declaiming an extended excerpt from one of the chapters (“Yet again Hanswurst embarks on a hopeless journey in Swabia, and what happens to him, is explained in detail”) for an unsuspecting audience of academics.4 Losing my composure, I had to scramble to make it to the end. The subject matter (snails to be picked and pricked out of their little houses, crawling alive out of one’s stomach; the unlikely hero—a jack-of-all-trades—and his angry employer) and the style (a continuous series of punch lines, inviting frequent laughter) are the ingredients of slapstick comedy, with no sense whatsoever,

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or, more to the point, with only the appearance of sense. One would like to believe it: the telling sounds so real, provided, of course, the teller manages it with a straight face. Try it yourself, or follow along with a narration in Austrian-dialect rhyme on the website: After I thus decided, I proceeded / and met a farmer at the market place / he took me to his house / and asked me about everything / and I told him everything / that I go by “the Salzburg Wurstl” / and that I’m famous on water and land for my almighty travels / my Wurstl / the farmer spoke / here you’ll find only bad things / you won’t like it with me / because there’s nothing but misery in our country / everywhere children and so little bread / I just lost (I must sadly complain to you) a lawsuit / that has discharged forty snails / in this manner it is impossible to earn one’s living. / After he finished saying this / he led me into a large room / which was filled in all corners with snails / snails in the front and snails in the back / there was almost no end to them / there I was to sit / and pick all the time / this work annoyed me so much / that I would have preferred to shoot sable in Moscow / because there at least I was in open air / but here I sat in a dark vault. / One time my farmer wasn’t home / and the noble sun shone brightly with its piercing rays / so around noon I took those snails out to our garden / which was well enclosed all around / and I spent my time picking those Swabian oysters / but unfortunately I fell asleep during this work / and didn’t wake for two hours / when I finally did, I noticed my true misery / the snails I had picked out in a week / had holed up again because of the sun / trees and branches were full of these slimy guests / everywhere the fence became alive with snails / what effort did I then not put / into tapping the snails right on their horns / until they slid back in their little houses / I do not want to talk about the rest / how my farmer beat me up / six weeks without bread / not in the evening nor in the morning / that’s too much / I thought / and still more beating / so I stole several dozens of snails / had them cooked down by the maid / pretty sloppily / and I ate them in heaps with great hurry / as if I were driving a postal carriage while urging on those fast horses / to be honest / I never tasted anything better before / but I overloaded myself / because a hundred snails can quickly harm one’s stomach / so I became righteously ill / and lay down on the oven bench / hardly did I begin to doze off / than those snails crawled out of my mouth again / on the bench and on the staircase / they stuck everywhere / into this spectacle came my master the farmer / well, fella! he says / now I’ve caught you / from what barrel did you fish these snails away from me? /

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I’ll get you, you rascal / [to make up] for this snail-picking / you’ll bind brooms for me / there I had to sit and sweat again / binding 25,000 brooms in a day / that was unbearable torture / those thick twigs totally cut my hands / no way, no Sir! / with time I would have left Swabia with no hands at all / so I left Oberland altogether / embarked on new roads / and moved slowly and quietly toward the chicken trade in Croatia.

From 1765 Haydn left us a “capriccio” for solo keyboard entitled Acht Sauschneider müssen seyn, or “It takes eight pig cutters.” Fig. 3.1 shows the title page of Haydn’s manuscript with both the date and the designation marked in his hand. This extraordinary piece has captured the attention of all modern-day authors on Haydn’s keyboard music, who invariably stress its forward-looking features. Ulrich Leisinger writes that “with 368 bars, the capriccio shatters anything that previously existed in Haydn’s keyboard oeuvre” and adds that “the compositional achievement gains all the more significance if one realizes that this extensive work sprang forth from a single folk

Fig. 3.1. Title page of Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, autograph. From a copy in the Gisella Selden-Goth Collection: Music Division, Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

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tune-like theme.”5 A. Peter Brown calls the capriccio a “watershed,” no less, “in the history of keyboard music, not only for its forward-looking harmonic language but also for its effective use of sonorities.”6 László Somfai similarly considers it a “turning point in Haydn’s composition of keyboard music,” pointing to a “way forward” that was “partly illuminated by the writings of C. P. E. Bach.” Brown and Somfai share this explicit association with Emanuel Bach, the former proposing a connection with his teachings on free fantasy, the latter with his rondo form.7 The turning point that Somfai observes is away from the early “divertimento and partita sonatas” to a period of “inner workshop experimentation,” paving the way to his “mature piano music” and true “contribution to the Classical style in this genre.” Had Haydn continued in the previous style, “no doubt he could have composed a number of very pleasant and fluent works that would have surpassed those composed by Wagenseil in Vienna.”8 But Haydn had different ambitions. Departing from the typical historiography of a repertoire in which discoveries of “turning points” and “new directions” are declared and elaborated upon, I suggest taking a more conservative, though hopefully no less exciting approach. The Capriccio, rather than “looking forward,” reconnects with Haydn’s erstwhile activities in the 1750s as a theatrical collaborator with the comic genius Johann Joseph Kurz some ten years earlier. Stranitzky’s godchild, Kurz was too young to be chosen as the successor-Hanswurst (Stranitzky died in 1726, when Kurz was barely twelve), but, adopting the stage name of Bernardon, he nonetheless grew up to become a formidable competitor for the official Hanswurst, Gottfried Prehauser, with whom Bernardon eventually shared the stage.9 The roots of the piece, I suggest, are thus quintessential Viennese or Austrian. Although Haydn may have acknowledged that “whoever knows me well will find that I have Emanuel Bach much to thank for,”10 he had no need to look north for any guidance in the Capriccio’s fantastic style and execution. Furthermore, while keyboard-inspired “effects” are very much at its core, the true context of the Capriccio is not the salon or the harpsichord lesson, but the comic stage or the rehearsal room. The Capriccio is an exercise in musical pantomime, and the qualifier “musical” is just that: the emphasis remains on “pantomime.” The keyboardist himself is also the actor: Haydn and Bernardon are melded in one keyboard-playing persona. Nor is the Capriccio unique in Haydn’s keyboard output. “During a well-humored hour” in 1789, perhaps nostalgic for the old days, Haydn composed the C Major Fantasy, Hob. XVII:4, which provides an intriguing postscript to our story. As in chapter 2, improvisation is a keyword here—not, however, be-

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cause of the improvisational challenges that a finished script poses to the performer, but in a “pre-score” or “scoreless” context—a context that has traditionally been stressed more for Mozart and his phenomenal ability to improvise variations on any given theme than for Haydn.11 But to evoke comic theater and the world of Bernardon or Hanswurst is to evoke extempore performance, or, to use the contemporary Austrian term, acting or playing aus dem Stegreif: “Off-the-cuff allusions to recent events, the use of vulgar gestures and sexual innuendo to spice up routines, bantering back and forth with the audience—such improvisation was standard at the Kärtnertor.”12 The Capriccio is a reflection of what Haydn might have improvised, a rambunctious Bernardon—real or imagined—urging him on. This is improvisation at its purest—or rawest. It is no surprise that, in reaction to Bernardon’s theatrical productions, the Habsburg Empire issued a series of decrees aimed at censoring the vulgarity of improvised comedy.13 In the politics of music publishing, I will contend that the 1788 print of Haydn’s “Sauschneider” Capriccio carried with it a degree of censorship as well. To draw such a conclusion, we must look at the eighteenth-century Viennese harpsichord, with its characteristic “short octave”; the text of the Sauschneider song, not just as a tune, but also as a narrative that needs to be performed or pantomimed; Hanswurst, the comic figure par excellence, with his signature costume of a Salzburg Sauschneider; and, finally, Haydn’s contacts with Bernardon, recounted with great fondness by the elder composer to his biographers Griesinger and Dies. None of these factors is unknown in the literature,14 but it is the eye-opening feature of the Viennese short octave that unlocks and draws them together. The Viennese Short Octave

Ever since Horst Walter’s pair of essays (1970 and 1972) on Haydn’s keyboards, scholars have been aware that three of Haydn’s solo keyboard pieces can be played only on a keyboard with a “short octave” of some sort: the E Minor Sonata, Hob. XVI:47, the A Major Variations, Hob. XVII:2, and our “Sauschneider” Capriccio, Hob. XVII:1. This keyboard has generally been assumed to be a harpsichord. Sonja Gerlach, in her 2006 JHW edition of the Klavierstücke, has expanded our awareness to include Haydn’s only four-hand keyboard work, the Divertimento “Il maestro e lo scolare,” Hob. XVIIa:1. Each work calls for stretches in the left hand that are otherwise unplayable. The sense that these four works form a unique group has been so strong

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that the only certain date, that of 1765 for Hob. XVII:1 (as marked on the autograph), has become a terminus ad quem for the other three. Together they have been considered testimonials of Haydn’s access to “a very specific or rare instrument such as one finds occasionally in a museum as a curiosity.”15 And, so the reasoning continues, if the instrument was indeed “specific,” then Haydn’s “writing for it” would have been isolated in time too. Ironically, it has taken the efforts of a curator at a museum, Alfons Huber, to put the eighteenth-century Austrian harpsichord, with its idiomatic Viennese “multiple-broken octave,” back on the map, most significantly through a 1997 symposium and the subsequent publication in 2001 of a lavish volume of essays and photographs.16 Huber lists nine extant instruments—one spinet, seven harpsichords, and one clavichord—with the short octave, all of them dated between the late seventeenth century and 1755. Richard Maunder, who selected a photo of the last, a 1755 Johann Leydecker harpsichord, for the cover of his influential 1998 book, describes seven extant harpsichords by Austrian or Bohemian makers, all but one of which have the “short octave” (to revert to the more colloquial term). The exception is a Mathias Blum of 1778, which has a full chromatic five-octave keyboard. There are no extant fortepianos with the short octave, for the simple reason that none predate 1780 or so, when short octaves would have become old-fashioned and rare. Yet, as late as 1793, an advertisement was printed in Vienna for “a clavichord with French and one with broken keyboard” (ein Clavier mit französischen, und eines mit gebrochenen Manuale),17 so the memory of them would still have been alive. Significantly, the ad contrasts “French” (for chromatic, originally the “exotic” kind) with “broken.” In earlier Viennese advertisements, the “normal” keyboard, that is, one not specified as “French,” would have been the one with the broken octave. All in all, according to the current scholarly consensus, the multiple–broken octave was the norm in Austria and Bohemia from before 1700 all the way to 1770 “and beyond.”18 For a proper musician’s perspective, it may be worth recalling a comment made by Mozart in a portion of his famous letter of October 17, 1777, from the German town of Augsburg to his father in Austrian Salzburg. This is the letter that is so often quoted for Mozart’s comments on the fortepianos by Johann Andreas Stein.19 But toward the end of the letter, in a less familiar part, Wolfgang relates his visit to a church to check out one of Stein’s organs. It had taken some convincing on Mozart’s part, given Stein’s skepticism: “What? A man like yourself, such a great keyboardist [Clavierist] wants to play on an instrument where there’s no douceur, no expression, no piano, nor forte, but which is always the same?” Nonetheless, they did go to the

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church, and Mozart confides to his father that once seated at the instrument, something threw him off : “At first the pedal seemed a bit strange to me because it wasn’t broken. It started with C, then D, E, in one row. With us, though, D and E are above, as E 𝅗𝅥 and F ♯ here. But I soon got the hang of it.”20 Mozart had to get used to what we consider “normal.” Moreover, the “broken” features that he describes—with D and E as “sharp” keys—match the basic constellation of the Viennese short octave.21 Examining the Viennese short octave in closer detail (plate 1), we see two views: an overhead drawing as well as an actual photograph that captures a player’s perspective. Available keys for the lowest octave from F to FF in fact span the distance of a fourth. Represented are the more “important” diatonic bass notes C, GG, and AA as well as both BB and BB 𝅗𝅥 (the latter as the third part of a lower rather than upper key). The remaining diatonic D and E have been moved up, higher than the upper-demarcation F, and share the shorter part of an upper key with F ♯ and G ♯, respectively. There is no E 𝅗𝅥, AA 𝅗𝅥, D 𝅗𝅥, or GG 𝅗𝅥 (in decreasing order within the circle of fifths). To develop a topographical feel for the keys, imagine playing F ♯ and G ♯ as octaves with their higher counterparts. Though you would have to approach them “deep” in the keyboard, they can still be played with the “regular” fingering of 1–5 (in descending order). For most other octaves, however, the physical feeling becomes that of a sixth. Most comfortable are e–E and d–D, with an obvious fingering of 1–4. Less comfortable is B 𝅗𝅥–BB 𝅗𝅥, with a preferred fingering (though less obvious) of 2–5. By far most comfortable is c–C, where a mental reconceptualizing of the octave as a physical sixth seems least necessary, the span of natural keys under the left hand instead feeling like a miniature octave, regularly fingerable by 1–5. (Imagine a “short cut” from C to F, then continuing on over G, A, and B to c.) Tricky again are B–BB and A–AA which in reality are fifths, to be fingered either by 2–5 or 1–5. AA requires more precision than BB, since it is the middle part of a triple-broken key. The twist in the lower part of one’s hand confuses the sensation of a fifth, adding a “deep” dimension to one’s perception of space: do we feel a straight-line fifth or some strangely outward-curving “sixth” to accommodate the presence of a BB, somewhere between AA and C? Contrastingly anchored and firmly down-to-earth are G–GG and F–FF, unambiguously to be played by 2–5. Feeling like fourths, they project the power of an octave, while keeping the thumb available for a possible tenth. This impulse to view the Viennese short octave “top down,” that is, from the familiar topography of the “higher than F” register down to those extra notes “down below,” is accompanied, not coincidentally, by a focus on oc-

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taves. Regardless of the idiomatic Viennese version, the historical origins of a short octave must have been a builder’s solution to a practical problem: how to allow more strings to be plucked within the confines of an existing construction or case.22 A musician’s desire to have more bass would naturally show itself in increased “double bass” support through exactly those octaves that we have been describing. Perusal of the early to mid-eighteenth-century Viennese repertoire by Johann Joseph Fux and his two famous pupils Gottlieb Muffat and Georg Christoph Wagenseil (to name three non-Haydn composers that I have actually played and “felt”) reveals well-chosen moments that feature broken keys. In ex. 3.1a, at the end of a Wagenseil minuet, bass joins tenor to mark a final cadence. (In this and the following examples, the “extraordinary” notes, i.e., those that require special short-octave treatment, have been put in little squares.) These low octaves—fingered most comfortably as 1–4 (for the D octave) and 2–5 (for the lowest G octave)—lend appropriate gravity to the final chords of the piece. For the most part—and my observation is based on his two sets of Six Harpsichord Divertimentos, op. 1 (1753) and op. 2 (1755)—Wagenseil’s venturing into the short octave revolves around these kinds of octaves at particularly significant moments, either gestural or structural. This is true also for ex. 3.1b, where a single tonic E is arrived at from its mediant above, which on a short octave corresponds to the peculiar step backward from the long and “deep” key of G ♯ to its short front neighbor E. There’s a discrepancy here between the notes’ physical position on the keyboard (or “visual space”) and the conditioned perception in Western music theory of E being “lower” than G ♯ (“aural space”). Heightened by the right hand’s regular trajectory of the same pitches, this moment of self-consciousness (which, I suspect, is never quite lost, even after many years of experience on the instrument) is delightfully appropriate just before this final note of a complete movement, deserving of a deliberate isolation in time. (Imagine a short delay before an all the more deliberately timed final note: not too short, not too long—but exactly right.) Thus, the cut key—especially when played with one and the same finger (I would suggest 3, coming from 1 on the fifth above)—does not just inspire but literally forces the keyboardist into accurate timing and articulation. Now compare this with ex. 3.1c. In the closing bar of an andantino section from the same sonata, we see the same shift on the same broken key—B acting as a pivot between G ♯ and E. We are firmly grounded in E, which we have been playing for almost two bars as the lower note of alternating octaves. Earlier we locked into the trochaic pulse of a siciliano (long quarter–

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Ex. 3.1. (a) Georg Christoph Wagenseil, Divertimento Op. 2 No. 2 (WV 53), third movement, mm. 35–end; (b) Wagenseil, Divertimento Op. 2 No. 6 (WV 33), first movement, mm. 89–end; (c) Wagenseil, Divertimento Op. 2 No. 6 (WV 33), third movement, mm. 10–16; (d) Johann Joseph Fux, Suite (“Parthie”) in G Minor (E 117), first movement, mm. 9–10

short eighth). Now, loosely alternating fourth finger with thumb, we enjoy this postcadential moment of relaxation, simplicity, and rest. Then comes m. 16. On a French (or chromatic) keyboard, you would have played the lefthand arpeggio as one overall gesture toward the root, E, fingered by 5. On a Viennese (or short-octave) keyboard, however, your fourth finger temporarily points forward from E to G ♯, then immediately moves back to E, this back-and-forth movement exactly mirroring the siciliano pulse of a quarter note followed by an eighth, into which you are now again as you prepare to resume the theme either in the tonic (the repeat of the A section) or dominant (the continuation to the B section). Gently but firmly, the short octave leads the way to a continued siciliano.

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More subtle still, but similarly exquisite, is m. 4 of Haydn’s E Minor Sonata, Hob. XVI:47 (see ex. 3.2a, which provides the broader context for ex. 1.6, discussed in chapter 1). Right and left hands play in unison. But where the right hand closes off the opening phrase “downward” toward the low repeated E’s (the deepest notes so far), the left hand starts “tiptoeing” from a regular G (for which I use a thumb, to establish a secure anchor point or “good note” on the downbeat) first to the longer part of a broken key just a half step below for the F ♯ (although from the player’s perspective, the sensation of physical direction is “to the front” rather than “to the left”), then one step up again (that is, “to the right” and “retreating backward”) to a shorter key part for E. This complex choreography yields an elegant result. Though playing the same pitches, the left hand’s movement, as if in counterpoint with the right, adds lightness and springiness to what would otherwise be a straight downward inflection. Thus, the left hand (as in the previous Wagenseil example) anticipates the reiteration of the theme, again in siciliano rhythm, in the high register: it provides the physical impetus (“up again”) to the Eingang that the right delivers (the embellished upbeat to the theme), both covering the space from the lowest E to the high b2. (I invite the reader to actively rehearse the described choreography, using plate 1 as a mute keyboard.) The prize for “short octave choreography,” however, would have to go to Variation VI from Haydn’s A Major Variations, Hob. XVII:2 (ex. 3.2b). As the left hand enjoys the “um-pa-pa” of a waltz, it alternates between tonic and dominant, the former locked in one basic position, the latter at its turn alternating between its inversion and its root position. But the movement from A on a short-octave keyboard is twice by single step only: “up” for G ♯ and “down” for E. The third and fourth fingers thus literally become the two feet (right and left respectively) in a swirling four-measure waltz pattern, to physical delight of the player. (All these described choreographies, it should be reminded, may be appreciated as video on the website.) In fact, this whole set of twenty variations—Haydn’s longest—takes on a fascinating new dimension when played on a short-octave keyboard. In Variation X, for example, the unisons on E in m. 164 at first sight do not make sense, hence an editorial ossia version with full octaves in the JHW score (not reproduced here). But it is exactly the contrast between three clumsy octaves on G ♯ in m. 162 and the ease of playing two single Es two bars later that creates rhetorical interest. A downward-pointing index is not just easy: it conveys authority.23 This boost of confidence results in a full exploration of octaves—over the half-cadential point of the two-phrase

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period—in the following Variation XI, chromatically descending thirds in the upper hand providing fitting commentary: this is difficult, risky handtwisting and -turning. On the other side of the spectrum, consider m. 23 from Haydn’s A Major Sonata, Hob. XVI:12 (see ex. 3.2c).24 Imagine playing the low AA with your fifth finger on the middle part of the second-lowest key. You connect with your second finger on the A one octave higher, leaving comfortable room to grab c ♯ with the first. The overall span of your hand is now more or less an octave, almost exactly the same distance of your next hand position (starting on the second eighth note of m. 23) for e–a–c ♯1–e1. Finger pedaling for each of the hand positions is not only possible: it is to be savored. On a chromatic keyboard, m. 23 would have required at least three different hand positions, and it would not have been immediately clear exactly which positions. On a short-octave keyboard, not only are the two positions instantly recognizable by the player, but they also fit comfortably under the hand. Technically speaking, these examples do not require the option of a Viennese short octave. They may be played on a “regular” keyboard, but—and this is the point—not “just as well.” Traditional literature on Haydn, but also more recent literature on the Viennese harpsichord and its repertoire,25 has tended to focus attention on “extraordinary” moments—those spectacularly wide spans that are otherwise impossible to play.26 (Ex. 3.1d, from a Fux suite, is such a case; Haydn’s Variations IX and XX in ex. 3.2b are two more.)27 Such a focus on the extraordinary, however, risks clouding the more typical moments such as the ones we have selected—which reflect a mere handful among countless others—where the relevance of the short octave, from a tactile-performative point of view, may be subtle but real. Sometimes the line between rhetorical purpose and mere reality is very fine indeed. Compare Variation XI (ex. 3.2b) and ex. 3.2d, from the finale of the Sonata in A 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:46. Playing those various octaves in Variation XI complements in a physical sense the intellectual difficulty of the chromaticisms in the right hand. On the other hand, what is the meaning of the strange jump of the E 𝅗𝅥 octave in m. 75 of ex. 3.2d? The result may look “difficult,” but the reason must be pragmatic: there simply was no low E 𝅗𝅥 on Haydn’s harpsichord. Acht Sauschneider müssen sein!

In anticipation of my 2007 recordings, I commissioned Martin Pühringer, a gifted Austrian instrument maker, to construct a replica of the 1755 Johann

Ex. 3.2. (a) Sonata in E Minor, Hob. XVI:47, first movement (Adagio), mm. 1–12; (b) Variations in A Major, Hob. XVII:2: Var. VI, mm. 97–104; Var. IX, mm. 145–148; Var. X, mm. 161–164; Var. XI, mm. 177–184; Var. XX, mm. 321–324; (c) Sonata in A Major, Hob. XVI:12, first movement, mm. 21–24; (d) Sonata in A 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:46, third movement, mm. 72–78

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Ex. 3.2 (continued)

Leydecker harpsichord, presently in Graz. No similar construction project had been executed before: this was to be the first modern-day replica of an eighteenth-century Austrian harpsichord with a multiple broken–octave keyboard. In August 2005 I was about to see it in almost-finished condition for the first time; a few days later I was to play its inaugural concert in the Music Room of Eszterháza (Fertöd, Hungary). In my excitement I had programmed not just one of the traditional short octave pieces, but two: Haydn’s A-Major Variations, Hob. XVII:2, and his “Sauschneider” Capriccio—pieces that, until then, I had never been able to really play without the instrument for which they were written. But while practicing in Pühringer’s workshop, as he was still hammering and sawing away at the instrument, I panicked.28 Fig. 3.2 shows why. We know about octaves actually being sixths, fifths, or fourths. This is no problem for the occasional octave or chord—as

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Fig. 3.2. Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 247–275, Henle score (ed. Sonja Gerlach), with author’s annotations.

in the examples typical of the repertoire discussed above—but it poses a major challenge if, as here, one has to jump down with one’s left hand every two bars, then even every single bar, toward elusive physical shapes “somewhere down below” twenty consecutive times. Annotations in the facsimile of my score reflect my panic in those early moments: fingerings, squares (for

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TABLE 3.1. Twenty consecutive octaves Short-octave (“Viennese”) keyboard Fingering

Interval

Shape

m. 247, F

5–2

fourth

m. 249, F ♯

5–1

m. 251, G

Chromatic (“French”) keyboard Fingering

Interval

Shape

low–low

5–1

octave

low–low

eighth

up/back–up

5–1

octave

up–up

5–2

fourth

low/front–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 252, E

4–1

sixth

up/front–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 253, F

5–2

fourth

low–low/front

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 254, D

4–1

sixth

up/front–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 255, B

4–1

fifth

low/back–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 256, C

5–1

fifth

low/front–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 257, A

5–2

fifth

low/middle–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 258, B

4–1

fifth

low/back–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 259, E

4–1

sixth

up/front–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 260, A

5–2

fifth

low/middle–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 261, D

4–1

sixth

up/front–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 262, G

5–2

fourth

low/front–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 263, E

4–1

sixth

up/front–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 263, A

5–2

fifth

low/middle–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 264, D

4–1

sixth

up/front–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 264, C

5–1

fifth

low/front–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 265, B

4–1

fifth

low/back–low

5–1

octave

low–low

m. 265, G

5–2

fourth

low/front–low

5–1

octave

low–low

any broken-key part) and arrow marks (to the back or to the front the key) intending to compensate for utter confusion. Table 3.1 lists the octaves and their fingerings, interval spans, and shapes (“low” and “up” for diatonic and chromatic, or “white” and “black” keys; “front,” “middle,” and “back” referring to the specific location on the key). Finding regularity seemed impossible. To emphasize this point, the table includes a comparison with a chromatic or French keyboard where the only slightly inconsistent moment is the

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F ♯ octave, played on upper keys, but with the same fingering and exactly the same hand shape. On the short-octave or Viennese keyboard, in contrast, we are hard pressed to find any regularity at all. From a physical-technical point of view, apart perhaps from octaves E and D—intriguingly, three times in this order, and twice with A in between—“unpredictability” seems the name of the game. (Octaves D and E are printed in bold in table 3.1. A videoperformance of me stumbling my way through the passage, as I did back then, may be found on the website.) I almost canceled my performance. But then I started to wonder if these difficulties were, in fact, part of the game. What if Haydn was taking a kind of perverse delight in presenting the player with a built-in handicap? (The obvious analogy here is the al rovescio example from chapter 2.) The actor Johann Bergopzoomer, from the school of Bernardon and a very popular tragedian at the Burgtheater, was known to keep a piece of soap in his mouth so as to visibly foam from anger and to have put chickpeas in his shoes in order to limp convincingly onstage as Richard III.29 Perhaps these elusive parts of keys were my chickpeas, and hitting them correctly was meant to be difficult. Resigning myself to being the butt of Haydn’s prank, I stopped fretting over the sounds of “wrong notes” and started looking at the broken parts as physical targets: to hit any of them would be a victory. To bring the audience in on the challenge—and no doubt elicit some sympathy—I disclosed the full “story” during my pre-concert remarks. In 1932 the ethnologist Karl Klier recorded sixteen versions of the “Sauschneider” song from different regions in Austria and in different dialects. Table 3.2 lists their translations. Surprisingly, given Haydn’s title, not one of these versions begin with the actual line “It takes eight Sauschneider.” In fact, only in No. 14 is the word Sauschneider mentioned at all, first as part of an opening question, almost certainly sung by a single reciter (“How many Sauschneider does it take to cut a bull?”), then as a confirmation at the end of the answer by the larger group: “Two in the back, two in the front; two to hold the ears; one puts in the knife: yes, seven Sauschneider it takes!” A Sauschneider or castrator porcorum, also known as Schweinschneider or Viehschneider, was skilled in the art of castration, “cutting” or castrating not only swine but also cattle and horses, both male and female.30 Setting out “to the country” (ins Land) from Lungau (the southeast region of Salzburg Land), a downy white eagle’s feather proudly attached to his hat, a master (Meister) Sauschneider would travel on foot with one, two, or three servants (Knechte) to locations all around the Austrian-Hungarian Habsburg Empire, reaching “Carinthia, Tyrol, Styria, Austria, Bayern, Saxony, Bohemia, Mo-

TABLE 3.2. Sixteen versions of the “Sauschneider” song, as recorded by Karl Klier (1932) 1.

But it takes nine, / To castrate a boar, / Two in front and two in the back, / Two cut and two bind, / And one cashes in [streicht ein], / But nine it does take.

2. It takes eight of them, / To castrate a boar. / Two in front, two in the back, / Two to cut, two to bind. / Yes, eight of them it does take. 3. It takes nine of them, / To castrate a boar. / Two in front, two in the back, / Two to hold, two to bind, / And one makes the cut, / Yes, nine of them it does take. 4. Eight of them it takes, / To castrate a boar. / Two in front, two in the back. / Two to cut, two to bind; / Eight of them it takes. 5. Nine of them it takes, / To castrate a boar: / One makes the cut, / Nine of them it does take. [fine] / Two in front, two in the back, / Two hold, two bind, and [da capo] 6. Yes, four it takes, / To castrate a boar; / Two in front and two in the back, / Two to cut and two to bind; / Yes, four it does take. 7.

Eight of them it takes, / To castrate a boar. / Two in front, two in the back. / Two to cut and two to bind. / Eight of them it takes.

8. Nine of them it takes, / To castrate a boar: / Two in front and two in the back, / Two to hold, two to bind/ And one makes the cut; / Nine of them it takes, / To castrate a boar. 9. To castrate a boar, / It takes nine of them: / Three in the back and three in front, / One below, one above, / And one makes the cut. 10. Nine of them it takes, / To castrate a boar; / Two to lift and two to bind, / Two in front and two in the back, / And one makes the cut, / Yes nine of them it does take, / To castrate a boar. 11. Nine of them it takes, / To castrate a boar; / Two in front and two in the back, / Two hold, two bind, / And one makes the cut. / Yes, nine of them it takes. 12. Nine of them, he says, / It takes, he says, / To castrate, he says, / A boar, he says: / Two in front, he says, / And two in the back, he says, / Two hold him, he says, / And two bind him, he says, / And there’s one, he says, / Who makes the cut, he says, / Nine of them, he says, / It does take! 13. Nine of them it takes, / To castrate a boar, / Two in front and two in the back, / Two lift and two bind, / And one makes the cut, / Nine of them it takes. 14. How many Sauschneider does it take / to castrate a bull? / Two in the back, two in front, / Two hold him by the ears, / One puts in the knife, / Seven Sauschneider it takes. 15. Nine of them it takes, / To castrate a boar. / Two in front and two in the back, / Two to hold and two to bind, / And one makes the cut, / Nine of them it does take! // Eight of them it takes, / To castrate a boar. / Two in front and two in the back, / Two to hold, one to bind, /

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And one makes the cut: / Eight of them it does take! // Seven of them it takes, / To castrate a boar. / Two in front and two in the back, / One to hold and one to bind, / And one makes the cut: / Seven of them it does take! // Six of them it takes, / To castrate a boar. / Two in front and one in the back, / One to hold, one to bind, / And one makes the cut: / Six of them it does take! // Five of them it takes, / To castrate a boar. / One in front and one in the back, / One to hold, one to bind, / And one makes the cut: / Five of them it does take! // Four of them it takes, / To castrate a boar. / One in front and one in the back, / One to hold and bind, / And one makes the cut: / Four of them it does take! // Three of them it takes, / To castrate a boar. / One in front and back, / One to hold and bind, / And one makes the cut: / Three of them it does take! // Two of them it takes, / To castrate a boar. / One in front and back, / He holds and binds, / And one makes the cut: / Two of them it does take! // It really just takes one, / To castrate a boar. / He’s in front and in the back, / He does the holding and binding, / And then he makes the cut: / Yes, one it does take! 16. Twelve of them it takes, / To castrate a little bull [das Stierl]; / The first in front, the second in the back, / The third holds it, the fourth binds. / Yes, twelve of them it takes, / To castrate a little bull. // Twelve of them it takes, / To castrate a little bull; / The fifth cuts it, / The sixth flays it, / The seventh pierces it, / The eighth brings it. / Yes, twelve it takes, / To castrate a little bull. // Twelve of them it takes, / To castrate a little bull; / The ninth nitwits [fritzt], / The tenth makes a loop, / The eleventh sh[its], / The twelfth stinks. / Yes, twelve of them it takes, / To castrate a little bull.

ravia, and Hungary,” and “all the way to the Turkish border.”31 They were known not to travel “by customary road” but took impressive “shortcuts which they don’t easily miss” through meadows and fields, covering up to forty kilometers a day on foot.32 Once the master castrator and his servants arrived at their assigned district (Gau or Gai), they went from house to house, announcing their presence by shouting “Sau-Sau-Sauschneider san da!” (durchschreien), or by posting themselves next to the local church (kirchensteh’n) on an important holiday to take appointments from the farmers. From contemporary reports we know that these Lungauer men (in the 1760s, some four hundred of them) were highly respected for their skill, efficiency, and knowledge. Castrating a hundred or more animals a day for a variety of reasons (increased meat, decreased odor, calmer behavior), they offered additional veterinary advice and care.33 But the signature skill of the Sauschneider was the “cut” or the actual act of either separating ovary from oviduct (for the females) or removing testicles from scrotum (for the males). Bloodless but more painful methods included crushing the spermatic cord or strangulating the scrotum.34 In the sixteen versions of the song, the number of Sauschneider it takes to do the job ranges from a realistic four to a wildly exaggerated twelve. But

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in the large majority of versions the actual cut is made by only one, presumably the Meister Sauschneider. Exceptions are found in versions 1, 2, 4, 6, and 7, where the cutting is merely one activity among several rather than the climax.35 Though these activities would surely have happened more or less simultaneously, the comedy of the overall scene lies in the contrast between how many it takes to immobilize the struggling animal (two in the front, two in the back, two to hold, two to bind: cf. versions 3, 8, 10, 12, 13, and 15) and the “one who makes the cut,” or in the flurry of activity surrounding what is, in the end, a simple and swift operation. All but two versions feature a boar (Saubär). “Removing testicles” obviously stirs one’s imagination more than “separating ovaries.” (The two exceptions feature a bull.) The team’s activities—preventing escape, holding the animal still, binding its legs, making the cut—are generally consistent over all the versions. But the prize for Hanswurstian silliness goes to version 16, in which, following the eleventh Sauschneider, the list of “useful” activities degenerates into “shitting” and “stinking.” (Or would comedy also here be closer to reality than decorum admits?) Fig. 3.3 is an early twentieth-century photograph of a castration, albeit of a sow. Set in Haydn’s Burgenland, at the

Fig. 3.3. Castration of a sow in Burgenland. Photo reproduced from Wirnsperger and Gappmayer (1989), 84, by permission of the Lungauer Landschaftsmuseum.

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moment suprême, we see the master with hat and feather swinging his right hand to his pocket, about to grab his knife, while his assistant, wearing identical clothing but no hat,36 holds the animal’s tightly bound legs in the back and two helpers, presumably workers from the local farm, hold the animal still in the front. Before considering which version Haydn might have worked from, we should address where and how the song would have existed around 1765 or before, if, indeed it did at all. It has been generally assumed that Haydn worked from an existing folk tune and that this Sauschneiderlied was a wellknown Ständelied or “profession’s song” (profession here closely linked to social rank).37 That the young Mozart used the same tune just one year later for his Gallimathias musicum, K. 32, has reinforced this assumption. By logic of association, like the song that represents them, Sauschneider have been presumed to be “funny people” (lustige Leute), in some endearing, selfreferential kind of way.38 Two historical documents, however, give these widely held assumptions an altogether different spin. In his 1811 Most Recent Journey through Austria, Franz Gartori analyzes the character (Volkscharakter) of the Lungauer: “On the whole, someone from Lungau is very strong, well-built, and hard-working, but at the same time obstinate, stubborn, brutish, and rude, without any of the well-headedness, cheerfulness of spirit, and natural mother wit that so favorably characterize the other inhabitants of Salzburg. In this respect Schweinschneider and returning soldiers often make an exception, because they bring home their better education from abroad [aus dem Auslande].”39 Sauschneider were technically “foreigners,” not cheerful by nature, but bringing “better education from abroad,” that is, from the rest of Austria. Coming from the independent ecclesiastical princedom of Salzburg, they had to carry imperial passports indicating their precise travel destination, both on their way out (ins Lande) and on their way back (vom Lande). Nowadays we would call them seasonal migrant workers. But their well-appreciated and well-paid expertise might actually have been an irritant to many Habsburg Austrians. An often cited but typically misunderstood second document, the 1775 imperial “Privilege on the Distribution and Remuneration of Animal Castration” (Patent . . . die Verbreitung und Belohnung der Viehschneidkunst betref[f ]end), was not intended to confirm the traditional rights of the Lungau Sauschneider; on the contrary, by this decree Empress Maria Theresa encouraged her own “devoted subjects” and in particular “every common landowner” to “possess or learn the skill of castrating his cattle himself.”40 Various premiums are promised to masters for accept-

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ing pupils, and to pupils as an incentive to graduate. But the trade should not be learned from the experienced Lungau Sauschneider—who are maligned in the document as “those foreign Viehschneider who extract a considerable sum of money from our state every year”—but from Viehschneider in “our archduchy Styria,” whose “multiyear experience” is made to sound attractive to the local prospective pupil and whose complete names are listed—a meager fourteen of them as opposed to the some four hundred discredited specialist-masters from Lungau.41 But economic retribution—the document speaks in rather unsophisticated terms of “money drainage” (Geldausschleppung)—apparently required some serious cultural reeducating on the part of Her Majesty’s Austrian subjects too. Rather stunningly, the fourth clause reads: We proclaim, fourthly, that Viehschneiden shall in no respect be considered dishonorable but instead looked upon as a praiseworthy profession useful to one’s fellow citizen as well as to the whole fatherland; that anyone who undertakes to disdain or insult his fellow subject for the execution of his skill in the cutting [Viehschnitt] of any kind of domestic animal, apart from a personal apology, will be fined an additional 3 Reichsthaler or according to circumstances will be condemned to a more severe fine or to corporal punishment.42

This imperial decree did not stop a continued tradition of Lungau Sauschneider well into the twentieth century nor, as Klier’s study demonstrates, the continued singing of the Sauschneider song. In Haydn’s hands around 1765, if it existed as a folk song already, it would have embodied a whole array of connotations, from disdain and self-irony to plain old silliness and ridicule. Considering Klier’s many versions of the song, it is noteworthy that Haydn’s corresponds with none in particular. The advantage of starting with many—nine in version 15 or twelve in 16—is to create a version in which, over the course of subsequent verses, the number of Sauschneider either increases or decreases. Typically sung in a group, the constantly adjusting text keeps singers on their toes, inevitable mishaps adding fresh opportunities for hilarity.43 Goebels (1982), A. P. Brown (1986, 13–14), and Wirnsperger and Gappmayer (1989, 75) consider Haydn’s use of eight Sauschneider in the context of just such a Gesellschaftslied (communal song). For their version of the song, Wirnsperger and Gappmayer even draw on the authority of “a [living] Viehschneider originally from Oberweißburg bei St. Michael/Lungau,” the very cradle of Sauschneiderkunst:

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Yes, how many, he says, does it take / to castrate a boar? / Well, eight, he says, it takes / to castrate a boar. / Two in front, two in the back, / two to cut, two to bind, / Indeed, eight, he says, it takes / to castrate a boar. // Well, seven, he says, it takes / to castrate a boar. / Two in front, two in the back, / one holds, one binds, / and one does some cutting at the back. // Well, six, he says, it takes / to castrate a boar. / Two in front, two in the back, / one holds, one binds, / and one does some cutting at the back. // Well, five, he says, it takes / to castrate a boar. / One in front, one in the back, / One holds, one binds, / and one does some cutting at the back. // Well, four, he says, it takes / to castrate a boar. / One in front, one in the back, / one holds and binds, / and one does some cutting at the back. // Well, three, he says, it takes / to castrate a boar. / One holds, one binds, / and one does some cutting at the back. // Well, two, he says, it takes / to castrate a boar. / One captures, holds, and binds, / and one does some cutting at the back. // Today I’m just alone / but must still do the job, / must capture and bind, / have to really push myself. / Today I’m just alone / but must still do the job.44

I reproduce this eight-Sauschneider version here only reluctantly, since it appears to combine Klier’s Nos. 7 (consisting of a single verse with eight) and 15 (nine, decreasing verse by verse to one). In version 15 (see table 3.2) consider how seamlessly the number decreases from nine all the way down to one: “Two in front, two in the back, two to hold, two to bind, and one makes the cut” (for a total of nine) becomes “Two in front, two in the back, two to hold, one to bind, and one makes the cut” (for a total of eight); then, gradually, each of the twos decreases to one. When four are remaining (i.e., one number less than the five activities), it is the activities that are gradually combined (“one to hold and bind”) until only one person ends up doing everything. In the decreasing-eight version, however, the number of activities (four plus one) is conspicuously out of sync with the number of men (eight), which results right from the start in a serious undermining of the rhetorical climax of “and one makes the cut”—ideally a delightful reward after making correct numeric changes from verse to verse.45 These discrepancies suggest a different scenario. The idea of an existing folk song (Volkslied) with eight participants may have entered the cultural consciousness only after 1932, or the date of Klier’s investigation, which had in turn been a response to a reappreciation of Haydn’s manuscript of the Capriccio and its title, made available through a photograph by the Stiftung Anthony van Hoboken only from 1927 onward.46 Brown’s and Goebels’s text proposals may then be explained from a Haydn-invested reflex to identify

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and along the way “reconstruct” a folk version of the song in which Haydn’s numbers do indeed add up.47 But Haydn’s source may not have been a folk song at all. It is entirely possible that he knew the song from comic theater as a popular Gassenhauer. As such, the tune might have been more composed and tailored to a specific theatrical purpose than we have hitherto assumed.48 Haydn’s Capriccio, then, may be a further elaboration on a staged scene that he and his listeners would have been familiar with and the sheer memory of which would have made them burst out in laughter again. Stranitsky’s Hanswurst

Folk culture and popular theater meet in Stranitzky’s Hanswurst, who in his “autobiography” proclaims himself a failed Lungau Sauschneider: “However I lay down or turn the animal / everything just croaks under my hands.”49 The farmerlike jester may be a universal stock stage character; in Otto Rommel’s words, “It is fitting that in all cultures the Volksnarr has the traits of a farmer, since his comedy stems from the depths of earthbound vitality.”50 The prototype of a Sauschneider seems particularly well-suited to Viennese audiences: he’s a foreigner, speaking the dialect and sociolect of a Lungauer (offering a double layer of comic potential for those who do know the difference and those who don’t care),51 and his special skill, whether he is adept or bumbling, has an irresistible comic air given its titillating sexual connotations. (In one of Stranitzky’s plays, Hanswurst exclaims: “We’d have to cut his worm [Wurm] . . . I’ll quickly run to fetch a Sauschneider: maybe that will bring him back to his senses.”)52 This Hanswurst is the perfect embodiment of both the komische Gestalt (comical figure or stupidus), that is, the dumb, the crippled, the stutterer, the coward, the greedy, and the like, whose behavior the actor would exaggerate for comic effect, and the Lustigmacher (jester or derisor) who positions himself outside the onstage action, colluding with the audience at the expense of the other characters.53 He’s both an insider and outsider. He’s to be laughed at as well as to be laughed with. He likes to play dumb, yet he has hidden skill and talent. Despite the self-satirizing, tongue-in-cheek tone of Stranitzky’s The Viennese Hanswurst and His Comical Travel Reports, Stranitzky very likely drew upon his own life experiences in creating his celebrated version of the stock character. During his pre-Vienna years he was a freelance actor, wandering from town to town (no doubt well aware of shortcuts), constantly interacting with strangers, seeking new employment, offering dental services on the side, working as part of a team, trying to enhance his popular-

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ity abroad. He even dresses like the perfect Sauschneider, honoris causa.54 Plate 2 juxtaposes contemporary color reproductions of “A Sauschneider as he sets forth abroad” and a Hanswurst dancing to the music of transverse flute and drums, wooden club in hand (here to illustrate a child’s game). Each wears a hat (flat in one, pointed in the other), a jacket made of thick cloth (brown and falling straight past the knees in one, red and pompously wide around the hips in the other), thick loden pants (falling below the knees in one, longer but distinctly stopping above the ankles in the other), a belt with suspenders, leather shoes, and blue stockings or a blue jester’s collar (Narrenkröse). In his respective dress or costume, each is unambiguously recognizable whether standing next to a church or leaping onto a stage.55 The Keyboardist as Hanswurst

Commentators on Haydn’s “Sauschneider” Capriccio have noted its rondolike structure, marked by refrains or reiterations of the theme, either less or more complete and always in a different key.56 There are thirteen such iterations: see ex. 3.3. But, as we shall see, an assumed “ritornello” in C major (m. 114) is in fact the start of a chromatic sequence leading back to the home key of G; and there are other reasons not to call it a separate section. Defined by key, therefore, the Capriccio has twelve sections. Furthermore, if the home key of G is not used to introduce new events but is reserved for the announcements, interjections, summaries, or commentaries of a narrator adopting the same quasi-objective, self-ironizing tone of the Hanswurst excerpts that we read above, the structure of the Capriccio is that of a narrator telling a story in eight episodes (in the literary, non-music-analytical sense), numbered in ex. 3.3 from 8 to 1, matching the ever-fewer Sauschneider verse by verse.57 Assume, for a moment, that you’ve been asked to improvise a capriccio on how many Sauschneider it takes to castrate a boar. You’re sitting at a short-octave keyboard. You’re asked to make it as visually evocative as possible. Which key (in the sense of the physical entity on a keyboard) would you choose to represent a testicle to be cut? Look again at the photograph of the short octave (plate 1). Two candidates jump out: either D or E. Together, they are the smallest of all keys, both in length and in width. They may be “cut” from their longer key mates F ♯ and G ♯. Consider also the color of their bone tops: in low-light circumstances (which applied almost certainly to Haydn) the “skin-bright” color of white tends to bleed through from one key part to the other, requiring sharp visual focus to “make the cut.” (Compare

Ex. 3.3. Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, outline

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the white D/F ♯ and E/G ♯ keys with their black counterparts C/BB or GG/AA/ BB 𝅗𝅥, where separations are more clearly discernible.) Ex. 3.15 displays what is undoubtedly the moment suprême of Haydn’s Capriccio. After 348 bars of what has grown into a perpetuum mobile, the keyboardist assertively calls a halt on a diminished seventh (m. 349). The audience holds its collective breath as the keyboardist seems to hang on to the dissonant E 𝅗𝅥 as if for dear life. (Embellishing this fermata would be unthinkable.) Then, with the skill of a master Sauschneider, the keyboardist/ castrator reaches for his knife and after a few swift movements makes the cut, clean and clear (in my case, with a fourth finger, its lowest joint sharply pointed to target). A dubious trophy, the single “testicle key” D as the lowest and last note of m. 350, lies on the ground. Awe and admiration quickly give way to jubilant celebration (mm. 352–end), with unabashed dancing to that enthusiastic four-note rhythmical figure so typical of such a concluding variation or a climax, in full enjoyment of the physical pleasure of a short octave (playing a sixth instead of an octave).58 That this celebratory dance is carried by the smallest key of the keyboard (eighteen consecutive times, mm. 352–357) only adds to the silliness. To put all this in perspective: until the dance, we’ve played this particular key (which, after all, represents a crucial dominant bass note) only twenty times before throughout the entire piece (including the cut) and almost always in the parts reserved for the narrator. Two exceptions are the first verse (where the eight Sauschneider are still full of confidence: used eight times) and the “chickpea” octave passage (mm. 247–264, where it’s all about not being capable of hitting those cut keys: used three times). This is pure slapstick: Haydn as Mr. Bean. Working with legendary Bernardon in 1750s Vienna, the young Haydn once had to overcome his own inhibitions. He told Carpani that, desperate and out of wit after several unsuccessful attempts to depict a tempest, he “turns his hands upside down and clenches his fingers. He makes [the back of ] them sweep the keys like two brooms rapidly in opposite direction, like someone doing volate [i.e., glissando]. Bernardon, full of marvel and exceedingly pleased, shouts, ‘Bravissimo!’ and springs upon the dear maestro’s neck, squeezing and kissing him, and exclaiming: ‘That’s it, that’s it!’ ‘And so it will be,’ Haydn replies, ‘but you’re strangling me; let me get on with writing it.’”59 In another anecdote, Griesinger describes Haydn paying Kurz a visit: “The maid was ready to turn him away, because her master, as she said, was ‘studying.’ How amazed was Haydn when, through the window at the front door, he saw Bernardon, who was standing in front of a large mirror, make

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all kinds of faces and contort his hands and feet in the most ridiculous positions. These were the ‘studies’ of Mr. Bernardon.”60 In the “Sauschneider” Capriccio, I suggest that we are the ones observing Haydn exercise in front of his mirror, polishing his old chops as a comic theater scorer while practicing a few new moves. With unsuspected clarity, our newly constructed short-octave Viennese harpsichord allows us to empathize with Haydn’s contortions. Adding to the mix his own suggestive title, including the sociocultural connotations explored in the preceding pages of this chapter, we are now ready to propose a detailed script of a “pantomime,” starring the keyboardist as sole narrator-actor. The script develops in twelve episodes, conveying the same kind of structural looseness present also in Stranitzky/Hanswurst’s autobiographical narrations. We present it here in two manifestations: first, as a concise storyboard, imagining how someone with theatrical interests like Bernardon might have passed along his concepts for each of the episodes to Haydn; then, as an analysis of Haydn’s actual settings, music-technical language combining with theatrical imagery, illustrated by analytical reductions of the score (each episode taking up the span of one score example). Our proposed narrative may be best appreciated, finally, through an actual videotaped performance on the website, which features the “on” and “off ” functions of a spoken commentary. Haydn or the Musical Jester of Court Esterházy and His Take on How Many Sauschneider It Takes To Castrate a Boar

Narrator (G major, mm. 1–23) (Hanswurst singing and whistling:) Acht Sauschneider müssen sein, Wenn’s an Saubärn woll’n schnei’n. [fine] Zwo vorn und zwo hint’n, Zwo holt’n, zwo bint’n. [da capo al fine]

It takes eight Sauschneider To castrate a boar. [fine] Two in the front and two in the back, Two to hold, two to bind. [da capo al fine]

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Imagine the courtyard of a farm. Many people are up and about. The Sauschneider are coming! Everyone’s excited and wondering: will they be able to “cut” the 300 pound boar? We know him to be a fierce, easily excitable and irritable animal. Let’s sit back and watch.61

In this Gassenhauer version of the “Sauschneider” tune, tonic and dominant harmonies alternate in a downbeat-heavy triple meter. The identical outer phrases, labeled a, end with perfect authentic cadences (4, 3, 2, 1). In the middle phrase, b, we count and differentiate: two in front, two in the back; two to hold, two to bind62—four times the same melodic fragment on a dominant seventh, with the left hand poking at the pitch D down below and up high, fingered respectively with 4 (for the cut key below) and the index finger (for the single note in the tenor), with the thumb acting as pivot. Something seems up with D (see ex. 3.4). Verse 1: “Eight it takes” (D major, mm. 24–61) Eight men present themselves for the job. They’re strong. They’re fast. They unpack and don their gear. The master sharpens his knife. Off to work. It’s time to grab the animal. They try to hold it: tighter and tighter, arms around its neck and its back. But just at the moment it seems they’ve succeeded in keeping it still, they let go: the animal is just too strong. They’re back where they started. Worse: they’ve lost one man.

We transfer the tune to the bass and sing a in a full four-voice texture, two to a part, for a total of eight. (“Look at us: eight strong men!”) The short octave enables us to play long, heavy upbeat octaves (note the fingering in ex. 3.5) and to grasp wide tenths with little effort in mm. 25–26 and 36–37. (“If you play an octave, we play a tenth!”) In the b phrase, we demonstrate speed, firing off a few tiratas (fast ascending scales), described by Mattheson as “a shot or spear throw.”63 Here, imagine the whipping of ropes, needed later for binding. Mm. 39–49 are preparatory: we “test” our scalar runs, both in the dominant key of D and back again (somewhat surprisingly, since we barely started) in the home key of G. Not much is at stake melodically, “just” some parallel tenths and sixths. We take ample time to invert each of the twomeasure-long units: mm. 39–40 become 41–42 and mm. 45–46 become 47–48. The two resulting crosses could represent the sharpening of the knife. Then, in m. 49, a sudden shift of gears. (“Let’s go!”) Swiftly, shooting off tiratas along the way, pairs of secondary dominants with their respective

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Ex. 3.4. Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 1–23

tonics quickly succeed one another (mm. 49–54). They make it up to c3 in m. 53, mother of dissonances in G major both as 7 (of the dominant seventh) and 4 (suspension over the tonic). At the resolution, b2 (m. 54), the left hand, as if in need of regaining its grip, sets in motion yet a new sequence of tiratas and secondary dominants. Overtaken by a downward spiral—almost literally falling backward from where we came—we pass over dominant D and “sink” all the way to A minor. We’re back to square one. Worse: we’ve lost one man. Verse 2: “Seven it takes” (A minor, mm. 62–84) Now realizing that the job is more difficult than they’d thought it would be, the seven Sauschneider brace themselves. But the squealing of the struggling

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Ex. 3.5. Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 24–61

animal proves a major distraction. The more force the Sauschneider use, the stronger the animal resists.

In 1765 quarter-comma mean-tone tuning was far from extinct.64 We deliberately used it in our recording of the Capriccio and found confirmation for its effectiveness in mm. 63–64 (ex. 3.6), where Haydn rubs G ♯ against D ♯ (sounding as an E 𝅗𝅥), which together form the typical “wolf ’s fifth.” Here, the substitution of one metaphorical animal for another is as silly as it is obvious: we’re dealing not with the howling of a wolf, but with the squealing of a pig. Less methodical than before—they’re in the middle of it now—the Sauschneider do not wait for the end of the repeated a phrase nor a proper resolution of a dominant harmony (cf. m. 73, where V6 of A minor moves straight to V 42 of its subdominant) to continue with what they’re doing. Dotted rhythms in mm. 72–83 reflect new determination (“let’s add some punch”),

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Ex. 3.6. Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 62–84

but they only seem to bring out even stronger resistance of the subsequent 4–3 suspensions, which by now have become a counterforce to be reckoned with. They are longer than in the previous verse (mm. 50–53), and the only hint of them in the opening theme had been the playful appoggiaturas in mm. 4 and 13. “Retardation” starts affecting the other voices too (see the middle voice in mm. 79–84). Verse 3: “Six it takes” (E minor, mm. 85–113) The Sauschneider keep trying. Reduced to six, they decide to split up in two groups of three. The master Sauschneider shouts commands, but to no avail. The tighter they try to hold the boar, the more it struggles and screams.

If we look for an indication of numbers in the score—from seven to six— we find it in the b phrase of both this and the previous section. Compare mm. 67–70 with mm. 90–91 (see exx. 3.6 and 3.7). Excluding the opening theme (mm. 6–9) and a later interjection by the narrator (mm. 270–273), verse 2 (with the seven Sauschneider) is the only one of the eight verses to feature in its b phrase a root-position dominant seventh. Verses 2 and 3 are linked, furthermore (in m. 84), by a tightly held dominant seventh.65 Verse 3, in its turn, initiates the beginning of a b phrase (top notes following the proper contour) on a mere triadic chord. Here, it’s all about “six” and “three,” or the group divided into two, with “sixths” playing on top and “thirds” at

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Ex. 3.7. Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 85–114

the bottom, in contrary motion. Version No. 9 of the “Sauschneider” tune (table 3.2) incidentally speaks of “three in front” and “three behind.”66 Narrator (mm. 114–156, C major–G major) However hard they try—by now, all six of them: three behind and three in front—they keep ending up back where they started. (Laughing:) Look at them! (Sarcastically:) What a spectacle! But for the team, the challenge remains. First, they must somehow manage to keep the boar still. More easily said than done.

As we’ve moved along the circle of fifths—from D to A to E (see ex. 3.3)— we’ve also felt increasing resistance: minor keys (after D major, we’ve had A minor and E minor), squealing (more and more foreign tones to deal with), and slipping (secondary dominants not always following the intended path, sometimes sending us right back)—all of this resulting in more and longer “holding” (more and longer suspensions and retardations in more voices). In a most neutral C major, using just the first few notes of the theme to call attention, the narrator gives a summary of what has happened so far: “However hard they tried” (those chromatically ascending secondary dominants), “they always ended right back where they started” (from B back to E, A, and D, or exactly the trajectory we’ve followed, major replacing minor to lend appropriate sarcasm). Identifying mm. 114–132 (ex. 3.8) as a separate section in C major (as

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Ex. 3.8. Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 114–157

other commentators have done; see above) seems unwarranted for several reasons. First, the refrain recalls only the opening notes of the a phrase. (All other sections start with a full run of a, including its cadence.) Second, attention is immediately diverted to a chromatic sequence in the bass (g, g ♯, a, a ♯, b), which, in turn, triggers a chain of dominants back to G major. Thus, C major hardly stands on its own. On the other hand, though, its pre-dominant function (as IV in G) is appropriately or, indeed, sarcastically extended in reference to the Sauschneider, who simply don’t get the job done. Our third and final reason is rhetorical: these measures do not offer anything

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new; they should be interpreted as a summary of what came before, as well as a transition to the restatement of the theme in G major (mm. 133–141). “Look at them,” we hear the narrator/keyboardist say, laughing as he playfully traverses his keyboard with well-known, home-key material, throwing in some tiratas of his own but safely avoiding the cut keys down below. All examples draw little rectangles around moments at which the mother dissonance, with its stock (diabolic) diminished fifth or augmented fourth, resolves to the tonic. We see two prominent examples, inversions of one another, in m. 144 and m. 145, repeating mm. 16–17 (ex. 3.4). They are reminders of what the story is about: the Sauschneider must hold the animal still before making the cut, and they must do so in the home key. The first manifestation contains a retardation (the “holding”); the second, with the unornamented dissonance in the lower voice (which I finger with a strong index), is the more forceful one, to be associated with control or skill (see the reductions in ex. 3.4). Both manifestations weave ornamental slurred figures through their top voice: the “binding,” the necessary penultimate step before the cut. But before holding, one must grab. The plentiful resolving sequences of diminished fifths followed by thirds—secondary dominants landing an erratic variety of “tonics”—have followed the example of what I call the “action motive.” Remarkable so far is that, without exception, every section has made an attempt to “close the deal” (each has had one or more rectangles), but they’ve all ended up “off target,” that is, in keys other than the home key. But let’s find where the story takes us next: a transition in mm. 146–156. Verse 4: “Five it takes” (B minor, mm. 157–189) There they try again, now with only five. (Count ’em: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.) Lining up close to one another, they give it their all. But they’re dealing with a fierce pig. The devil’s in it, it seems.

The Sauschneider keep pushing, now into B minor, a fifth further away from where verse 3 (in E minor) had left them. The pinnacle of “holding,” this section features an extraordinary harmonic sequence, known as the Teufelsmühle or “devil’s mill.”67 The objective for the bass is to move by half steps, while other voices hang on to their pitches as fiercely as possible, resulting in a nonkey-specific sequence of diminished seventh, dominant seventh, and minor six-four chords. Haydn’s rendition consists of no fewer than twenty-four such chords (or twenty-two, if one excludes the first, proceeding by whole step, and last, a C major triadic time-out). The unusually intense—one might even say desperate—clutching at any dissonance, presumably in an attempt to force a

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standstill, began in the b phrase (mm. 162ff ) with the added appoggiatura G (the ninth of the dominant). Only once does the bass break out of its chromatically descending line: in m. 183, a D major triad (in our analysis another “rectangular moment”) that fails to continue with the desired “control” progression (see the asterisk in ex. 3.9 to show “what might have been”), but rather surrenders to an enharmonic B♯. C major calls for a badly needed time-out. By this point of the story, the squirming, squealing, frenzied boar seems possessed, reminding us of the devil’s mill and its biblical source: “And He said unto them, Go. And when [the devils] were come out, they went into the herd of swine” (Matthew 8:32).68 The five remaining Sauschneider line up as closely as possible to fight the “devil in the pig.” Count the notes under the long slur in the right hand: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, for twenty-four consecutive positions—actual fingerings remarkably coinciding with the repeated act of counting from thumb to pinky (see ex. 3.9). Verse 5: “Four it takes” (C major, mm. 190–232) The team has now lost exactly half of its men. Clearly, their approach isn’t working. They tried force. They tried more force. Time to try something different. Time for something more clever. What if, instead of grabbing the whole animal, they aim for something smaller, more holdable? What about its back legs, right above the knees? That should immobilize it. As they recover their breaths, they discuss a new plan. They’re down to four but can still spread out: two plus two.

Ex. 3.9. Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 157–190

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Ex. 3.10. Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 114–157

Of the eight “Sauschneider” refrain entries, without any doubt, this is the most gratifying. First, the appearance of an Alberti-type accompaniment in triplets (see ex. 3.10) lends a fresh perspective on the theme and sets in motion what appears to be a fresh start. Second, the tonality of C major offers major relief after the previous increasingly distant keys and the hair-raising devil’s mill. Listener, keyboardist, protagonists, instrument—we all appreciate a time-out. Harsh dissonances are laid to rest; fear of erratic contrapuntal sequences is put on hold; Sauschneider regroup and explore new options; key, range (from the tenor up), and texture (triplets in bass) give the Viennese harpsichord back its natural beauty. (The whole passage is very similar to the first movement of Haydn’s early sonata Hob. XVI:3, also in C major— making the instrument bloom.) It’s not just about simplification. There’s also sophistication. So far those embryonic versions of the action motive in the b phrase (here mm. 195–198) have come across as either comical, stern, or pedantic. Now, supported by the Alberti accompaniment and adorned with the “Haydn ornament” (which I play as a mordent, but a crisp turn would also work), they show unsuspected potential for songful melody. No longer intimidated by suspensions and re-

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tardations, we revel in a variety of ornaments: appoggiaturas (the invariably short ones from the beginning), a dissonant passing tone (m. 210, one of my favorite moments), a long appoggiatura (same bar), two retardations at the same time (the one in the middle voice gracefully integrated into the Alberti bass) and a long trill on “mother dissonance” C (m. 211). Having now reconnected with G major, we restate our task not once but twice (see the action motive in mm. 212–216 and mm. 216–220). Each statement has thus expanded into two elegant four-bar phrases, an allusion, perhaps, to the four Sauschneider. The “binding” (the weaving of the circling figure in m. 213 and m. 217) is now contemplated not as a serious task (the two earlier slurs), but playfully, with dotted rhythm. The player’s regained self-confidence, finally, expresses itself in the long trill, with suffix and starting on the main note, in m. 215 and m. 219. After all the earlier grabbing and holding, this kind of ornament, which requires the most relaxed of muscles, testifies to mental and physical rejuvenation. The keyboardist plays it no fewer than six times, as he modulates from C to F (mm. 221–232). Thus, from the larger-scale tonal perspective as well, we are witnessing a shift in strategy. By pure force, the Sauschneider had climbed the circle of fifths, from D (itself dominant of G) toward the minor dominants A, E, and B, but slipped back. This time they decide to go with the flow. If tonalities wish to fall backward—from dominant to tonic, here from C to F, then so be it. Verse 6: “Three it takes” (F major, mm. 233–264) The three remaining Sauschneider are ready. Blow the horn! And bring on . . . the pig. The decisive battle starts. As two Sauschneider distract the animal in the front, the third, with some well-slung arm movements, aims for the legs in the back. Go for speed, rather than force. And never leave your arms within the animal’s reach for any longer than a split second: you don’t want to get hurt. After a lot of lively back and forth, bingo! They grab the animal’s legs and—finally—succeed in holding him down tight.

How many men does it take? It takes three: triplets jump from the lower to the upper voice and the two-voice texture shifts to three (ex. 3.11). The spotlight is now on the left hand, the middle voice adding excitement: “Blow the horn!” (see those open fifths). It’s time for the decisive “battle with the cut keys” (mm. 247–264, also discussed above). We wield our left arm and hand in twenty consecutive, always different octave-positions. Two notes, two keys, two legs. When we finally seize upon the action motive (last beat of m. 264, indicated by a rectangle), we are determined not to let go. Firmly, we

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Ex. 3.11. Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 233–265

hang on to octaves, with strong fingering, all the way down to the lowest G, root of the home key tonic. Consider, once again, the physical impact of the Viennese short octave: the five last octaves (A, D, C, B, and G, all instrumental in preparing, executing and prolonging the action motive) may be played quasi-legato, in one single, grand and impressive gesture (see the close-up in the video-performance). The impact of this immensely satisfying physical experience cannot be overestimated: we may have missed a few octaves in the lead-up to this moment (which is exactly the point: see above), but we come out on top. Narrator (G major, mm. 265–273) And so they gain self-confidence and get back their enthusiasm, energy and power.

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Ex. 3.12. Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 265–273

There’s not much time for commentary, except to quickly empathize with the protagonists: open fifths in the right hand, an energetic counterline in the left; continued triplet motion again in the right, good old tiratas in the left (see ex. 3.12). They’re on a roll. Verse 7: “Two it takes” (G minor, mm. 274–295) The two of them still have a tight hold on the pig. With superb coordination, one holds while the other binds a rope around the ankles. Easy with those octaves . . .

The keyboardist suddenly shifts to minore on what could have been a repeated phrase a but turns out to be a fresh start in G minor (see ex. 3.13). Still, it’s too soon for the narrator to declare victory: it’s back to work. From three voices, we’re down to two again, and quite strikingly so: the second voice enters with its own upbeat exactly one bar after the first. It (or “he,” if we personalize the lower voice as the assistant Sauschneider) proves instrumental in keeping the overall pace, now down from triplets to a more cautiously alternating eighth-note pulse. “Caution” is the key word also in what follows. Cut-key octaves are carefully avoided as the men execute two important tasks: “binding” (mm. 281–284; see the asterisk) and “holding” (mm. 284–296; see the smooth series of suspensions in a descending seventh-chord sequence). During all this, the animal has stopped resisting. Verse 8: “One it does take” (B 𝅗𝅥 major, mm. 296–316) Things are looking good. The master Sauschneider checks to see if the ropes are tight enough. The immobilized pig sputters. They’re the cries of an animal that’s been subdued. Everything’s under control.

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Ex. 3.13. Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 274–295

Attention shifts to the one and only master Sauschneider, who receives a purple-patch B 𝅗𝅥 major or III 𝅗𝅥 of the home key, G. He was the mastermind behind the successful plan of verse 5 in C major. Now he rides on a similarly harmonious wave of Alberti triplets, again for a full aba run of the theme. Two rope-tightening slides (Schleifer) in m. 311 and m. 314 are accompanied by some sputtering dissonances (particularly noticeable in our mean-tone temperament; see the circles in ex. 3.14), before we easily make it to the dominant of home key G. Narrator (mm. 317–end) Now for the grand finale. There’s one remaining Sauschneider. He’s in the front and in the back. He holds and binds. And then (expertly feeling his way under the skin) . . . he makes the cut! Bravo! There were the hardships. There was the victory. Hey, hey, hey!

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Ex. 3.14. Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 296–315

A long main-note trill in m. 316 reminds us of similar ones from verse 5. Firmly incorporated in our action motive and prolonging the home key’s leading tone (see also the double asterisk in ex. 3.3), it restores full faith in the one and only master castrator porcorum. From now to the end, he can demonstrate his mastery without the threat of any out-of-tune notes that would challenge his mental concentration or any confusing cut-key moments that might take him off course. Instead, he chooses his cut-key octaves himself, impressively treading from the one to the other (mm. 326–330; see the squares in ex. 3.15). There is not one but many “control” moments (rectangles), and a series of razor-sharp suspensions (circles; mm. 332–340) expertly confirms the home key of G. In less specific circumstances, these two pages would have made a perfect toccata for a confident harpsichordist or organist.69

Ex. 3.15. Capriccio in G Major, Hob. XVII:1, mm. 315–368

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Ex. 3.15 (continued)

Then comes m. 349, a final dissonance, an extraordinary standstill on a diminished seventh chord. The only silence before, one that also involved a fermata, occurred way back in m. 33, when eight Sauschneider still basked in testosterone-rich confidence. The irony is palpable: it has taken 316 bars, with many obstacles along the way, for the team to be finally ready for the ultimate deed. Now that this moment suprême has arrived, the Sauschneider/ keyboardist grabs his knife and acts without hesitation. We have commented on both the physical pleasure and the topos of “celebration” of the left-hand figures in the “coda” (mm. 352–end). Possibly more satisfying still are the three final chords (mm. 367–368), left hand mirroring right as it plays the chord GG–G–B within the identical span of a sixth, fingered 5–2–1. “Hey, hey, hey!” Just before this final reward of pure physical pleasure, the narrator gives the briefest of summaries: “There were the hardships” (cf. single asterisk, the exact same secondary dominant to IV or C major with which our adventures started back in mm. 49–50); “There was the victory” (the control motive). All’s well that ends well.

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From Sauschneider to Bernardon

When I first worked my way through the Capriccio on the new Leydecker harpsichord, I felt both silly and frustrated. The first verse, with the wide tenths in the bass, still gave me lots of confidence and pride, especially since I had never tasted this kind of power on the keyboard before. But as I pressed on into the subsequent verses I began to feel increasingly inadequate, painfully so. The frustration culminated in the passage where my left hand is forced down over and over toward ever more elusive octaves. I felt as if I’d become one of those poor non-master Sauschneider, or an unsuspecting bystander suddenly caught up in some off-the-wall performance act on a Vienna street corner. As I continued to analyze and practice my own bodily contortions over the following days, months, and years, I realized that I was turning the short octave “handicap” into an asset, in a sense, rehearsing my way into becoming a stageworthy Hanswurst myself. More often than not, Haydn’s keyboard music, while involving one performing persona, allows for multiple roles or identities, which may develop either in the course of a single performance or from one performance to the next. In the “Sauschneider” Capriccio, as we have seen, the keyboardist is both assistant and master, or both fool and joker. This ambiguity applies to the Hanswurst character as well, whose actions elicit laughter both with and at him. In my eventual recorded performance, I take on the persona of Haydn and imagine myself climbing the stage of a Volkstheater to perform the highly virtuosic role of Hanswurst. Haydn’s four-hand Divertimento “Il maestro e lo scolare,” Hob. XVIIa:1, poses a more complex challenge insofar as, with this piece, there are two persons in paired roles sitting side by side. As in the “Sauschneider” Capriccio, the “master” (of a different kind), who sits at the left, makes full use of the short octave to play those familiar major tenths, albeit in an Alberti variant (see ex. 3.16, mm. 102–104). As the “pupil” imitates her “master,” she simplifies the span of the figure from a tenth to a sixth. This could be the end of the story: a charming depiction of a music lesson, male master leading the way for his female pupil. Haydn’s version, however, has a twist, which arrives in the “normal”looking passages (i.e., those “playable” on chromatic keyboards), just as in the Capriccio. In m. 101 (one bar earlier in the same example) the succession of cut-key E and regular-key G creates a peculiar tongue-twister, surely also for those who would have been brought up within a short-octave tradition. This

Ex. 3.16a. Divertimento in F Major, Hob. XVIIa:1, first movement, theme: mm. 1–10; Var. III, mm. 101–106; Var. V, mm. 161–166; Var. VI, mm. 181–184

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Ex. 3.16b. Baryton Trio in A Major, Hob. XI:38, theme, mm. 1–8

particular instance seems comparable only a contrario to Wagenseil’s ending in ex. 3.1c. While Wagenseil counted on a moment of self-consciousness on the part of the player to help her “place” that final note E “just perfectly,” Haydn anticipates the unavoidable stumble, adding insult to injury by prescribing a finger-legato slur for what should be a smooth Alberti bass. Consider two more excerpts, from Variations V (mm. 161–166) and VI (mm. 181–184). The latter features no fewer than three cut keys together, the interval of a third reversed into a chromatic second and the right hand crossing the left to play lowest note, C. This goes beyond physical contortion: especially in a sight-reading context (but also, as I can attest, after some serious practicing), Haydn’s prescriptions are nothing short of mental torture. The irony, of course, is that the pupil’s part is entirely sight-readable, making it likely that she would perform at least as well as the master. In Haydn’s depiction of a music lesson, the roles have been reversed: the master faces embarrassment while his pupil is allowed to shine. One interpretation is that Haydn is mocking the presumably common practice of mediocre teachers overcharging their eager students. But there’s an alternative interpretation. What if the master is much too good for a well-paying but mediocre pupil? Anthony van Hoboken pointed out a striking resemblance of the divertimento’s theme with that of the Baryton Trio Hob. XI:38, also of a variation movement (reproduced as example 3.16b).70 (After eliminating the second round of repetitions in mm. 6 and 8 of the pupil’s part, both themes become identical even in length.) In the four-hand keyboard version, Haydn might be reflecting on his baryton trio sessions with the prince in which the music master Haydn would have diplomatically coached his patron through not-so-difficult music while playing the exact same melody at the alto desk. Absorbed in her own part, the pupil may well be oblivious to the extra difficulties that her master has deliberately thrown in for himself, either simply to amuse himself in an attempt to fight the boredom of yet another tedious

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lesson, or, with subtle calculation, to create a situation in which he can, with greater effect and credibility, turn to his noble pupil as she copies him with her more easily executed fingering and exclaim, “Bravo!” Censorship

In 1788, twenty-three years after the date on the manuscript, Haydn finally published the Capriccio with Artaria. The title page, however, makes no reference to “Acht Sauschneider müssen sein”; the “Caprice” is generically designated a piece “for harpsichord or fortepiano.”71 As we open the score, we notice some crucial changes. All short-octave moments have been “normalized” for a regular, chromatic keyboard. Similarly, when H. A. F. von Eschstruth reviewed a printed copy of the “Maestro e scolare” Divertimento in 1785, he was looking at an adjusted version, which, given the score he was reviewing, he could only describe as a “melodic chain of the most select passages, of which one hears each member twice . . . necessarily arousing as much disgust as a collection of the best and wittiest remarks if they were to be spoken first by a master in a bass voice and then by a pupil in a high one.”72 What started as a silly enactment of an inherently comical situation, to be shared with like-minded friends or colleagues “just for laughs,” had become, in print, a nightmare of pointless boredom. His gestures at the short-octave instrument no longer “seen” or “felt,” Haydn’s ideas and words fell flat as well. In the case of the “Sauschneider” Capriccio, we must wonder, furthermore, whether in 1788 Haydn would have felt compelled to explain anything about its origins to an aristocratic lady such as Frau von Genzinger.73 But revisiting his old Capriccio, a mere four years after Bernardon’s death in 1784, may have made Haydn nostalgic for those good old silly and hands-on moments. In the same year, 1788, Haydn bought his first fortepiano (most probably a square), and not long afterward, during what he describes “a well-humored hour” (bey launigster stunde), he composed another capriccio, the famous Fantasy in C Major, Hob. XVII:4, which he offered to Artaria for print in March of 1789.74 We may be surprised by the notion of “an hour.” (Stunde, to be fair, may be more broadly translated as “session,” but we would still be talking no more than two to three hours.) Did Haydn really “compose” this marvel (he uses the verb verfassen) in such a short time? Regardless of the actual speed of composition, as for his earlier one, the generating impulse for this capriccio seems to have been direct physical contact with an instrument—all the more fun because it’s brand new (ein neues Forte-piano). Haydn tries out the hand stop to raise the dampers; amuses

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himself with the effect of a chromatic scale; plays a glissando on those light hammer-operating keys; and listens to sounds that completely die out. Intriguingly, this capriccio is also on a song about a farmer, his wife, her cat, and a mouse, all doing “something” with one another—a fact that has remained hidden from most Haydn scholars, but perhaps from the musicbuying public in Haydn’s time as well.75 The title of the song, in any case, is not acknowledged in the Artaria print, which also changes Haydn’s designation of “Capriccio” to a more generic, more serious, and, presumably, more marketable “Fantesia.” In his letter to Artaria, Haydn stresses his own pleasure in creating a piece for his new fortepiano but hastens to add that it “will find approbation among connoisseurs and non-connoisseurs alike because of its taste, uniqueness, and particular execution.”76 By 1788 the pressure of dissemination—or, financial remuneration, which for Haydn, through Artaria, boils down to the same thing—was clearly on. Back in the 1750s it was Bernardon who had challenged Haydn to be deliberately tasteless, to draw on every thinkable cliché, and not to worry about structure or form. “Twice,” as Carpani concludes his anecdote of Haydn and Bernardon’s working session, quoted above, “Haydn was in England, at an older age, and each time, when crossing the Strait of Calais in rough waters, he said that he had to laugh instead of vomit, thinking back on the tempest of Bernardon.” But, as Carpani also pointed out, in their collaborative days, “Neither of the two had ever seen either sea or storm. How to represent what one does not know?”77 I, for one, and, I assume, few fans of Haydn’s keyboard works, have ever actually witnessed the castration of a boar. And yet, despite the implied barnyard realism of a dangerous animal, its ear-piercing cries, the spattering blood, or, most disturbing of all (for men at least), the very purpose of the event, I doubt that anyone who has heard and seen Haydn’s “Sauschneider” Capriccio, performed by a keyboardist dressed in proper costume and using the proper gear, will fail to appreciate the comedy. Haydn’s Capriccio is, in the end, a witty piece of comic theater, its musical sophistication and technical complexity hidden by the apparent simplicity of a raucous folk tale delivered with the energy of a drinking song. The joy of Haydn’s version of “Acht Sauschneider müssen seyn” is that the musically sophisticated, like urbane Viennese theater patrons, are invited to laugh both with and at Hanswurst, the performing persona of a highly entertaining musical pantomime.

Un esprit délicat, avec solidité, Une ame sensible & tendre, Sont des présens de la Divinité: Mais il faut un ami qui puisse nous entendre! A L EX A N D R E T O U R N O N de la Chapelle (1784), 17



CHAPTER 4



“Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant”

Chapters 2 and 3 each tackled a “problem”: the problem of a transition that would have been ineffective, if it had not been for my intervention as a performer; or the problem of cut keys that at first were a major handicap but which turned out to be as essential for the success of my performing act as the chick peas in the shoes of a great actor. Twice I saved my day and pride. Along the way, to better understand my actions and obligations as performer, I historicized my “solutions”: first, I aligned myself with “Haydn the Orator,” then with “Haydn the Hanswurst.” Through this search for solutions, we did not lose sight of Haydn’s dedicatees. Despite the emphasis on my personal experiences, they have remained the rightful owners of Haydn’s scores. We claimed, for instance, that Frau von Genzinger would have been grateful when Haydn presented her with a model of declamation worthy of a master orator, which she would have rehearsed in the privacy of her own home and perhaps even “orated” during one of her musical soirées to an actual audience. At times, we hinted at a “before” or “after” in our learning process of Haydn’s works, as in the al rovescio minuet (from Hob. XVI:26) or the “Sauschneider” Capriccio (Hob. XVII:1). But the implications have been clear. The identification of Haydn’s prints 127

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as declamatory examples gave me the right to treat them as precisely that: examples that could be—even must be—adjusted to suit my own needs in the recording studio or on the concert stage. Similarly, whenever I acknowledged the “before,” my mind was invariably fixed on the “after”: I simply refused to be relegated to the level of “pupil” or “victim.” In other words (and we must acknowledge it), thus far we have only paid lip service to some of the questions raised in chapter 1 about Haydn’s dedicatees. Let us rephrase them here. Did Haydn ever intend there to be a “before” and “after”? What if the “now” were the essence of Haydn’s musicking, as captured (not necessarily exclusively, but certainly by way of example) in the interactions between composer and dedicatee? By focusing on the oratorical qualities of Haydn’s sonatas or Klavierstücke, determined to make them work no matter what (for my own purposes, including self-promotion), have I avoided the broader and ultimately more important paradigm of Haydn the rhetorical man, who interacted with people, social structures, and technologies on his own terms? Haydn the orator, indeed, suggests an audience. But perhaps there’s no need for a listener. Or perhaps the listener is simultaneously the player. Or perhaps the composer himself is alternately player and listener. Haydn’s correspondence with Frau von Genzinger, as we saw in chapter 1, allows for all of these possibilities. In fact, the very idea of a “Genzinger” Sonata may have grown from their intimate times together at the keyboard. On May 30, 1790, three weeks before his announcement of the new sonata for Her Grace, Haydn wrote: “The time will come again when I will have the precious pleasure to sit next to Your Grace at the keyboard [am Clavier] and listen to [you] play Mozart’s masterpieces [Mozarts Meister stücke spiellen zu hören].”1 Haydn does not specify whom he envisions doing the playing, though context strongly suggests that it would have been Frau von Genzinger. But when he expresses his desire to play his own sonata “a few times,” one can readily imagine them sitting side by side in a session that is neither concert nor lesson, but just musicking between friends. Also, intriguingly, in the same letter, the prospect of sitting next to his friend, while reading if not playing off the same score, immediately triggers in Haydn the very pleasant association of just talking to her: “I’d have so much to tell to Your Grace, and so much to confess, of which nobody except Your Grace alone can absolve me.”2 Musicking is essentially conversational, and Haydn’s “Sonata ex E 𝅗𝅥” is first and foremost a communication between two people. Of course, the conversation may be extended to those who buy a copy of the sonata (or

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turn the score into an oration), but even in that light the Genzinger correspondence offers peculiar testimony: Marianne von Genzinger was irritated when her sonata appeared in print with Artaria less than two years later. Writing from London on March 2, 1792, Haydn also expressed outrage upon hearing the news and promptly, as a token of their friendship, promised her a new sonata.3 As is often the case between friends, the emphasis lay in the promise: there’s no evidence of such a new sonata, and in any case Frau von Genzinger died not long afterward at the age of forty-two in January of 1793. Her premature death may actually have compelled Haydn to write a sonata in her memory, his F Minor Andante with Variations, Hob. XVII:6, which he entitled “Sonata” on the manuscript. In emotional inspiration and impact, this most intense cry of despair on the Viennese fortepiano is comparable only to his earlier C Minor Sonata, Hob. XVI:20, for clavichord (see chapter 5).4 In the case of Sonata No. 49 we are fortunate to have this evocative and firsthand inside information. But it should not tempt us to think that this case is isolated or unique. On the contrary, in this chapter, I propose to make Haydn’s documented interactions with Frau von Genzinger a model for studying similar interactions between composer and dedicatee in the three “Marie Esterházy” Sonatas, Hob. XVI:40–42. Maria Josepha Hermenegilde Esterházy née Liechtenstein (April 13, 1768–August 8, 1845) was the eighth and youngest child of Prince (Fürst) Franz Joseph Liechtenstein (1726–1781) and Princess (Fürstin) (formerly Countess [Gräfin]) Maria Leopoldine Liechtenstein née von Sternberg (1733–1800).5 In September 1783, at the tender (but by no means unusual) age of fifteen, she wed Prince Nicolaus Esterházy von Galantha, himself barely seventeen years of age, son of Anton and grandson of the reigning Prince Nicolaus I. (See fig 4.1 for a family tree.) On July 1, 1784, nine and a half months after this most prestigious wedding, the earliest known announcement of Sonatas Nos. 40–42 appeared.6 The eventual publication, advertised in the Frankfurt Staats-Ristretto on August 31, 1784, was said to be “composed and dedicated à Son Altesse Madame La Princesse Marie Esterhazy née Princesse de Lichtenstein.”7 Faced with so much splendor and royalty, I respectfully bow to a new young lady at the Eszterházy court, voluntarily taking a back seat in my involvement with Haydn’s “Marie Esterházy” Sonatas. It is not about Joseph and me, not even Joseph, Marie, and me. In this chapter it is exclusively, and in this order, about Marie and Joseph.

Maria Leopoldine née von Sternberg b: 1733 d: 1800

Fig. 4.1. Two families joined by marriage

Maria (“Marie”) Josepha Hermenegilde née von Liechtenstein b: 13 Apr 1768 d: 08 Aug 1845

Franz Joseph von/zu Liechtenstein b: 1726 d: 1781

Nicolaus I Esterházy von Galántha b: 1714 d: 1790

Nicolaus II Esterházy von Galántha b: 12 Dec 1765 d: 15 Sep 1833

Anton I Esterházy von Galántha b: 1738 d: 1794

Maria Theresia née Erd dy b: 1745 d: 1782

Marie Elisabeth née von Weissenwolff b: 1718 d: 1790

Maria Anna née von Hohenfeld b: 1767 d: 1848

Plate 1. Viennese “short octave”: close-up and diagram. Photo by the author.

Plate 2. Lungau Sauschneider, anonymous gouache (late eighteenth century) (above), and Hanswurst, detail from Kinderspiele, colored etching by Johann Martin Will (1780s) (right). Reproduced by permission of the Salzburg Museum, Salzburg. InvNr. 218/24 and 1310/2009.

Plate 3. Letter of Princess Marie Esterházy to Empress Maria Ludovica Beatrix, March 20, 1812, first and third (final) page. Reproduced by permission of the National Archives of Hungary, Budapest. P 135 2. tétel. fol. 5. R sz. 1. cs.

Plate 4. Letter of Haydn to Marianne von Genzinger, February 9, 1790, first and fourth (final) page. Reproduced by permission of the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, Vienna. Cod. 14.300, fols. 14r and 15v.

Plate 4. (continued)

Plate 5. Physiognomic snapshots of author’s performance. Photos by Jeremy Tusz.

Plate 6. Franz Xaver Messerschmidt, Character Heads, selected from Krapf (2002), passim 1.

2.

3. 4. 5. 6a. 6b. 7. 8. 9.

The Artist as He Imagined Himself Laughing (Der Künstler, so wie er sich lachend vorgestellt hat) The Serious Demeanor of the Artist (Des Künstlers ernste Bildung) The Satirical One (Der Satirikus) A Strong Man (Ein kraftvoller Mann) A Willful Buffoon (Ein absichtlicher Schalksnarr) Dr. Franz Anton Mesmer Tender, Sweet Sleep (Der sanfte ruhige Schlaf) The Bockhead (Der Schaafkopf) The Yawner (Der Gähner) A Lustful Careworn Fop (Ein wollüstig abgehärmter Geck)

10. 11. 12a. 12b. 13. 14. 15.

16. 17. 18a. 18b.

The Melancholy One (Der Melancholikus) A Scholar, Poet (Ein Gelehrter, Dichter) The General (Der Feldherr) The Trustworthy One (Der Zuverlässige) A Buffoon (Ein Schalksnarr) Variant of “The Noble One” (Variante zu “Der Edelmüthige”) An Impertinent Shrewd Mocker (Ein nasenweiser spitzfindiger Spötter) The Worrier (Der Bekümmerte) The Noble One (Der Edelmüthige) The Ill-Humored One (Der Missmuthige) Inwardly Locked-up Grief (Innerlich verschlossener Gram)

Plate 7. Lobkowitz Festsaal and ca. 1790 prell-action Anton Walter fortepiano (replica by Chris Maene, 2005). Photos by Jeremy Tusz.

Plate 8. Holywell Music Room and 1798 Longman, Clementi, & Company piano (replica by Chris Maene, 2004). Photos by Jeremy Tusz.

Plate 9. Karl Anton Hickel, William Pitt Addressing the House of Commons, 1793–94. Reproduced by permission of the National Portrait Gallery, London.

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A “Problem” Revisited

In my previous assessment of two transitions, one latent and brought to the fore only in formal performance (Sonata No. 40; ex. 2.1), the other crystal clear and ready for use in formal performance (Sonata No. 42; ex. 2.2), I was keen on using the latter as a model for the former. In the spirit of Bach’s Sonatas with Varied Reprises (the first movement of Haydn’s own No. 42 containing distinctive traits of the genre), I took the additional step of providing a version in which I wrote out my performance of the first movement’s last variation, making the transition much more effective. But this raises the question of my right to impose my expectations of oratorical effectiveness on a sonata destined for a young woman of fifteen, in a movement, furthermore, labeled “innocent” (Allegretto e innocente). By recognizing those distinctly oratorical moments at the end of the movement as “ornamental”—even giving them the names of hyperbole, dubitatio, and suspensio—and saving them for what I considered the “right” moment, was I not hijacking the princess’s own piece and performance? Why project my keenness to appear clever— more clever, perhaps, than Haydn—on her? In the third sonata, No. 42, Haydn does exactly what I proposed to do in the first. In my realization of Sonata No. 40, then, was I anticipating Haydn? Am I denying him, as the dedicating composer, the privilege of demonstration? It is striking, indeed, that an overall oratorical stance, rather than the isolated strand in the first sonata (No. 40), pervades the third sonata’s (No. 42) entire first movement (Andante con espressione), with its far more serious and calculated use of topics and figures, and its scherzo-finale (Vivace assai), with its puzzling, even mind-boggling turns and twists. Sonata No. 42 is, in other words, what Sonata No. 40 might have been, in the hands of a skilled musical orator like Haydn, at a level of performance that is simultaneously more advanced and more formal. Once we accept this kind of evolution as inherent in the “Marie Esterházy” Sonatas as an opus of three, we arrive at an interestingly fluid narrative, in which composer and dedicatee position themselves differently with respect to one another as the opus progresses. The narrative I propose reads as follows: With the first sonata, in G major, Haydn is writing a dedicatory letter to his future reigning princess, a token of respect by her humble servant, who adjusts his language to hers. In the second sonata, in B 𝅗𝅥 major, Haydn, as a loving mentor, gently gives her a lesson, showing her how diligently practiced solfège exercises may be put to use in a well-constructed sonata, with the effect of a well-executed aria. Finally, in the concluding D Major Sonata, as master

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orator and performer, he provides her with a model of music-oratorical declamation. The biographical equivalent of the narrative that I propose here is one of initiation: the initiation of a fifteen-year-old girl into the world of adulthood, the world of a married princess, who is about to adopt the public persona of an accomplished and self-assured lady. László Somfai finds in these particular sonatas the prototype for what he calls a “ladies’ sonata,” a term inspired by C. P. E. Bach’s Six sonates à l’usage des dames, Wq. 54 (1770). Haydn’s version has two movements, the first most often in variation form, delicate and sensitive, and a short, fast, capricious second movement. (Somfai includes the later sonatas Hob. XVI:48 in C Major and Hob. XVI:51 in D Major in his list of “ladies’ sonatas.” He considers the “Genzinger” Sonata Hob. XVI:49 a hybrid between a ladies’ and a concert sonata.)8 But these stylistic criteria, as A. Peter Brown has pointed out, conflict with the historical reality that, with the possible exception of the two Grand Sonatas written in London, “all the sonatas were in the best sense ‘dilettante’ and ‘Damen’ sonatas, as evidenced by the nearly unanimous dedications to women, in contrast to the solely male dedications for the string quartets.”9 Despite Brown’s caveat, Somfai’s term remains apt, in both a musical and a biographical sense, particularly if we reconnect it to real and complex interactions between two persons: the established court composer, who employs his experience in etiquette and his intimate knowledge of women to address a new member of the Esterházy family; and the newlywed princess, whose gender, status, and personality must have inspired Haydn to strike a tone appropriate to a lady.10 Unlike Brown, who observes a discrepancy between work and life, feeling compelled to explain the brevity of Haydn’s opus (“instead of [the usual] six works there are just three”) by invoking Haydn’s busy schedule as Esterházy opera conductor as an excuse but continuing to imply that in spite of these hindrances Haydn “nevertheless” achieved something of perfection, I prefer to situate these works in the context of a fully integrated social and professional life.11 In addressing a lady, Haydn abandons the learned rhetoric of a threemovement sonata, the prototype for Johann Nikolaus Forkel’s 1784 essay on the “theory of the sonata,” in favor of the smaller-scale two-movement sonata, sometimes with but mostly lacking sonata form. This shift invites us to reevaluate Forkel’s model of an oration in favor of the more private model of a letter. Letter writing is a genre in which women were actively engaged, and one at which women, because of their “unlearnedness,” were said—by male commentators—to be naturally adept.12 Letter writing also offered women a forum in which to exercise their literary talent, prompting La Bruyère to

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assert: “If women were always correct, I dare say that the letters of some of them may well be the best writing we have in our language” (Si les femmes étaient toujours correctes, j’oserais dire que les lettres de quelques-unes d’entre elles seraient peut-être ce que nous avons dans notre langue de mieux écrit).13 It is no coincidence that one letter writer consistently referred to in the contemporary literature as a model was a woman, though unlike her male colleagues such as Rousseau or Voltaire, Madame de Sévigné would never have expected, let alone intended, her letters to be published. The irony is, of course, that they were indeed published, though posthumously, and reprinted numerous times.14 This ambiguity of the genre—private, yet, if well done, eminently publishable—is exactly what makes the letter a compelling model for the Marie Esterházy sonatas. The genre provides Haydn with the flexibility to meet his dedicatee on territory familiar to her, yet not to feel restricted by it, and then, as his relationship with Marie develops, to take her along and lead her into his own world, the world of a composer experienced in addressing groups of listeners, the world of an orator. Marie Esterházy exemplifies a specific type: the young female of noble upbringing who is already sophisticated in many ways. Haydn teaches her theory by demonstrating her practice, careful not to overwhelm her. Instead of the traditional opus of six three-movement sonatas, often ordered as a gradus ad Parnassum (as his earlier “Anno 776” and “Auenbrugger” sets), Haydn now publishes three smaller two-movement sonatas, less divergent in individual difficulty, written in textures and forms that are easier to grasp. Each piece lends itself comfortably to a single practice session or lesson, leaving ample time for explanation or elaboration.15 The underlying pedagogy of the Marie Esterházy sonatas, then, is similar to post-Rousseauian efforts in late eighteenth-century France to teach elite women to spell and write. The challenge was to do so “without endangering their femininity.”16 The solution was not to teach them rigid syntax (which, it was believed, could not be done without teaching them Latin), but to teach by example, application, and gentle guidance—carefully preventing the pupil (or the pupil’s father, who was most likely paying for the lessons) from using the prejudice that “women shouldn’t know these things anyway” as an excuse for giving up. In 1784, the same year of Haydn’s opus, Alexandre Tournon de la Chapelle published the first part of his Promenades de Clarisse et du Marquis de Valzé, ou Nouvelle méthode pour apprendre les principes de la langue et de l’Ortographe françaises à l’usage des Dames (Promenades of Clarissa and the Marquis de Valzé, or a New Method to Learn the Principles of French Language and Spelling, to the Use of the Ladies), a title deliberately more evocative of a

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novel than of a textbook. Just as with Haydn’s sonatas, the method is written in short, easily digestible installments. And as in Haydn’s sonatas, the novelistic textbook’s two main characters are male and female, experienced and young, master and pupil. The question on everyone’s minds, of course, is: will they also become lovers? Dedications

Before exploring how the relationship between Joseph and Marie evolves through the purported musical narrative, we must bolster our basic assumption that there is a dedication that can in any way be read biographically. Figs. 4.2 and 4.3 show two title pages from the years before 1784. We observe a progression. Haydn’s very first official publication, six harpsichord sonatas printed by the academic book publisher (Universitätsbuchdrucker) Joseph Lorenz Kurzböck in Vienna, is appropriately dedicated to sua altezza serenissima del sacro romano impero principe (“His Most Serene Highness, Prince of the Holy Roman Empire”), the prince’s name, again appropriately, printed in much larger capitals than the author’s, whose connection to the prince is specified: maestro di capella della pref.[ata] a.[ltezza] s.[ua] ser.[enissima] (“Maestro di Capella of the Aforementioned His Most Serene Highness”). The different sizes of a solemn font keep the spotlight on the prince while positioning the composer in a subservient role. Typographically the title reads very much like that of a book. In a separate preface—its very existence reinforcing the resemblance to a book—Haydn uses Italian, the international language of music, to praise the musical qualities of his prince (quoted in chapter 1). Clearly, the opus is directed at the music connoisseur, embodied—prestigiously—by Prince Esterházy, whose “complete command of all music, not only of the violin, and of the baryton” is praised, with no mention of any keyboard abilities (conspicuously so, for a set of keyboard sonatas). In the second example, Haydn’s first publication with Artaria in 1780, the six sonatas are dedicated to the Auenbrugger sisters, young but established semiprofessional players in Vienna. Just as with the Esterházy sonatas, Haydn uses Italian, the language of the music connoisseur, but significantly, the order of presentation is reversed: Haydn, the celebrated composer (composte dal Celebre Sig re), is mentioned first. The three parties—Haydn, the sisters, and the cousins Carlo and Francesco Artaria—are distinguished by three different styles: italic, capitals, and outline for Haydn; straight capitals for the sisters; handwriting for Artaria. Punctuation and layout unambiguously

Fig. 4.2. “Nicolaus Esterházy” Sonatas, Hob. XVI:21–26 (Vienna: Kurzböck, 1774), title page. Reproduced by permission of the British Library Board. Music Collections, K.7.g.21.

Fig. 4.3. “Auenbrugger” Sonatas, Hob. XVI:35–39, 20 (Vienna: Artaria, 1780), title page. Reproduced by permission of the British Library Board. Music Collections, f.186.v.

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distinguish Haydn and his Six Sonatas (summarized almost exactly in the center of the page by “Opera XXX”) from the dedication to the sisters “by their most humble and most obedient servants” (dalli umilis.mi ed ossequiosis.mi loro Servidori), the Artaria company. Overall graphics evoke an ellipseshaped nameplate of the kind typically found in the center of beautiful inlaid wood above the keyboard of a contemporary Viennese fortepiano. Featured on this enamel plate is not the name of some distinguished instrument maker, but a dedication to two active and celebrated keyboard performers in Vienna (see chapter 5). Aside from the appropriateness of the more sober design of his earlier “Nicolaus Esterházy” Sonatas, the pure graphics of the Artaria production were definitely a step up from the Kurzböck print. But something bothered Haydn, and in a letter of March 20, 1780, presumably when it was too late for change, he wrote to Artaria: “Everything that you wrote to me, I find fully satisfying; I regret only one thing: that I could not enjoy the honor myself of dedicating these sonatas to the Misses v. Auenbrugger.”17 One year later Haydn seemed to have learned his lesson, because in the preparation of his next publication, a collection of German lieder, he approached Artaria with not-to-be-misunderstood terms: I rather doubt that you will take them because first, I ask 30 ducats for them; second, 6 copies; and third, on the title page the following dedication: Collection of German Songs for the Clavier dedicated with utmost Respect to Mademoiselle Clair by Herrn Joseph Haydn Capellmeister of Prince Esterházy Between ourselves: this Mademoiselle is the goddess of my Prince. You will understand what impression these things make!18

The dedication never materialized (the two sets of songs were instead dedicated to a “lady of flawless reputation,” Franziska Liebe Edle von Kreutzner),19

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Fig. 4.4. “Marie Esterházy” Sonatas, Hob. XVI:40–42 (Speyer: Bossler, 1784), title page. Reproduced by permission of the British Library Board. Music Collections, e.440.j.

but the calculated intent, including an interest in the exact wording, clearly preoccupied Haydn. Fig. 4.4 reproduces the title page of the “Marie Esterházy” Sonatas. Announced in French, the language of European nobility in general but especially for noblewomen, the sonatas are characterized as not only dédiées (“dedicated”) but also composées (“composed”) for Son Altesse Madame— emphasized as the last word of the line—La Princesse Marie Esterhazy, née Princesse de Lichtenstein. The dedication ends with par Son trés humble & trés obeïssant Serviteur, Joseph Haydn, exactly as Haydn would have wanted it. The publisher is not Artaria but Heinrich Philipp Bossler in Speyer, Germany, who introduces himself merely as a facilitator: Bossler’s credit rests at the bottom of the page, well outside the framed title and dedication. That elaborate graphic frame simulates the frame of a painting, an object to be enjoyed for its tasteful decorations of roses, leaves, and garlands, all evoking a distinct air of femininity. On the whole, the title page conveys a strong and conscious act of dedica-

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tion. But there is also iconographical evidence that Haydn prepared the publication specifically as a wedding gift, an assumption often made in Haydn scholarship but never substantiated.20 The decorated oval at the bottom depicts a round altarpiece with a ceremonial fire, a sublimated version of the hearth. There is an old German ritual that endured well into the nineteenth century in which a bride would circle the hearth three times—known as circumambulatio—as she entered her new home. In some cases the groom carried the bride in his arms; in others she was led by her new mother-inlaw, who then formally passed the cooking spoon on to her daughter-in-law; in yet other cases the father-in-law or some other elder family member could do the honors of escorting the bride. The process is one of initiation, of transition: from “before” to “after,” from virgin to woman . . . at the hearth.21 Just because Haydn dedicated the sonatas to the princess in celebration of a special occasion does not necessarily mean that he also composed them specifically for her. If he did, we would expect to find elements of tone, style, or structure that convey characteristics associated with the dedicatee. Examining the opening G Major Sonata, we find that: 1. The first movement is a variation movement, allegretto e innocente, in 6/8. Each characteristic is in and of itself unusual. Only two earlier Haydn solo sonatas display an opening variation movement: Hob. XVII:D1 (D Major) and No. 39 (G Major). But here we find the first use of opening variations in a two-movement sonata. (Two more will follow: No. 42, in D major, of the same set and No. 48, in C major, of 1789.) Haydn had used innocente twice before (in No. 34, in E minor, and No. 38, in D major), but both times for the third and last movement, the position endorsed by Forkel as appropriate for pleasant, ravishing, worriless music; music that neither teaches (docet) nor moves (movet), but merely entertains (delectat). To start a piece innocently, not grabbing one’s attention intellectually or emotionally, is special. But to combine all three features—an opening variation movement, innocente, and 6/8—is unique. 2. These are alternating variations, in major and minor keys. While these “double variations” are not at all unusual for Haydn, the transitions here between major and minor are less stylized than in comparable instances (such as the variations of No. 39, also in G major and also as an opening movement, or its sister movement in No. 36, from the same “Auenbrugger” set; see chapter 5), but more “sincere” or heartfelt. If the major variation is about innocence, then the minor variation abruptly

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switches to the pathetic, which reveals itself in the abandonment of a regular three-voice texture, the use of augmented melodic intervals, two hands that start interrupting each other, emphatic accents on weak parts of the beat, and repeated sigh figures to be shouted aloud rather than merely whispered. 3. The first variation (starting in m. 37) is already surprisingly chromatic. Typically, chromatic filling-up would be reserved for the final variation, where it would serve an overall embracing, climactic purpose (as in the two aforementioned reference movements). Here, chromaticism seems thoroughly embedded in the theme itself. 4. As previously discussed, the transition to the second movement is surprising and, in terms of performance, outright problematic. 5. The second movement, exposing an utterly different, giggling, ecstatic, emotional side, is unusually, ridiculously fast, and short. The first movement takes me 8′27″; the second 3′24″. This ratio—the second movement representing barely more than one-third of the whole piece—is much different from the ratio in Haydn’s two earlier two-movement sonatas from the early 1770s, Nos. 18 (in B 𝅗𝅥 major) and 44 (in G minor), whose concluding movements are much more in balance with the opening ones, both in time and in style.

Marie Esterházy, née Liechtenstein (April 13, 1768–August 8, 1845)

It has become a commonplace in Haydn biographical studies to switch to the conditional when contemplating his 1784 keyboard set and the person of Marie Esterházy. Carl Ferdinand Pohl, the author of the first seminal, comprehensive Haydn biography (1878–1927), here states that, later in his life, Haydn “would appreciate in the young princess a Patroness very well disposed toward him.”22 Another typical anticipation is to the six late masses that Haydn would compose for the princess’s name day, commissioned by his fourth prince every year except one between 1796 and 1802. Most of what we know about Princess Marie Esterházy stems from post-1794, after she took up her official duties as the new reigning princess. Visitors to the Esterházy court such as Lady Frances Shelley (1816), Mrs. Martha Bradford-Wilmot (1820), and Lord Fitzharris (who came along with Admiral Lord Nelson and Lady Hamilton in 1800) describe the princess as “(once) very handsome,” “incessantly talking,” “wishing so much to please, and to be amiable, that it is impossible not to be interested and pleased by her,” wearing “jewels [that] are considered the finest in Germany, and far superior to those belonging to

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the crown,” or they note “her celebrated charms” and “great kindness.”23 In 1815, in a city thronged with noble guests attending the Congress of Vienna, Princess Esterházy would arguably experience the highlight of her career, attending or personally hosting social events aimed to deflect the tension of a high-stakes political convention. Striking a male (and less sarcastic) tone, Count de la Garde, one of the highly ranked aristocratic guests attending the Congress, remembers the now middle-aged Marie as still being “full of ravishing grace, even though the time of the first youth had faded away: first and foremost, she possessed this touching goodness that gives charm even to women who’ve conserved the least attractiveness. Her constantly even character, her attractive kindness made me look for occasions that would bring me closer to her.”24 In this chapter, however, we must remind ourselves that it was the fifteen-year-old Marie, full of promise and potential, but also inexperienced and “innocent,” who must have made an impression on Haydn, at a time when Haydn may very well have become her regular piano teacher.25 In any case, during the first months of her marriage, during which the bride took up residence with her in-laws at Eszterháza and Eisenstadt, he would have seen the new princess more frequently than did her own husband. While significant, this disproportionate contact says more about royal marriage than about musical pedagogy. Princess Esterházy confided to Lady Shelley that she had seen her prospective husband “only once before,” possibly referring to the day when she signed the marriage contract six months before the actual wedding. On their wedding day, “the Prince set off on his travels with his governor, while she remained under the tutelage of her governess! This arrangement lasted for two years.”26 While the young prince embarked on his Grand Tour or Kavalierreise through Europe (Italy, France, England, and Germany), the culmination of a (rich) young nobleman’s education,27 Marie resumed her lessons in French literature, letter writing, conversational skills, needlework, and music.28 Like Rousseau’s iconic Sophie and Émile, Marie and Nicolaus would be reunited, if not live happily ever after. But Rousseau’s educational ideal had presumed premarital commitment between two young adults who have consciously chosen one another; this kind of (self-)imposed separation was certainly not intended to complicate the lives of newlyweds who barely knew one another.29 We will return to this point at the end of this chapter. On August 25, 1783, the widowed Princess (formerly Countess) Maria Leopoldine von Liechtenstein, née von Sternberg, sent out formal invitations

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for a festive wedding on September 8, 1783,30 also the name day (Nativity of Mary or Maria Geburt) of the princess: The realization that Eüer Liebden is inclined to partake in all that concerns my family occasions me to have the honor in my own name as mother, in the name of Herr Karl Prince at Lichtenstein as legal guardian [Vormund], and in the name of Herr Aloys Prince of Lichtentein as brother and regent [Regierer] of the House, to announce the wedding to take place on the 8th of September of this year of Princess Maria of Lichtenstein with the Most Serene, High-Born Herr Nikolaus of the Princes of the Holy Roman Empire Esterhazy von Galantha, eldest son of the Most Serene High-Born Herr Anton of the Princes of the Holy Roman Empire Esterhazy von Galantha, Duke of Forchenstein, chamberlain of His Roman Imperial Royal Apostolic Majesty, Generalfeldwachtmeister, proprietor of an infantry regiment, and commander of the Royal Hungarian Order of St. Stephen. My own pleasure with this event would be significantly increased if Eüer Liebden were to donate the new married couple at least a portion of your good disposition, which Dieselbe [Eüer Liebden] is known to award to myself, for which from my side I remain with utmost respect, [signature].31

The front page of the Wiener Zeitung of September 20, 1783, briefly reported the wedding, stating that it actually took place on September 15, the Monday following September 8: “On the 15th of this month, the youngest-born daughter of Herr Prince v. Lichtenstein, Maria Hermenegildis, was married to Prince Nicolaus Esterhazy, the nephew [sic] of the reigning prince. The priestly blessing was given by Cardinal Archbishop von Gran and the Primate of Hungary, Prince von Batthiany, here [in Vienna] in the princely palace of Lichtenstein.”32 Entry No. 160 in the thirty-fifth wedding book (Trauungsbuch) of Vienna’s Schotten parish confirms both the date of September 15, 1783, and the priestly execution of the wedding by His Eminence the Hungarian Cardinal Joseph Batthyány with the assistance of the local priest Hugo Cunz (ab Eminentissimo, ac Altissimo Principe Bathyani Regni Ungariae Primate assistente v Hugone Cunz paroch: adm[ini]stratori). The full names of sponsus (groom) and sponsa (bride) are listed along with the long names and titles of their distinguished parents and their Vienna addresses: “Wallnerstraße N 165” and “Minoriten Plaz N 37.”33 Adam Wolf ’s 1875 biography of Maria Leopoldine’s sister-in-law Eleonore Lichtenstein, based on Eleonore’s correspondence, offers a possible

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explanation for the change of date and why the royal couple married at home rather than in the church: “In 1783 the women were occupied by family matters. The princess Marie Liechtenstein, the youngest daughter of the reigning princess Franzin [widow of Franz], married the young prince Niclas Eszterhazy on September 15. She was fifteen, he eighteen [recte: seventeen]. Because the mother was ailing, the ceremony had to be executed in her room and Cardinal Bathiany blessed the couple in such haste that one of the relatives thought he had skipped a few of the sacred formulas.”34 Marie’s mother, Maria Leopoldine, one of the famous “five princesses” ( fünf Fürstinnen), a circle of women friends around Joseph II, was used to organizing soirées at which the guests included such luminaries as the emperor himself.35 But the stress of arranging not just one but two weddings in the same season may have been too much even for her: on November 16, barely two months after her youngest daughter married, her eldest son, the twenty-four-year-old heir and reigning Prince Aloys also got married, to fifteen-year-old Countess Carolina von Manderscheid-Blankenheim, an event that once more made the front page of the Wiener Zeitung.36 The Liechtenstein family did very well in these matches. As the second daughter of the family to marry, Marie proved an exception to the rule among the nobility that “dowries were for eldest daughters [since] one shining match was enough in a family.”37 Marie’s middle sister, twelve years her senior, had also avoided spinsterhood, becoming a canoness and later provost of an exclusive nunnery in Recklinghausen.38 The Liechtenstein males did quite well too, considering the widely shared anxiety among aristocratic families that the support of widows might exhaust the family’s capital. Of Marie’s two adult brothers (apart from the eldest heir), only the younger, Philipp Joseph, remained unmarried.39 Arranging the marriage of an eldest son was a necessity, but to do so for the youngest daughter was a luxury which the Liechtensteins apparently could afford. In any case, the match of a youngest daughter with a prominent eldest son resulted in a solid marriage contract, dated February 28, 1783, almost half a year before the actual wedding.40 This document specified that the bride would bring a dowry of three thousand Rhenish guilders (f.), and the groom would bring forty thousand to the union. Upon his death, his widow would receive the combined dowries, to be administered as she pleased. As a wedding present the groom would give his bride three thousand ducats, which (again) she could spend as she pleased. The Esterházy estate also promised her “pin money” (Spennadel) in the amount of two thousand guilders per year. Should the groom die as count (Graf) and not

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as the reigning prince (Fürst), she would receive twelve thousand guilders yearly for her upkeep, along with an apartment on the second floor of the Esterházy palace in Vienna and all necessary household effects, as well as two wagons and ten horses. The guarantee for all these promises was written against the Herrschaft Forchtenstein, in possession of the Esterházys. Signatories to the contract were, on the left, first Count Nicolaus Esterházy als Brautigam, then, from top to bottom, Prince Nicolaus Esterházy (grandfather and reigning prince), Count Anton Esterházy (father), Prince Count Palff y, and Georg G. Bánff y. On the right, Marie Hermenegilda Fürstin von Liechtenstein als Braut, followed by her mother, Leopoldina, widowed Princess von and zu Liechtenstein, née Countess von Sternberg, then Prince Karl von and zu Liechtenstein als Vormund (guardian), the reigning Prince Aloys von Liechtenstein, Prince Colloredo, Count Franz Philipp von Sternberg als Zeüg (witness), Count von Starhemberg, and G. Prince von Starhemberg. Above and beyond this fresh bounty, Marie already had her own capital of fifty thousand guilders, which she had inherited from her father two years earlier. (Her two elder sisters each received a yearly stipend of two thousand guilders, obviously in addition to whatever they had previously inherited.)41 If “equal rank” was the deciding factor for the choice of a groom, prospective brides were screened much more critically for their “inner qualities, such as virtue or chasteness,” and their “looks.”42 According to the author of Excursion à Esterhaz en Hongrie en mai 1784 (a pamphlet famous for calling Eszterháza le petit Versailles de l’Hongrie), the young princess was rich in both. Naming her first among the “people of distinction present during my stay,” he describes her as “a young lady as recommendable for her outer charms as the excellence of her character [aussi recommandable par les charmes de l’exterieur que par l’excellence de son caractere]: her husband is the grandson of the Prince, presently on his Grand Tour [Cours des voiages; sic].”43 The Esterházy Archives in Budapest hold piles of largely unexplored documents in Marie Esterházy’s hand—poems, musings, quasi-philosophical notes, and abundant letters—as well as letters addressed to her. It is clear that she prepared careful drafts of her own correspondence while treasuring letters she received from others.44 Perhaps not surprisingly, I found no documents in her hand from around the time of her wedding. But as I browsed through her frequent and intense correspondence from 1810 to 1816 with her intimate friend Maria Ludovica Beatrix (1787–1816), the Austrian empress and third wife of Emperor Franz, my attention was drawn to a specific period in Marie Esterházy’s life.45 In 1812 a recurring topic of conversation

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with her imperial friend was the arrangement of the wedding of her eldest son, Paul. Even though some thirty years separated the now forty-four-yearold mother from the fifteen-year-old bride, it would be reasonable to assume that, as Marie prepared for the marriage of her eldest son, her observations and expectations of her future daughter-in-law were shaped by memories of her own wedding. Furthermore, Marie’s concerns, as expressed in these letters, offer a window on some of the pressures she must have felt back in 1783, when she herself was the prospective daughter-in-law. In our reading of the following selected extracts, it is important to remember that, even though we are addressing two successive generations and the intervening years included the upheavals of 1789, we are still in a pre-1815 world where little had changed culturally, politically, or ideologically from the 1780s, at least for a woman in Marie’s position: in any case, there’s little in Marie’s writing that would hint of any such change. Preparations for the wedding of Marie’s eldest son, the Crown Prince Paul Anton Esterházy (1786–1866), and Maria Theresia Thurn und Taxis (1794–1874) had already begun in 1810, when Paul was twenty-four and Therese sixteen. On August 8, 1810, shortly after the Taxis family recommended a secretary to jump-start the negotiations, Marie wrote her son: “Your father is very occupied with the big project [grand projet] . . . Nichael [Nicolaus] tells me that those who are informed of the project concerning the little Taxis are enchanted by it, and add that it would make a great match.” As the big day (le grand jour des noces) of June 18 approached, she wrote to her imperial friend: “I’m so excited about it, I love Paul so tenderly that a period so interesting for his future gives birth to a thousand reflections and even anxiety” (letter dated June 10, 1812). But high expectations can be met with disappointment. “The first impression,” she wrote, with a flair for exaggeration and sarcasm, “couldn’t have been more unfavorable; glancing at the mother and the girl caused one of the most disagreeable sensations one can have: she a femme à la mode in every sense of the term; the little one a spring puppet [poupée à ressort] make-alike of her mother: and both of them have traits that you wouldn’t want to see in your little girl, your friend, or your sister / their outfit, their countenance, everything just struck me as wrong” (June 21, 1812).46 And yet, as she continued in the same letter, she revealed that by “the second day, I was happier already: . . . on the eve before the wedding I talked to her alone and she gave proof of a kind of sensibility [sensibilité], the desire to suit Paul and myself / during the wedding itself, she behaved very well.” Marie confesses her doubts: “I would be hard-pressed to express an opinion . . . a beautiful manner of speaking, coquettish behavior,

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a Parisian toilette: all this is quite charming for a fantasy, but . . . to reassure my calm, it is not enough.” The only time Marie does not question Therese’s sincerity (“No look or word that responds to the heart”) is when the girl unwraps her gift: “The only non-studied gesture that I sensed was the moment when she received the diamonds: the joy was that of a young person.” Even as she sighs to her friend that “it’s hard to predict whether we’ll have common points of rapprochement: I really don’t like these alliances,” Marie still maintains a positive facade, if only for her son’s sake: “I tell him nothing but the best about his wife: it’s a necessary falsehood.” In resignation, she writes that “this will surely become a union à la mode, where each follows his own way without meeting one another.” But while “Paul is not at all in love and doesn’t even uphold any illusion about it . . . the little one [la petite] loves him as a husband who gives you an establishment [établissement] and liberty: he pleases her enough, but the heart follows political calculation, and at 17 years of age, the sentiment isn’t aware of this philosophy yet: I’m frightened to think one can be so methodical at that age.” Despite her many misgivings, we find Marie clinging to the hope that “Paul may still change his dispositions, I wish it for his own happiness,” proclaiming her neutrality in a clever wordplay on beau fils and belle fille (“beautiful son” vs. “daughter-in-law”): “My own happiness is invested in neither my beau fils nor my belle fille: my wishes are impartial [désinteressés].” Marie concedes that her biological daughter, Leopoldine, six years Therese’s senior, “is reasonably happy with her sister-in-law [sa belle soeur],” before adding, somewhat cynically, that even though “they’re both cold and reserved, it’s a point for rapprochement.” With Therese’s marriage to Paul, she exchanged her childhood residence for the Esterházy palace in Eisenstadt to live with her new husband and mother-in-law. On October 31, 1812, Marie wrote: I’m starting to be very satisfied with Therese . . . if not overly obvious, she at least shows nuances of the old [virtue of ] respect for one’s mother-in-law [l’ancien respect qu’on donnoit à sa belle Mere]; in this day and age, that’s a quality: another very good one is not to have the slightest falsehood, her comportment in society pleases me infinitely, it’s neither the ridiculous familiarity that’s so much in vogue today nor that repulsive coldness of other young women: I am judging her without any prejudice.

Over subsequent days and weeks, Marie began warming to her daughter-inlaw: “The little one starts making herself be loved by me: and her originalities

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are pleasant: she has a finesse that’s hard to pin down: her husband, all of us, each has been subjected to the most strict examination, and our good and bad sides, nothing escapes her attention.” Marie also observes the change in Paul: “His sadness [sa tristesse] has ebbed away, now that the regime of marriage has established itself . . . he’s home often, and appears attached to his wife with all his heart [de tout son coeur].” Finally, Marie is forced to admit that “the choice of Therese has been more successful than we had thought.” Mother and daughter-in-law spent a considerable amount of time together. One letter captures the domestic scene: “My dear month of November, when we sit at the fireside as Philemon and Baucis, has great merits . . . we make music together, then we speak reason [on fais de la musique ensemble, ensuite nous parlons raison].” With Therese to provide companionship, Marie hints that she doesn’t miss her husband: “I see my dear husband very little, often not for 3 or 4 days, the separation of table is starting to establish itself.” Marie doesn’t blame Therese (“this is not her fault”) but in fact seems to be embracing her independence: “This morning I haven’t seen one single living soul, but I was so happy, as long as there are quills [plumes], books [livres], scores [Musiques], and everything one needs to keep oneself busy; it’s a real passion, this dear solitude: one would envy me for how well I know how to enjoy myself [combien je sais m’amusés].” By November 18, 1812, Marie’s relationship with her daughter-in-law appears to have developed into genuine friendship: “Today Therese was ecstatically happy, she’s becoming very friendly, and she amuses me, she’s a good kid: she has dreamed about you [Maria Ludovica].” A few years later, during the 1814–15 Congress of Vienna, the “Therese project” became a delightful fringe event of history, when mother- and daughter-in-law joined forces to deflate political and military tension by hosting a children’s ball (bal d’enfants) for all aristocratic leaders and their families in town. Count de la Garde recalled that “the sovereigns and the whole court appeared to partake in the joys of the children and to relax their otherwise so agitated spirits upon seeing these tableaux of innocence and happiness.” Princess Therese, he adds, “lent the event that gracious affability [cette affabilité gracieuse] and that exquisite taste [ce goût exquis] that distinguish her—an indefinable sentiment that so many lucky elements combine to create.”47 The reader of Marie Esterházy’s private correspondence might agree that one of those “lucky elements” was to have a personality like Marie’s as your example and mentor.

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The Rhetoric of Letter Writing

Having focused thus far on Marie’s relationship with Therese through the filter of Marie’s private correspondence with a friend, let us now turn our attention to the act of letter writing itself. Clearly, Marie had the luxury of devoting significant parts of her days composing these beautiful handwritten letters to the empress. Just how accomplished a letter writer was she? The following is a translation of Marie Esterházy’s complete letter of March 20, 1812 to Empress Maria Ludovica; a transcription of the French may be compared to actual photos of the folded folio letter on the website and as plate 3 in this book: Your Majesty I think that never the most tender billet-doux could incite such a vivid pleasure as the one that I felt the day before yesterday, it is at the theater that one handed me that letter of which the sight alone made my heart beat / I became fidgety, and could not await the end of the spectacle to enjoy my treasure in all tranquility, my waiting was still surpassed / what goodness, delicacy, sensibility: and you may say that there’s exaggeration, I feel at all moments of the day how adorable she is, and that she’s incomparable, and I wouldn’t dare repeat this incessantly; no this is impossible: it is not friendship that blinds me, one just has to be fair, and have a soul to appreciate it: but, for her delectation, I will transform her sublime qualities into faults: to not mend one’s principles to the circumstances, that’s what one calls in the world, to lack prudence and tact: to feel the need to love and to be [loved], that’s romanesque: to act with character, now that is qualified as stubbornness / also to not [want to] know dissimulation is a sort of crime: in sum, everything that in our language we name sentiment, frankness, loyalty has a totally different interpretation: there then is a novel examination of one’s conscience, one that She can submit herself to at will; and I, her very humble and imperfect copy: also I find myself more than ready [literally: also I find my lesson very well prepared], and one does not spare me of it, the approbation of indifferent people means nothing to me / I don’t need that [appearance?] of social friendship: and with disdain I look from my high throne down on those poor mortals: nevertheless, I have enough intelligence to be modest in my good fortune: you should see how peculiar it is when one speaks of you as Empress / I place myself then in the ranks of our

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large community and, inwardly, I tell myself, with true triumph, how far removed you are, My Ladies, from imagining how much of this splendor of Majesty disappears in the charm of sweet intimacy: all that can well rush to one’s head, if one has a lively one, also my dumbfoundedness is sustained by so many circumstances, the mystery, the difficulty of seeing one another, the bliss of a moment, an attraction of sympathy, to be sure, I understand that a pure and delicate sentiment has the same expression, in friendship and in love, and sometimes I think that if my letter were read by indifferent people [by outsiders], they would believe that it’s written by a passionate admirer, and not by the hand of a woman: in the meantime, why deprive ourselves of a satisfaction so sweet, so many moments are possible, so that there exists no other way to be happy anymore than by one’s heart: with much regret I heard that she has been more sick these last days; it was with lightning speed that I noticed it yesterday; nevertheless, it [i.e., seeing her] has made me happy: our evening was a great success, the little pieces were played quite well, and at first directed my thoughts to regret of not being able to let you hear them: now that it’s over I believe that there was some imprudence on my part: because that so-called spectacle would not have carried the approbation in the eyes of my seigneur and master: he indeed kept incognito and was always absent: and that is quite unusual for him: in the first performance [projet] there should have been just 10 to 12 people: but relatives and so-called intimates have an unparalleled talent for multiplication; it’s a snowball that augments itself. / there was a dangerous rivalry in our theater and without something of false shame, Dupont would have stolen away half the audience: I was angry for having forgotten to speak about Mlle Berthier, it would have made us laugh / she’s ecstatic with joy about finally having found a husband, never mind how he is. I suggested that she was sacrificing a lot for little gain: but her decision is firm: the idea of remaining an old spinster must be really terrible, if it means to commit to such a marriage: I am quite curious to meet this lovely victor: I have had Mme d’Armslow ask if I could pay a visit to the archduchess; I was afraid to show but little urgency if I had waited for the day [to pass]: Mme d’Armslow first had it said to me that her Royal Highness would be in prayer [i.e., in retreat] all week, and Your Majesty would come there anyway: this afternoon I have been told that I should come at 7:30 / It appears that, a few days ago already, Ruffo and Rasoumoffsky announced themselves: this is going to make my evening a bit embarrassing: and I feel that I will look a bit stupid; this double measure of observation and constraint will be very peculiar: it will look like I have staged my visit: I am a little afraid that Mme

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the Archduchess will discover that a very tender friendship gets the better of my respect for the empress, the latter she allows me in every dimension but she wouldn’t be as indulgent with my sentiment: I will close my letter[,] the satisfaction of seeing her will replace [the satisfaction] of writing her, nevertheless, the latter takes preference today: I am at her feet, in heart and soul,

on this 20th of March, 1812

Your most humble and most obedient Servant Marie Esterhazy

The salutation, centered but still leaning to the left, and the beginning of the letter are graphically separated, a formal requirement especially when writing to a superior, even when, as in this case, the recipient is a close friend. Similarly, the closing formula (Vôtre trés humble et trés obeissante Servante Marie Esterhazy) is isolated, shifted to the far right of the page, creating a respectful distance, the epistolary equivalent of taking a bow while retreating from one’s addressee. She addresses her friend with “Your Majesty” (Vôtre Majesté) and refers to her throughout the letter in the majestic third person, at times capitalized (“She,” Elle). Mindful, perhaps, of Louis Philipon de la Madeleine’s advice (“if you want others to remember your titles, you must forget them yourself ”),48 she signs off simply as “Marie Esterházy,” not “Princesse Marie Esterházy.” The body of the letter is striking in its syntactic informality. There is not a single paragraph, and sentences follow one another freely, the comma giving the only hint of punctuation, capitals being used but very rarely, and the start of a new line simply superseding the need for a comma. Marie’s spelling, taught to her by her governess (almost certainly French),49 shows the same tendencies for simplification: she applies just one form of accent (´) for both the accent aigu and the accent grave; she uses one form of conjugation regardless of whether the verb is a participle, second person plural, or infinitive (using és for é, és, ez, or er); she pays scant attention to agreement of verb and gender; and so on. Clearly, Marie did not have the rigorous training in syntax that her brothers and her own sons would have had. To put it another way, Marie was never taught Latin, a fact quite hilariously demonstrated in another letter, where, in a moment of playful fatalism, she writes: tout ce qui à été, est, et sera, [everything that was, is, and will be; underlining hers] at seculo seculoram amen,50 a very approximate rendering of in saecula saeculorum, butchering the preposition and cases of this often heard and spoken phrase from the liturgy of the Christian mass.51

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If we set aside our modern obsession with correctness and consistency, however, and read the opening of the letter aloud, we may start relating with its fine conversational spirit: Je crois que jamais le plus tendre billiet doux [sic] peut faire éprouvés un plaisir aussi vif, que celui que j’ai sentis avant hier, c’est au theatre qu’on m’a remis cette lettre dont la vue seule m’a fais battre le coeur / je ne tenois pas en place, et ne pouvoit attendre la fin de spectacle, pour jouir tranquillement de mon trésor, mon attente à encore été surpassés / qu’elle bonté, delicatesse, sensibilité[.]

Words and phrases flow naturally; there’s a vitality and a sensitivity to nuance; and her command of French is actually quite impressive for an Austrian princess. In her many letters, Marie typically switches gears suddenly, usually at the halfway or two-thirds point of the letter, marking the shift from what could be described rhetorically as an extended captatio benevolentiae (since nothing needs to be “petitioned,” except, perhaps, the continuation of friendship) to an informative section.52 This latter half or third of her letters to Maria Ludovica provided a summary of events that would have been of mutual interest. Much less emotionally charged, these sections take keen delight in noteworthy events that have occurred since their last encounter (in person or by letter). Events are loosely strung together, with no logical connections, neither within this new section nor with the larger preceding, emotional one. In this particular letter, the transition between the two parts is signaled by the single word “nevertheless” (cependant, marked in bold in the translation above), quite abruptly—and quite strangely—shifting from Marie’s sensitive observance of her friend’s physical pain (Maria Ludovica indeed suffered and eventually died from tuberculosis) to a delightful, playfully sarcastic, even gossipy account of the previous night’s spectacle and party. A very similar shift occurs in Haydn’s G Major Sonata. But before returning to Haydn’s music, let us consider a letter in his hand directed to his close female friend Marianne von Genzinger. (Plate 9 reproduces its first and fourth pages.) Haydn had returned to Eszterháza from Vienna, where he had been the von Genzingers’ regular dinner guest. In the first part of the letter we hear a seemingly depressed man, too depressed at first to bother with proper punctuation: the most he can manage is dashes, and a few incomplete questions with fleeting reflections on fresh memories. After finally addressing “Your Grace” (here Haydn leaves a significant empty

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space within the line, as if distancing himself from what came before) and asking her “not to be surprised that I have not written a long-overdue thankyou note yet!” (just having demonstrated the very reason for not doing so: a nice and effective reversal of order, since a normal letter would start by “I apologize for not having written to you earlier”), he switches to a narrating tone, now managing full sentences, but still very much in a spoken style, with subjects placed mostly at the front of sentences that are loosely and asyndetically punctuated by commas. His self-pity climaxes in a long series of antitheses (“instead of precious beef . . . a piece of a 50-year-old cow,” etc.) that vividly describe his misery. This rhetorical phantasia is followed by two personifications (prosopopoeia), first of himself and then of an imaginary servant, waiter, or host. Interestingly, Haydn finds it necessary (whether rhetorically or not) to ask for Her Grace’s forgiveness “for stealing your time with such stupid nonsense and wretched scrawling” before assuring her that he is gradually becoming his old self again. He even practiced for the first time, and “quite Haydnish” (und So zimlich Haydnisch). Only after this transition—marked by a separate paragraph—does he shift the spotlight away from himself to his addressee, away from his own depressed feelings to a delightful evocation of her family’s lives and routines. Inviting, even demanding “frequent laughter,” he switches, quite drastically, to an uplifting tone to conclude the letter: Well nobly born Most especially [and] highly esteemed—dearest Frau von Gennzinger [sic] Well—here I sit in isolation—forsaken—like a poor orphan—almost without human interaction [gesellschaft]—sad—full of memories of past noble days—yes past alas—and who knows when these agreeable days will come again? these beautiful gatherings [gesellschaften]? where a whole circle [of people] is [of ] one heart, [of ] one soul—all these beautiful musical evenings—which can be imagined only, not described—where are these [moments of ] enthusiasm?— —gone they are—and gone for long. be not surprised, Your Grace, that I have not written a long-overdue thank-you note yet! I found everything at home in confusion, during 3 days I did not know whether I was master [CapellMeister] or servant [Capelldiener], nothing could console me, my whole quarters were in disarray, my Forte piano, which I normally loved, was erratic, disobedient, it did more to unnerve than to calm me, I could sleep but little, even my dreams haunted me, when I was happily dreaming that I was listening to the opera le Nozze

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di Figaro, that fatal North wind woke me up and almost blew my nightcap off my head; in 3 days I lost 20 pounds, for the Wiener goodies had quickly dissolved on the journey, yeah, yeah, I thought to myself when, in my tavern [or palace’s mess?], I had to eat instead of precious beef a piece of a 50-year-old cow, instead of a ragout with small dumplings an old sheep with carrots [gelben Murcken], instead of Bohemian pheasant a leathery rib steak, instead of those good and delicious Pomeranzen [bitter oranges] a dschabl or so-called grass salad, instead of pastry dry apple fritters and hazelnuts etcetera,—yeah, yeah, I thought to myself, if only I had some of my leftovers from Vienna—here in Estoras no one asks me: Do you fancy some ciocolate—with, or without milk, would you like some coffee, black, or with cream, how can I serve you, dear Haydn, do you like ice with vanilla or with strawberry? If only I had a piece of that good Parmesan cheese, especially [now] in Lent, to make those dumplings and noodles slide down better; just today I asked our porter to arrange to send me a few pounds. Forgive me, dearest, Gracious Lady, for stealing your time with such stupid nonsense and wretched scrawling [already] in my very first letter to you, forgive a man to whom the Viennese have given too many good things, I’m starting, however, to gradually get used to country life [again], yesterday I studied for the first time, and quite Haydn-like, too. Your Grace will surely have been more industrious than I. the pleasant adagio from the quartet has hopefully already attained its true expression through your beautiful fingers. My good Miss Peperl will (as I hope) be reminded of the master by singing the cantata frequently, particularly when she uses clean pronunciation and correct vocalization, for it would be a shame if such a beautiful voice remained hidden in her breast, that’s why I ask you for frequent laughter, otherwise something will surely happen to me. Likewise I commend Mr. Francois [to cultivate] his musical talent, even if he sings in his nightgown, it goes very well indeed, for encouragement I will often send something new. meanwhile I again kiss your hands for all your grace bestowed on me; and am, as always, most respectfully Your Grace’s most obedient and sincere servant Josephus Haydn mppria Estoras, February 9, 1790. [to the left of the signature] P.S. please my most obedient respect to your noble husband. and my compliments to

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Mr. N. Hofmeister [tutor] of the young man. and to

Miss Nanette and the whole Hacker family.53 Haydn scholars have read this letter as the words of a depressed man, an illustration of Haydn’s mounting bitterness over his isolation in Eszterháza.54 I do not entirely contest this traditional reading of the letter. But setting aside the wording of the translation, when this document is presented, as it often is, in truncated form (typically with the long series of antitheses shortened), with its punctuation consistently “restored” along with initial capitals for these normalized “sentences,” and even its threefold paragraph format ignored, we should wonder exactly whose letter we are reading.55 By ignoring or hiding the orthography, punctuation, syntax and I dare say the page layout of the letter as Haydn wrote it, we risk failing to notice that Haydn, through his rhetoric, is actively constructing an identity for himself: a man of considerable accomplishment acutely aware of the fact that he is addressing and confiding in a female friend. Such a woman would expect Haydn to open his heart and would have been offended if he had not. Having gone to great lengths to entertain him in Vienna, she would have been offended if Haydn had casually reported that he had happily resumed his activities at Eszterháza. Surely aware that he had written nothing inappropriate, Haydn’s plea for forgiveness is an epistolary and rhetorical gesture. Haydn’s letter to his friend Marianne von Genzinger resembles Marie Esterházy’s letters to her friend Maria Ludovica in the ways in which he shakes off his emotional “self ” well in time to close the letter in high spirits, ready and eager to continue their friendship.56 Even the postcript (passing on his compliments to the “noble husband” and a few others close to the family) is not just some casual addition: Haydn takes advantage of an empty corner on the page to make sure Her Grace understands he would have so much more to say to her beyond the four completely filled pages. Reading Haydn’s “Musical Letter”

In the privacy of her apartment, Princess Marie places her Bossler copy of Haydn’s Sonatas on the desk of her instrument (almost certainly a square piano) and with eager anticipation begins to play. Ex. 4.1 features the opening of the G Major Sonata. (In the following examples we have intentionally used scans from the original edition to add historical realism: almost certainly, it is this copy of the text that the princess would have been presented

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Ex. 4.1. Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:40 (Speyer: Bossler, 1784), first movement, mm. 1–8

with; no autograph of the “Marie Esterházy” Sonatas has been preserved.) Add punctuation to these eight opening bars and call them a “period,” with its four-bar antecedent and consequent phrases, and you miss the essence of Haydn’s rhetoric. Thoughts express themselves in a gentle flow on a tonic pedal, a touch of subdominant on a light part of the beat, a je ne sais quoi—is it a gentle look in the eye, a warm smile, a comforting, inviting gesture of the arm? The ideas are very simple—a three-voice chord opens up, then closes again, giving rise to an opening motive, x, and its opposite, y. Without waiting for a proper introduction of the two motives, a third motive, z, emerges. These three motives, interlocking, gently interacting with one another, but becoming increasingly submerged in the one motive z, create an overall lilt of loosely punctuated commata, very characteristic of oratio soluta, a loose, spoken style “such as we find in conversation and in letters,”57 disarmingly innocent. The entire opening “statement” is, in a sense, nonrhetorical. It avoids clarity, “escapes from” a possible cadence in m. 4, prefers non-root-position to root-position chords, subdominant security to dominant adventure. Bar 7

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is extraordinary. E minor, the submediant of G major, draws attention to itself before reluctantly yet graciously yielding to musical etiquette: the closure of a phrase on a half cadence, executed in a wonderfully understated way, the c ♯ 2 adding just a touch of a supportive secondary dominant. Interestingly, the modern editor—like the modern transcriber of Haydn’s letters—is puzzled by what appears to be an orthographic mistake in Bossler’s edition (which, owing to the lack of a manuscript, is the default authentic source): he adds a bass note, A, as the last eighth note of the seventh bar (see the asterisk in the example) and thus clarifies the underlying harmony as a root-position dominant seventh chord.58 Such “clarifications,” however, alienate us from Haydn’s female dedicatee, who in her own writing favored sensitivity over logic, suggestiveness over clarity. We further risk crossing that line from colloquial—the hallmark of a good letter—to stiff and formal. If Haydn had insisted on a “correct” rootposition cadence, he would have risked turning off his prospective pupil before the first lesson, just as much as if he had adopted a uniformly formal tone in his letter. To be sure, an accomplished and sensitive performer could pull off both versions—one can also play a root A with rehearsed elegance— but why do it? Why feel embarrassed by that strange jump in the bass from E straight to D, if the artistic intent might have been to be delightfully “incorrect” in the first place? As Lausberg explains, oratio soluta “may be imitated for artistic purpose[s] . . . to achieve an impression of simplicity.”59 If anything, the clarification that we think we need occurs in the B part, in m. 11, where E minor (vi) and A dominant seventh (V7) now stand next to one another, the directness of their root positions softened by motive z, which crisscrosses in several kinds of motion (down, up, parallel, contrary). As in the opening, the “goal”—a half cadence, or D major—just “happens,” and when it does, we simply go with it: five measures (one plus four) of single notes in one hand (the note happens to be the structural dominant), while the other, with similar casualness, introduces the seventh, both hands decreasing rather than increasing in sound, from piano down to pianissimo. By the time we reach the fermata in m. 14, the dominant seventh has been instilled rather than established. Unnecessary for any structural purpose, the forte invites the performer to take a fresh breath, just enough to sustain a resting point—a moment of suspension, an extended upbeat—before rejoining the fine rhythmic lilt of the opening period (m. 17). No surprise, no shock: everything is just smooth and effortless. If we were also playing and listening, not just looking, we might have missed Haydn’s “non-resolution”

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of the leading tone and seventh, the former simply left hanging, the latter dissolved by the little improvised Eingang between the end of the B section (m. 16) and the beginning of the A′ (m. 17). Toward the end of the first movement, in the BA′ part of the last variation (ex. 4.2), Haydn abandons this rhetoric of understatement: he now hammers out (fortissimo, m. 84) the dominant seventh chord, that connective

Ex. 4.2. Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:40 (Speyer: Bossler, 1784), from first movement, m. 80, to second movement, m. 5

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particle, if you will, between the B and A sections. Connective particles are typical for a written, periodic style, and also for a learned, oratorical style (as in Haydn’s letter to his prince cited in chapter 1). Having downplayed these connective particles in a loose, spoken style, Haydn now overcompensates, taking the opportunity, furthermore, to unite major and minor modes in one broad, concluding gesture on the dominant (mm. 84–88). With the calando in mm. 88–90 (which has the effect of “asking for forgiveness” for such excessive force before), we realize that something’s up: Haydn’s alter ego, that of Haydn the orator, is about to reenter. As we saw in his letter to Marianne von Genzinger, Haydn simply cannot switch, with the snap of a finger, from a sentimental to a jovial mode, as Marie Esterházy clearly was able to do. (Ex. 4.3 demonstrates such a version, ending the first movement as if it were one of Marie’s letters, attacking the second movement with a single “nevertheless” or “oh well.”) Instead, he redesigns A′ and turns what could have been a regular closing section into a crafty transition, both confusing and propelling his player into a new character and movement. This clear oratorical procedure may very well signal Haydn’s intention of setting himself apart from his female addressee to mark the beginning of a new relationship: composer and dedicatee becoming master and pupil. “Why,” we hear the pupil ask, “do I have to learn these things?” She may find her teacher’s answer in the second movement, after an extended passage that stubbornly holds on to the key of E minor (mm. 25–49, ex. 4.4). In 1784–85 Christian Friedrich Daniel Schubart described E minor as “a naive, womanly, innocent declaration of love. . . . One could compare it to a maiden, dressed in white, with a roseate ribbon around her bosom [mit einer

Ex. 4.3. Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:40, from end of first movement to beginning of second movement, rewritten without transition

Ex. 4.4. Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:40 (Speyer: Bossler, 1784), second movement, mm. 22–52

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rosenrothen Schleife am Busen].”60 As a performer of this piece, I think I understand Haydn’s evocation of E minor in m. 7, the penultimate measure of the opening statement. The forte, the extended bass note, which I am forced to leave—alas!—makes me nostalgic for that “key of innocence,” not the key of this piece, but another one, imagined, one from the past, maybe even one that Haydn had just finished composing: Hob. XVI:34, with its innocentemente variation-rondo finale in E minor.61 Here, in the second movement of No. 40, nostalgia becomes despair. In mm. 33–34 Haydn gives us a chance to return to the other room of G major, the key of the surrounding sections. The abrupt silence at the end of m. 34 marks a hesitation that invites us, for a few moments, to contemplate the option of returning to G major (m. 35), but leaves us clinging to E minor nonetheless (m. 36). It is not dominant seventh chords and diminished seventh intervals (mm. 39–42) that hold us in a firm grip; rather, it is we who do not wish to let go of them. There’s an inexplicable attraction to E minor, even if it means to revel in its more painful, dissonant side. But as this drama reaches its zenith with a full-blown cadence in E minor (mm. 42–44), Haydn steps in, applying all his experience in life and work, both with impressive skill and tact, turning tears into smiles and gently leading us back from the privacy of our thoughts and our nostalgic memories to the public space of the ballroom. (The d ♯3–e3 sigh figure in m. 44, a “tear” in the highest of registers, is transformed to c ♯3–d3 in m. 47, one satisfying step lower, a “smile”; then, in utmost calm, an extended dominant chord— the proper one this time—prepares the smoothest of reentries of the opening theme in G major.) Concealed in illusive simplicity, Haydn’s skill calls to mind an orator who proceeds from refutatio to confirmatio, sealing his opponent’s defeat with well-honed counterarguments, or a skilled composer who finds his way out of a harmonic “point of furthest remove” as he connects the development with the recapitulation of a sonata.62 That Haydn demonstrates this skill in a movement other than sonata form reflects the paradoxical intent of Marie Esterházy’s sonatas: to teach, but not to lecture; to demonstrate, rather than to explain; to befriend, not to paternalize. Sonatas Nos. 41 and 42

If Sonata No. 40 allowed the teacher to gain the trust of his young pupil, the next sonata, No. 41, moves on to a more intense kind of training. We recognize in this sonata a reflection of a music lesson, in which singing and playing go hand in hand—singing indeed constituting the complementary

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activity for any keyboard-learning young lady. Consider the opening bars (see ex. 4.5a): an assertive opening chord with the tonic on top (imagine the teacher at the clavichord or square piano, giving a clear sign with his arms and upper body as to when to begin); from there a diatonic scale down, made more interesting by slurs and Haydn’s version of the French tierces coulées (slurs and staccato signs indicating that it is the short rather than the long note that should be inflected, exactly as C. P. E. Bach would have wanted it), and back up again. Mm. 4 and 5 contain a keyboardistic version of the vocal messa di voce on syncopated dissonances that appear to swell as the left hand changes harmony; m. 6, finally, engages in “agility”-building four-note divisions before mm. 7 and 8 wrap up the opening phrase where it began—on tonic b 𝅗𝅥1, but one octave lower. Through the entire movement, we may identify similar solfège types of techniques or patterns, of the kind that Haydn would have known from his formative years under Nicola Porpora back in Vienna,63 or from his endless sessions at Eszterháza coaching sopranos like his own lovely but not overly talented Italian mistress Luigia Polzelli.64 Such exercises include a long series of ascending trills leading into downbeat appoggiaturas (mm. 25–30) or chromatic scale patterns to be repeated no fewer than four times until she finally gets it right (mm. 43–46). Not only does their isolation allow the student to polish her performance, but also, taken together, the various patterns create for her a perfectly fine sonata-form movement; a contemporary reviewer in Carl Friedrich Cramer’s Magazin der Musik called it a “master piece in its own way” (ein Meisterstück in ihrer Art).65 When, toward the end, in mm. 142–143, our soprano-keyboardist gets to “sing” a short but complete cadenza (a long scale up to the highest note of the piano followed by a whole-note trill), it is as if, for that brief moment, she is made to feel what it is really like to be a prima donna on a theatrical stage, approaching the end of a concert aria and anticipating the erupting applause. If the right hand represents the female singer, then the left embodies the male teacher-accompanist, who carefully places his supportive harmonies in clear, multivoiced chords (as in mm. 6 and 43ff ) and who helps carry her melodic line with Alberti-type arpeggiations (mm. 25ff ). Both hands keep their individuality in the second movement as well (see ex. 4.5b), much more than they do in the otherwise similar finale movements of the Sonatas 1 and 3 of the set. Allowing the right hand (the pupil) to shine, the left hand (the empathetic coach) nonetheless follows closely, imitating her every move and making sure to infuse whatever his pupil does with appropriate energy. At

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Ex. 4.5. Sonata in B 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:41 (Speyer: Bossler, 1784), (a) first movement, mm. 1–8; (b) second movement, mm. 1–8

the reprise of A′ (of an overall ABA′ structure) these roles are reversed—a testimony to the growing confidence of a teacher-pupil duo. Cramer’s reviewer recognized in the third Sonata in D Major, Hob. XVI:42, a “skilled and tasteful [female] singer [eine geschickte und geschmackvolle Sängerinn].” If the variations of the Sonata in G Major are “excellent,” he continues, then the ones in D are “possibly still better [treflicher] than the first.”66 In my interpretation of Sonata 3, I too stress the “skill” and “taste” of the performer—either Haydn setting an example, or the advanced pupil emulating her master—but leave behind the metaphor of a female singer with accompanist: after the interactive lesson of Sonata 2, it is now one person who takes center stage. Compare the first and third sonatas’ opening periods to their respective finale movements (see ex. 4.6). Surprising, witty, and exciting, the G major

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Ex. 4.6. (a) Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:40 (Speyer: Bossler, 1784), second movement, mm. 1–10; (b) Sonata in D Major, Hob. XVI:42 (Speyer: Bossler, 1784), second movement, mm. 1–8

period is also a model of clarity: a quickly pulsating pedal tonic, with the third on top, temporarily “opens” to a neighboring c1 on the downbeat of the second bar, immediately “closing” back to b. After these moments of tonal clarity we move to the dominant, D. We do so twice, both in the antecedent and in the consequent phrase. The second time, our celebration of D conveys sheer silliness: repetitious “opening” and “closing” (from f ♯ 1 or 3 in D to g1 and back), gratuitous sixteenth-note running figures in the right hand, hyperbolic exclamations at the end. But giggling gives way to an intellectually unsettling “riddle” in the third

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sonata. From the outside, things still look innocent enough: we’re inclined to assume as we play or listen that we’re dealing with a cheerful opening period. But consider how, in the strangely downward winding single melody of the two opening bars, two slurs initially overlap: should we stress the upbeat or the downbeat—or both? And where does that d ♯2 come from (as the fourth tone of the first long slur)? When in m. 3 a “proper” d ♮1 tonic makes its entry as a bass pedal after all (its rhythmic drive familiar from the G major period before), it does so with a distinctly different harmonic meaning: as a dissonance, turning what we have registered as suggestive of E minor (with G ♮) in m. 1 into a secondary dominant (with G ♯), not of D major (the key of the sonata, and by all reasonable expectation also the key of this finale movement) but of A major, or the dominant of D. If mm. 1–4 constitute an antecedent phrase, then mm. 5–8 are the consequent phrase; but both—and this is the logic-defying part—are in the “wrong” key of A major. Or, from the perspective of voice leading: if 3 “opens” to its neighbor, 4, instead of “closing” again as it should (and as it did in the G Major Sonata), it “opens” again, G becoming G ♯ and leading to the yet higher pitch of A. Compare the slurred upbeats of m. 8 and m. 1, both bracketed in the example: they’re the same idea, in a “my end is the beginning” kind of way, except we’re not quite sure which is which. As performer or listener we can brush the problem aside, but not for long. Haydn the orator makes sure of that, first by making us realize that something indeed went awry (see the painful deceptive cadence in m. 45, not shown in the example), and then by a step-by-step reconstruction of what should have been a proper opening antecedent in the first place (offering retrospective “corrections” from m. 52 onward). When we finally reach that structural D major cadence in m. 87, we celebrate the “all’s well that ends well” with the same running figures (in the same key) that gave us so much carefree pleasure in Sonata 1. Sonata 3, as I have suggested, is a transformed version of Sonata 1: a casual letter rewritten as a full-grown and publicly declaimable musical oration. Both sonatas warrant independent close analysis.67 But to recognize these unmistakable links between the two sonatas—the first and last of an opus—also raises the crucial question of why Haydn wanted to pair “innocence” with “slyness,” so strikingly symbolized by a single tonicization of E minor, whether reflecting nostalgia (as in the first sonata) or initiating a logic-defying ploy (as in the third). Then, there’s the D Major Sonata by itself, which, in my opinion, constitutes the single most remarkable example

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of classical oratory among all of Haydn’s keyboard works, if not of his entire oeuvre. Why do we find precisely this textbook-like demonstration of oratory in a set dedicated to a lady? That Haydn does not underestimate his pupil, but in fact opens up a world of male-oriented oratory in the private space of a young princess’s apartment, points to the very paradox that would have applied to someone with the talents of a Marie Esterházy. The sonatas, as the contemporary critic also realized, “are more difficult in their execution [in der Ausführung] than one would initially assume: they require the highest precision [die höchste Präcision] and much delicacy [viel Delicatesse] in performance [im Vortrage].”68 To play them as if they were “just” innocent or casual, with a level of competence and skill that would have been nonthreatening to the male connoisseur, was, indeed, the mark of a lady. But to write them for such a lady is the hallmark of a composer who actively communicates with his dedicatee, who is a wonderful and patient mentor, and who through his music remains in touch with etiquette and life. Innocence Lost

On the most intimate level, Haydn must have known that even his wellmeant guidance would necessarily fall short. Marie, this young, extroverted girl, had lost her innocence. In a letter to her dear friend Maria Ludovica, one leaflet among a pile of largely forgotten documents in the Hungarian State Archives, Marie wrote on Christmas Day 1812: Nickerl [Nicolaus] makes terrifying progress in my antipathy, I almost came back to how it was 29 years ago: when I see him enter my room, it gives me nightmares: and, yet, we have to get along, for the rest of his life [la reste de sa vie]. . . . I am indisposed quite often / pain from stomach cramps; which torments me at all hours and which stops me from sleeping: I spoke to the doctor, who says that, in women, the entrails are the most attacked by grief, incessantly compressed: there, a new discovery that soul and heart situate themselves in the lower abdomen.

“How it was 29 years ago” brings us back to 1783, the exact time of her wedding (since she saw Nicolaus only twice that year). Her mother, her governess, her nuns (if she ever attended boarding school), and her priest (if they had premarital counseling) must all have impressed upon her that the immediate consummation of marriage was not a choice but an obligation.

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According to the rules of her Roman Catholic faith, failure to consummate could result in papal annulment of the vows. In a September 1816 diary entry, Lady Frances Shelley reflected on the inexperience and youth of bride and groom (see above), then added: Can one be surprised at the misery which results from such marriages? Is it surprising that he should have a hundred mistresses, and she a lover? It seems that her lover has lately put her in despair by marrying at sixty-five. The late Empress was her great friend, and she talks of her with affection, while tears spring to her eyes.69

Marie told her life’s story to anyone who would listen. Assuming that Lady Shelley accurately remembered the details, Marie’s affections jumped from husband, to lover, to friend. In her need, Marie may well have been compensating for the absence of conjugal love with friendships, blurring and substituting the two. We observe a similar impulse in her communications with Maria Ludovica. For example, in the same letter, as Marie grapples with deeply tormenting feelings about the husband with whom she must live “for the rest of his life,” by a simple change of pronoun she reveals just how remote those distant vows of “for as long as we both shall live” look to her: “Never did I imagine that friendship [amitié] could create this magic, it’s quite peculiar at 44 to know something that in its combination of perfections has always seemed impossible to me.” But four years later, in 1816, Marie loses the two great emotional anchors of her adult life when her dear friend the empress dies and her lover, Prince Andrey Razumovsky (now mostly known as the dedicatee of Beethoven’s Op. 59 String Quartets), marries the thirtyone-year-old Countess Constantine Thürheim. Marie, desperate, proposed a ménage à trois, but in vain.70 No wonder “she talks incessantly” or “wishes so much to please, and to be amiable,” Frances Shelley’s tone indicating both pity and annoyance.71 By 1816 Marie was a woman in grief, trying to move on with her life. But moving on she sadly had had to do long before. Her aunt Eleonore Lichtenstein discloses a horrific situation that nobody in good faith would wish on anyone’s daughter or daughter-in-law (this is the continuation of the passage on the actual wedding quoted above): The father [of the young Prince Nicolaus], Prince Paul Anton, was a widower, 47 years old. He developed such an irresistible infatuation with his daughter-in-law that he started scheming a plot to annul the marriage and

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marry her himself. All this resulted in great anger within the family, and firm, united action was required from both the grandfather Prince Nicolaus Esterházy and the Princess Franzin [= Maria Leopoldine] to resist his intention. Prince Paul later married one Countess Hohenfeld and died in 1794.72

Marie’s father-in-law’s reckless infatuation and actions must have turned Esterházy-Liechtenstein family reunions into complicated affairs, to say the least. Equally bizarre is a note of May 26, 1810, from Nicolaus II to his eldest son Paul about the prospective birth of a bastard child: “In haste! When Frau von Kemmitzer has her child, have it baptized in my name! Nicolaus Paulus [sic], if it’s a boy; Leopoldine Henriette, if it’s a girl! I will write Frau v. Kemmitzer with the next courier. The expenses are to be handsomely paid! N. E.”73 Given these additional events and situations, our hope of reconstructing Marie’s fifteen-year-old persona proves either increasingly problematic or painfully naive: things just weren’t that simple. If anything, rather than reflecting her own experience, her musings about her own daughter-in-law may reveal the yearnings of a forty-four-year-old woman who badly wants to be the supportive mother-in-law she never had.74 Her widowed father-inlaw, on the other hand, had been closely present for all the wrong reasons. All the while her husband was on tour with his tutor, crowning the education of his own adolescent life and making the transition from young man to man. This leaves the fifty-one-year-old Haydn and his gift of piano sonatas in 1784. Haydn biographers have repeatedly drawn attention to the many kind gestures bestowed on him by the reigning Princess Marie Esterházy. She was the one who intervened with her husband on his behalf to raise Haydn’s pension. She was the one who personally visited him at his Gumpendorf house, bringing along her own daughter, to break the news of Haydn’s youngest brother’s death. During the famous performance of his Creation at the Vienna Universitätssaal, Haydn’s last public appearance, she was the one who, sitting next to him, noticed a draft and put her own scarf around his neck, a tender gesture imitated by several other ladies until Haydn was completely covered with scarves.75 Back in 1798–99, the princess and Haydn exerted their combined influence over a stubborn Prince Nicolaus II to convince the prince to allow his clerk, Carl Rosenbaum, to marry his true love, the famous singer Therese Gassmann.76 These well-known facts, taken together with so many more, have contributed to a lasting image of Marie Esterházy as “an

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angel in gentleness and goodness” (eine Engel an Sanftmut und Güte).77 But back in 1784 it had been Haydn who lent his scarf, so to speak, to Marie. Able only to understand, not to heal, the emotional wounds of her wedding season, he had presented her with a special gift: three of the finest ladies’ sonatas. With these sonatas he could lead her symbolically around a ceremonial fire, that symbol of the transition from prospective bride to confident hostess, from Mademoiselle to Madame, from the innocent recipient of a heartfelt letter to the skilled declaimer of a crafty oration.

He had very lively imagination and a very light hand, with which he executed [ausführte] dexterously everything that he thought [was er dachte]. F R I E D R I C H N I C O L A I (1785, 401), on the sculptor

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An Opus for the Insightful World

The first edition of Haydn’s “Auenbrugger” Sonatas (Hob. XVI:35–39, 20) came with a printed warning: “In these six sonatas two pieces [due Pezzi] may be found that begin with a few measures of the same sentiment, namely the Allegro scherzando of Sonata No. II and the Allegro con brio of Sonata No. V. The author forewarns [ previene] that he did this on purpose, deliberately changing in each of these the continuation of the same sentiment [Continuazione del Sentimento].” Picking up the volume at the Artaria store on the Kohlmarkt in Vienna and opening its cover for the first time, one may feel prompted to go immediately and check those particular moments from the second movement of “Sonata No. II” in C♯ Minor and the first of “Sonata No. V” in G Major (see ex. 5.1). Realization would come very quickly that these Hauptsätze are strikingly similar indeed, if not identical. They are themes, furthermore, for what twice looks like a variation movement. But why did Haydn wish to inform his prospective client of this? It is peculiar, indeed, that a terse avertimento would occupy the full first page of a new publication, one that marked the beginning, furthermore, of a new and prestigious partnership between Artaria & Company and Haydn. Four lines of rather impersonal prose, it is hardly the equivalent of a 169

Ex. 5.1. One idea, different executions: (a) Sonata in C ♯ Minor, Hob. XVI:36, second movement, opening; (b) Sonata in G Major, Hob. XVI:39, first movement, opening

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multiparagraph, well-crafted, but seemingly spontaneous avertissement for a literary book, where author, translator, or editor hides behind some warning to start capturing the goodwill of the reader. Modern editions of Haydn’s score do not even bother printing it: at most, they quote it in their own preface. So what it is doing there? The simple answer is that Haydn requested Artaria to include it, providing him with the verbatim text in German in order “to forestall the criticism of any know-it-alls.” And he elaborates, “For of course I could have chosen instead of it a hundred other ideas [Ideen]; but so that the whole opus [wercke] will not be exposed to blame on account of this one intentional detail (which the critics and especially my enemies might interpret wrongly), I think that this avvertissement [sic] or something like it must be appended, otherwise the sale might be hindered thereby.” The more complex answer, however, must take into account the public impact of the apology: it is one thing for Haydn to refer candidly to “know-it-all critics” or “enemies” in a private letter, but quite another altogether to prepare a statement to appear in print, referring to himself in the third person as “the author.” More seems to have been at stake. The two cousins Carlo and Francesco Artaria, both in their mid-thirties, had been known for their art prints and maps, but in 1778 they started to expand their operations to include music printing.1 The forty-eight-yearold Haydn, for his part, had just succeeded, in 1779, in renegotiating his eighteen-year-old contract with the Esterházys, enabling him to embark on exactly this kind of commercial publishing project without court permission or approval. This conjunction of ambition and opportunity, as James Webster has observed, “cannot be coincidental.”2 On April 12, 1780, Artaria used the pages of the Wiener Zeitung to announce the publication of “6 new sonatas for harpsichord or fortepiano by the esteemed Haydn.” But it was only after breaking the news that an ongoing series of prints of noteworthy sights in the city of Vienna drawn by Carl Schütz and Johann Ziegler would henceforth be published by them that Artaria turned to Haydn and his sonatas:3 “Not only engravings of all genres [i.e., maps and art], but also musical scores, correctly and clearly engraved, printed on good paper, by the most famous masters, are the objects of our attention so that we may win the appreciation and goodwill of the Liebhaber. We believe that the 6 new sonatas for harpsichord or fortepiano, which we received from Herr Joseph Haiden’s composition, deserve a prominent place in this art column [Kunstrubrick].”4 Artaria underscored the fact that no effort had been spared in producing high-quality scores, which, the company claimed, were “correctly and clearly engraved” and “printed on good paper”—the implication being that, if they

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were worthy of Artaria’s attention and efforts, these prospective scores “by the most famous masters” should deserve the notice of its customers too— and the readers of this regular “art column.” Concern for print quality and target audience permeates the business correspondence between Haydn and “Misters Artaria.” Table 5.1 offers a

TABLE 5.1. Haydn’s letters to Artaria, January 31, February 8 and 25, and March 20 and 29, 1780 Letter 1 Estoras, January 31, 1780 High and noble born, I send you the 6th keyboard sonata since it is the longest and most difficult [die längste und schwerste]: one of these days I will certainly hand in the 5th; in great hurry I remain Messieurs your dedicated servant Josephus Haydn mppria [manu propria] Letter 2 Estoras, February 8, 1780 Noble well-born Gentlemen! I here send you the 5th, as the last sonata, with the request to send all six back to me for correction; all in all, with this work [Arbeit], I hope to earn honor at least from the insightful world [bey der einsichtsvollen Welt]; criticism will come only from those who envy me [Neydern] (of whom there are many); should [these sonatas] generate decent sales, then this will convince me in the future through more work [Arbeith] to always apply myself to serving you before anyone else and to remain Messieurs Your very devoted servant Josephus Haydn Capellmeister. Letter 3 Estoras, February 25, 1780 Particularly honorable Gentlemen, I here send you back the complete corrections of the 6 sonatas with the request to take note of as many of them as possible: the numbers underlined in red are the most essential. The approval of the Misses v. Auenbrugger is of the utmost importance to me, because their manner of performance and genuine insight [einsicht] in composition equals those of the greatest masters. Both deserve to be known in all of Europe through the public press. Additionally, I consider it necessary, in order to forestall the criticism of any know-it-alls [wizlinge], to print on the other side of the title page the following, here underlined:

AVVERTISSEMENT. [sic] Among these 6 sonatas there are two single pieces [Stücke] in which the same idea [Idee] occurs through several bars: the author has done this intentionally, to show different methods of execution [Ausführung]. For of course I could have chosen instead of it a hundred other ideas; but so that the whole opus [wercke] will not be exposed to blame on account of this one intentional detail (which the gentleman critics [die herrn Criticker] and especially my enemies [meine feinde] might interpret wrongly), I think that this avertissement or something like it must be appended, otherwise the sales might be hindered thereby. I submit myself in this matter to the insightful opinion of both misses v. Auenbrugger, whose hands I obediently kiss. Of the 6 promised copies I would like to ask to send one of them to Mr. Zäch v. Hartenstein in the Royal Bavarian Post Office and the other five to Estoras. I hope for a fast response on the point above and have the honor to remain with special esteem Your most obedient servant Josephus Haydn mppria. Letter 4 Estoras, March 20, [1780] Particularly honorable Sir, Everything that you wrote to me, I find fully satisfying; I regret only one thing: that I could not enjoy the honor myself of dedicating these sonatas to the Misses v. Auenbrugger. I remain with due esteem Your most devoted servant Josephus Haydn mppria Letter 5 Estoras, March 29, 1780 Messieurs! Recently I received a letter from Mr. Hummel, Royal Prussian music and commerce councilor, in which I read to my astonishment that my sonatas have been sent to Berlin quite some time ago already. May I also kindly remind you not to forget about the five copies for me. I remain with much esteem Messieurs your most obedient servant Joseph Haydn mppria Source: Bartha 1965, 89–92.

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translation of the five letters that pertain directly to the “Auenbrugger” Sonatas. Letter 1, dated January 31, 1780, is a brief cover letter accompanying Haydn’s submission of “the 6th keyboard sonata since it is the longest and most difficult.” In the literature, the qualifiers “long” and “difficult” have frequently been associated with the musical qualities of the Sonata in C Minor, Hob. XVI:20. Though this may be correct by association, it seems more likely that Haydn was anticipating a particular concern of his publishers: that the sonata would be long and difficult to engrave. At twelve pages, it in fact ended up being two pages longer than the second-longest No. 1 in C and No. 5 in G, both of which were ten pages long.5 We may assume that the four previous sonatas had been previously submitted, perhaps as a group: they may already have been engraved. By sending ahead the last, Haydn demonstrated his sensitivity to the possibility of holding up the production process. He further promised to deliver the last sonata (which is actually to be the fifth) as early as “one of these days.” In 1780 Artaria, because it was still new to the music-printing business, worked with independent music engravers. It served Artaria’s interests to provide these engravers with a steady stream of new work in order to avoid delays in production if they took on other jobs.6 But Haydn too felt the pressure: he signed off “in great hurry.” The decision to recycle an older piece as the sixth sonata—a nice long one—bought him welcome time to write the fifth. Reasonably keeping his promise (“a few days” becoming “one week”), Haydn sent off “the 5th as the last sonata” on February 8, 1780 (Letter 2), and asked Artaria “to send all six back to me for correction.” Now reviewing the proofs of all six sonatas, Haydn must have realized the need for an avertissement. From this point on, musicological theories diverge. One assumes that Haydn, while checking the sonatas one final time, had to have noticed the almost literal repeat of the idea of Sonata No. 2 in Sonata No. 5. But revision was no longer an option: the engraving had been completed. Haydn could not afford to lose the trust of a new business partner in their first collaboration. Anticipating an almost certain perception of fault (indeed sharing it himself ), he quickly but cleverly decided to hide his lapse behind an apologia that evokes the well-known rhetorical distinction between res (ideas) and their materialization through verba (words).7 A second theory refuses to acknowledge any admission of guilt. Far from being a backhanded mea culpa, Haydn’s avertissement is a conscious rhetorical ploy intended to redirect attention from the individual sonatas to precisely these kinds of connections across sonatas and “pieces” (Stücke or pezzi). Not insignificantly, both Haydn (see Letter 3) and Artaria use the

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latter terms for what we would call movements, a subtle reminder that we should think outside the box of a single “sonata.”8 According to this theory, these identifiable connections across pieces are not at all accidental but fully intended. By drawing the public’s attention to one such connection—the most obvious one—the author puts his audience on track toward finding more—and admiring him for them. Of course, these theories are not mutually exclusive: in the case of a genius like Haydn, necessity and serendipity often go hand in hand. Thus, while recognizing and admiring an exceptional “opus-tonality” (nota bene in an essay devoted to “Haydn’s opus planning and innovation”), László Somfai evokes the fire of the opera house in Eszterháza in December 1779 as an incentive for “compromise”: abandoning his plan of composing an opus of entirely new sonatas, Haydn seizes an opportunity to recycle an older one, his C Minor Sonata, Hob. XVI:20 (1771), to serve as the last of six. In his haste to finish, he “was forced to leave the fifth sonata without sonata form opening movement (G/i is a variant of c ♯/ii), which he defended with the publication of a separate avertissement.”9 Unexplained by Somfai, however, is the question of why one movement should be the variant of another. Was Haydn so pressed for time that it was easier for him to compose a variation movement on the same theme rather than on another? In other words, if necessitated by haste, was the connection also serendipitous? Elaine Sisman, in several of her writings on “the opus concept,” answers in the affirmative. But she claims more: by deliberately setting two movements in an opus as variants of the same underlying idea, Haydn “makes it easy for us” to recognize and consequently take part in what she has termed “tertiary rhetoric.” The “Auenbrugger” Sonatas provide a prime if not touchstone example for this kind of “intertextual rhetoric in which pieces converse with each other and with the performers and listeners who make those connections.”10 Tertiary rhetoric complements a distinction made by the historian and rhetorician George Kennedy between primary rhetoric, the kind that is enacted in an oral context (Cicero or William Pitt delivering a speech, whether or not carefully prepared), and secondary rhetoric, which concerns literary genres that emerge in the wake of primary rhetoric and feature an “apparatus of rhetorical techniques” (such as rhetorical figures in literary texts, which are not applied to “persuade” the reader, but to beautify or enliven the narration).11 In tertiary rhetoric, then, it is not—or not just—the composer, the player, and the listener who communicate with one another; rather, the works themselves become interlocutors in a “conversation” on a much larger scale, nowhere as dynamically as

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Ex. 5.2. Opus tonality of the six “Auenbrugger” Sonatas, Hob. XVI:35–39, 20

in a single composer’s opus of works: “The works arise together and often require each other for the full story to be made clear.”12 In my own performances of the “Auenbrugger” Sonatas (a set that I have particularly enjoyed performing in extenso for an audience), I have been consistently aware of an overarching tonal sequence from C major (Sonata 1), chromatically over C ♯ minor (Sonata 2) and D major (Sonata 3) to E 𝅗𝅥 major (Sonata 4), then jumping ahead to G major (Sonata 5), and “resolving” into C minor (Sonata 6): see ex. 5.2. This most remarkable “opus tonality” takes approximately 100 minutes to “unfold”—too long, of course, for performer or listener to consciously sustain at every step along the way. Yet it exists, and the awareness of such a thread beyond the boundaries of sonatas has given me the confidence to characterize each piece or movement individually: three pieces together forming a sonata, and six of those forming one opus, amounting to a total of eighteen “pieces.” As the performer of other works, I had adopted the personae of an orator of a sonata-length speech (chapter 2), of a comic actor of a capriccio (chapter 3), and of the female student in a series of lessons (chapter 4); but with these “Auenbrugger” Sonatas I found myself perfecting the role of a guide who leads his listeners through a “gallery,” as it were, of expressions, characters, or portraits. When assembling this gallery, Haydn paid careful attention to “shadow and light,” juxtaposing darker with brighter subjects, from movement to movement as well as within movements, as in the effective “brightening up” of the same subject in the first movement of the C ♯ Minor Sonata, one of Haydn’s so-called monothematic sonata movements. That Haydn himself used the chiaroscuro metaphor of Schatten und Licht in a letter to Artaria of October 8, 1781, concerning his two collections of songs may be no coincidence, considering the latter’s interest in the visual arts—an interest that, as Thomas Tolley has emphasized, composer and publisher shared, along with presumably hundreds of Kenner und Liebhaber in Vienna.13 But whenever I come to the fifth sonata—the penultimate one, the one

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with the repeated idea—something happens. Jolted out of my leisurely piece-by-piece approach, I suddenly feel reminded of how the concert will end. From the outside, everything still seems to be business as usual: movements 13, 14, and 15 continue a cycle of contrasting characters. But from the larger perspective of an opus tonality I have broken with the pattern of ascending half steps (from C to E 𝅗𝅥) by jumping from E 𝅗𝅥 (Sonata 4) to G (Sonata 5). Thus, I have made G major the dominant that inevitably heads not to C major (the beginning of the opus), but to C minor. With its non-sonata form (hence less structurally self-conscious) first movement, its touchingly nostalgic Adagio (in C major, the key of the beginning of the opus), and its unusually ecstatic gigue finale (prestissimo, the single fastest tempo indication in Haydn’s solo keyboard oeuvre), the G Major Sonata is the proverbial silence before the storm: the performer knows what’s coming—the listener doesn’t. Sonata 6, in C minor, immerses both performer and listener in the Sturm und Drang world of a clavichord, “dark” (minor) dramatically eclipsing “bright” (major).14 Significantly, this last sonata is also the longest. The “Nicolaus Esterházy” Sonatas ended with two distinctly shorter sonatas: the two-movement E 𝅗𝅥 Major Sonata, Hob. XVI:25, with its strictly canonic Tempo di Menuet, and the A Major Sonata, Hob. XVI:26, with its al rovescio minuet followed by a miniature scherzo. Exchanging length for contrapuntal ingenuity may have reflected a strategy on Haydn’s part designed to refresh the prince’s attention toward the end of a long session; but here, by placing the longest sonata of six at the end, he only makes a long session even longer. Yet the placement also makes the experience more dramatic. Not eschewing emotional conflict within sections or movements, this sonata draws attention to itself by presenting a variety of “main emotions” and “side emotions” that are, in a true Forkelian sense, either “maintained, pursued, suppressed, soothed, or eradicated and turned into a different emotion altogether” through a cycle of three long movements (see chapter 2). Not surprisingly, with its greater emotional complexity, it is the one sonata of the six that unleashes the orator-performer in me, again in the German tradition of a “moving keyboardist” (rührender Klavierist). Thus, at around two-thirds of the way (or roughly at the golden section), a “gallery” of 12 + 3 + 3 pieces transforms into a single-opus drama in C minor. Haydn takes authorial responsibility for this transformation through his avertissement. This clear voice by the composer adds credence to the theory, most sharply articulated by Sisman, that Haydn was consciously aware of making connections in creating his grander, intertextually driven opus. In summary:

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1. A large-scale tonal structure imposes itself at the fifth sonata, shifting the focus from pieces or sonatas to opus. (This shift may very well parallel Haydn’s own obligations to his publisher, the composer weighing his options after having sent out the first four sonatas for engraving.)15 2. Underlying this structure are two interweaving narratives, generated by an exploration of such dualities or dyads as shadow and light, or serious and cheerful. These narratives develop independently before merging in Sonatas 5 and 6. 3. As a de facto duo, the Auenbrugger sisters would have aptly enacted these dialoguing narratives in the Viennese salon. Their individual performing personalities would have complemented one another, and their performance of Haydn’s sonatas—two, four, or (an entirely conceivable) all six together—would have elicited a lively discussion on ideas, sentiments, or characters, as well as praise of the author’s mastery in expressing them through music. 4. A modern-day performance of the “complete ‘Auenbrugger’ Sonatas” has the potential of making intertextuality—what Sisman calls tertiary rhetoric—part of the primary act itself. The perceived jolt from gallery to drama toward the end of such a performance is, furthermore, real and intended.

Considered in isolation, these claims are relatively simple. But when put in their actual sociohistorical context, which is needed to prove the third claim in particular, the plot starts to thicken. It takes place in the “critical houses” of Haydn’s Vienna, where individuals of seemingly wide-ranging interests— doctors, poets, artists, musicians, scientists, politicians, and theologians— gather to exchange opinions on art, literature, and science. Two of these subjects, in direct relevance to Haydn’s “Auenbrugger” Sonatas (as we will suggest), would have been the immensely popular physiognomic theories of Johann Caspar Lavater and the stunning Charakterköpfe (character heads) by the sculptor Franz Xaver Messerschmidt, including gossip about the artist’s mental state. These houses would have included the von Auenbrugger residence, where the ladies’ father, Leopold von Auenbrugger, a respected scholar and physician with a pioneering interest in psychiatry, most certainly would have had strong opinions on both Lavater and Messerschmidt; and the fashionable Greiner salon, hosted by the imperial bureaucrat Franz Sales von Greiner and his extraordinarily educated wife, Charlotte (Karoline) née Hieronymus, well-known for her correspondence with Lavater. At the center of attention, finally, would have been two talented sisters: Katharina (born

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Vienna, 1755; died Vienna, June 9, 1825) and Marianna (baptized Vienna, July 7, 1759; died Vienna, August 25, 1782).16 “Equal to the Finest Masters”

On February 8, in high spirits, Haydn sends off the last remaining sonata to his publishers (see Letter 2). He makes a point of reminding the cousins Artaria that the sonata is actually the fifth and not the sixth in the set. In a reflex not untypical for an author at this happy stage of the publication process, he muses about the future impact of his work (Arbeit). Oblivious of the work still ahead for his addressee, he fantasizes about how the publication will be received, both critically and commercially, going as far as linking his fate to that of his publisher: “Should [these sonatas] generate decent sales, then this will convince me in the future through more work always to apply myself to serving you before anyone else.” This is also where Haydn mentions the “insightful world” (einsichtsvoller Welt), distinguishing this sophisticated community from “those who envy him” (Neydern) and who will criticize him no matter what. We recognize the same confident yet defensive Haydn from his so-called autobiographical letter. Back in 1776 Haydn had characterized his critics, somewhat sarcastically, as “the otherwise so reasonable gentlemen of Berlin,” who “have no middle ground in their criticism of my music: in one weekly paper they praise me to the heavens while in the next, they dash me 60 fathoms into the ground, and all this without any credible explanation of why.”17 But these critics, as Sisman has shown, served as necessary characters in the rhetorical structure of the vita itself, introduced, as they were, at the structural confutatio, allowing Haydn to defend himself against his opponents and conclude his letter (which was intended for an Austrian rather than a German readership) with dignity and confidence.18 Haydn clearly did not lose his sharp tongue over the intervening four years. In private letters to his new publisher he now takes to calling his critics not only Neyder, but “some know-it-alls” (wizlinge), “the gentleman critics” (die herrn Criticker) or, more bluntly, “my enemies” (meine feynde). Never mind the critics: true “honor” is to be earned from the “insightful world” (Letter 2). Haydn uses the same term again in connection with the demoiselles von Auenbrugger, whose “insight (Einsicht) in composition equals that of the finest masters” and to whose “insightful opinion” he deferred on the matter of the avertissement (Letter 3). In view of Haydn’s comment that “both deserve to be known throughout Europe in the press,” it

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is somewhat amusing to find his name linked with one of the sisters in an important weekly German paper as early as 1766, edited by none other than the fierce Haydn critic Johann Adam Hiller.19 In this concise “who’s who” of Vienna, Haydn is not even listed as composer but as a “violinist”: “Joseph Heyden, an Austrian, Capellmeister with the Prince Esterházy, in symphonies et cetera.” On the next page, under “women, both from the nobility [von Noblesse] and middle class [mittlern Stande], who are very capable on the keyboard and in singing” and who “deserve to be noted here” (emphasis mine to note the same patronizing tone as Haydn’s), we find “Mademoiselle Auenbrugge” (sic). Unless the younger Marianne was a child prodigy à la Mozart, almost certainly the reference is to the elder Katharina, who at the time was herself barely eleven years old. She joins a distinguished group of twelve women, including the twenty-two-year-old “Mademoiselle Elisabeth [recte Marianna] Martinez,” who “also composes very well [sehr artig].”20 In 1773, when Katharina had grown into a mature eighteen-year-old and Marianna was fourteen, Leopold Mozart told his wife that “there’s nobody like the daughter of H: Doctor Auenbrugger, or rather his two daughters, who both, but especially the elder, play incomparably well and who have a complete command of music” (letter of August 12). The Mozarts had visited the Auenbruggers a few days before, presumably on August 4, and had “dined with them.”21 Most contemporaneous with Haydn’s “Auenbrugger” Sonatas is the following witness account by Friedrich Nicolai, another Haydn critic and actual Berliner, who heard the sisters during his 1781 visit to Vienna: “Fräulein Franciska [recte: Katharina] von Auenbrugger, daughter of the prominent and famous physician [rühmlich bekannten Arztes], plays the keyboard [Klavier] in a masterly fashion [meisterhaft], and sings with pure intonation and with true affect [mit wahrem Affekte]. Her voice is a low soprano. Her lovable [liebenswürdige] sister Marian[n]e, whom I saw while she was very ill and who has died in the meantime, also played the keyboard, and composed.”22 Of the two sisters, the fortunes of good health and good looks seem to have gone to the elder, Katharina, who was a “celebrated beauty,” while Marianne was said to have always been “prone to illness and of a somewhat crooked build.”23 Regarding their respective musical talents, the two quoted reports are consistent in keeping the younger sister in the shadow of her elder sister: Mozart explicitly praises Katharina, and Nicolai, though enchanted by Marianna’s “lovable” character, merely acknowledges her piano playing and composing, reserving the terms “masterly” (see Haydn’s “equal to the finest

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masters”) and “with true affect” (the ultimate German compliment for a performer) for the elder sister. It would be unfair, however, to conclude from these comments that Katharina was the superior musician.24 Knowing them in 1779–80, when Marianna was neither very young or fatally ill, Haydn stresses both demoiselles’ “insight in composition.” That Marianna “composed” at all—a fact worth pointing out for a lady—may have made her a closer colleague of Haydn than her sister was. Artaria posthumously published Marianna’s keyboard sonata, “the first and last from the hand of the illustrious Damigella Marianna d’Auenbrugg,” along with an ode, “Deh si piacevoli” (Ah, so pleasantly), from the hand of an anonymous “friend and admirer of her rare virtues,” set to music “by her counterpoint teacher Signore Antonio Salieri.” (For this title page, see fig. 5.2.) The publication was reviewed in 1783 by no less an authority than Carl Friedrich Cramer, who praised Marianna’s sonata for “revealing the excellent musical qualities of the author [Verfasserin].” Had Cramer actually heard her perform, or did he know her only by reputation? Possibly even “more touching,” he continues, “is the composition of Herr Salieri on the ode: it is so full of expression that every true connoisseur will not sing or listen to it without being touched.”25 Cramer does not praise Salieri’s composition per se: he praises it specifically as music set “on the ode.” Under the circumstances, this subtle clarification makes sense: both text and music are a tribute to Marianna, and the critic is careful not to compare Salieri’s compositional skills to those of la dolce Marianna, who had been “stolen” from the world too soon by “cruel destiny” (destino crudel). The text concludes: “Among the blessed / joyful spirits / eternal peace / ever enjoying; / ah, do remember, / that you were ours, / that you will live always / in our hearts.” Salieri turned the ode into a miniature cantata with obbligato keyboard in three parts: a tearful introduction in G minor, a lamenting recitativo in D and A minor, and a concluding aria in a cathartic F major. The vocal range (e 𝅗𝅥1/f 2) is that of a mezzo-soprano. It is not hard to imagine the two sisters performing together: Katharina singing, with Marianna at the keyboard. In this posthumous performance, however, her teacher, “His Majesty the Emperor’s Chamber Composer,” both touchingly and prestigiously, takes Marianna’s place. When played on a circa 1780 five-octave Viennese grand fortepiano, Marianna’s score reveals no particular weakness, either in a physical sense or compositionally. Well on the contrary. Grand in scope—with a long, multisectional E 𝅗𝅥 major Moderato opening movement in 4/4, a Largo A 𝅗𝅥 major

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second movement in 3/4, and a festive Allegro rondo-finale in 3/8—this sonata is much more a “concert” or “concertolike” sonata than any of Haydn’s own pre-London sonatas, attesting to Marianna’s skills and ambitions and perhaps reflective of her contacts in 1781–82 with Muzio Clementi, who also dedicated one of his Op. 8 sonatas to her.26 Marianna’s sonata reveals the persona of an adventurous performer-composer. Her accomplishments extended beyond music. Katharina’s grandson, Ernst von Lehmann, wrote in 1865 that “Marianna had an exceptional intellect [Geist], spoke and wrote Latin and Greek, and already as a little girl played the keyboard excellently.” Katharina, he continues, “was full of intellect and culture [Bildung] as well [emphasis mine].” This insider’s observation, so it seems, flips the now better-known assessments of those outsiders, Mozart and Nicolai; according to Lehmann, it was Marianna who set the bar for Katharina. Yet Lehmann’s recollections may have been guided more by heartfelt family memory than fastidious attention to detail: he did, after all, switch the ages of his great-aunt and grandmother, incorrectly assuming that the former was “the firstborn.” Lehmann concludes his story of Marianna’s unfulfilled promise by adding that she “died as a spinster (date unknown).”27 Katharina married the widower Joseph Freiherr Zois von Edelstein on January 13, 1782. Once established in her new home, Frau von Zois continued the Auenbrugger family tradition of “host[ing] musical matinées in the winter season on Sundays between 12:00 and 2:00 p.m., which were attended by select company and out-of-town musicians [Tonkünstlern], to the delight of the old grandfather [Grosspapa, i.e., Leopold von Auenbrugger].”28 The 1796 Yearbook of Music in Vienna and Prague, edited by Johann Ferdinand von Schönfeld, confirms the Zois residence as one of the houses in Vienna where “amateur academies” (Dilettantenakademien) were held: “On Sunday mornings, Frau Baronesse von Zois usually holds a small musical gathering [Kotterie], with lots of singing at the keyboard [bei welcher am Klavier viel gesungen wird].” One of the singers would have been Katharina herself, who had given up playing the piano by the time Schönfeld heard her: “Zois, Freyinn von, born von Auenbrucker [sic], once was one of the first artists on the fortepiano, which instrument she played not only with dexterity [Fertigkeit] but also with taste [Geschmack]. For a few years, however, one has not heard her any longer, at least not in academies. Her singing is of the most agreeable kind one can hear. With a pleasant voice she connects a great many ornaments— both graceful and expressive.”29 Count Karl von Zinzendorf notes in his diary on July 23, 1782 (one month before Marianna’s death), that “Mlle. Auenbrug-

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ger” sang the role of “Renaud” (Rinaldo) in Vincenzo Righini’s opera Armida at the residence of Prince Adam Auersperg.30 Either Count Zinzendorf forgot that Katharina had married earlier in the year, or Katharina’s celebrity was such that he persisted in seeing her as mademoiselle. In an oval-framed miniature of Frau Zois, reproduced as fig. 5.1, we see a beautiful, mature, well-established woman. But the only extant image of Marianna is a modest silhouette (Schattenriss), part of the larger oval frame in Artaria’s title page (fig. 5.2), the meaning of which is made explicit by a two-word Latin phrase accompanying the portrait: umbra superstes (“surviving shadow”). On this title page, from a copper engraving by the Viennese Brothers Mansfeld,31 we see from back to front the skyline of Vienna,

Fig. 5.1. Katharina Freifrau Zois Edelstein, née von Auenbrugger. Miniature by Suwis, 1808. Collection of Marianne von Bacho-Dezser. Reproduced from a photograph in the possession of the Joseph Haydn-Institut, Cologne.

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Fig. 5.2. Marianna von Auenbrugger, Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, with ode by Antonio Salieri (Vienna: Artaria, ca. 1783), title page. Reproduced by permission of the National Library of Denmark. Shelfmark U24, mu 6705.1631.

dark smoke rising from a solemn tomb surrounded by pine trees, a laureldecorated urn on a collapsed column, a weeping angel leaning on Marianna’s portrait, and a trumpet laid down in silence—all expressions of profound mourning. But back in 1780, Katharina and Marianna were still the shining stars in the household of their father, who over the years had personally supervised their “excellent education.” A lifelong scholar in addition to his practice as a physician at the prestigious Vienna Spanish Military Hospital, Auenbrugger (1722–1809) “had a rich collection of books” and “always worked and studied very hard.”32 When Emperor Joseph II awarded him nobility status in 1783 (making him Edler), it was not solely in recognition of his introduction of diagnosis by percussion, for which he became famous in the history of medicine, but more generically “in consideration of his fruitful service to the public through his expertise and noble knowledge in medical science.”33 These services—listed as part of the 1782 petition for a noble title on his

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behalf—included: (1) his work at the hospital without salary between 1751 and 1755; (2) his percussion technique and the 1761 publication disclosing his development of it; (3) his leadership in fighting a putrid fever (Faulfieber) epidemic in 1771 among the lower class; (4) broadening the field of medical science through an essay on mania; and (5) submitting to His Majesty an essay “on silent furor” (über die stille Wuth) “as a token of his uninterrupted pursuit.”34 It would in all likelihood have been at the house of this distinguished physician—himself a serious Liebhaber of music35—that Haydn first heard the sisters perform. There he would have “kissed their hands obediently,” as he asked Artaria to do again (Letter 4). In sum, he dedicated his sonatas to two extraordinarily gifted sisters, one of them extroverted, beautiful, comfortable with public praise and attention; the other perhaps more introverted, but with intellectual capacities and interests equal to her father’s. The Lavater Connection

In the winter of 1781 Haydn’s business venture was developing as planned: he was about to publish his Six String Quartets Op. 33, his third production with Artaria. Offering exclusive prepublication handwritten copies to interested gentlemen amateurs “who live abroad,” he wrote the following letter to Johann Caspar Lavater in Zurich on December 3, 1781, explicitly asking him to send his reply to Vienna (rather than Eszterháza): Most learned Sir and Dear Friend! I love and like reading your works. As you may have read or heard, I am also not without skill, since my name, as it were, is highly recognized in every country. Therefore I take the liberty of asking you ever so politely for a small favor. Since I know that there are in Zurich and Winterthur many gentlemen amateurs and great connoisseurs and patrons of music, I cannot suppress the news that I am issuing, by subscription for the price of 6 ducats, a work consisting of 6 quartets for 2 violins, alto-viola and violoncello concertante, correctly copied, in a new and quite special way, for I have not composed any at all for 10 years [emphasis Haydn’s]. I did not want to fail to offer these to the great patrons of music and the amateur gentlemen. Subscribers who live abroad will receive them before I publish them here. Please don’t take it amiss that I bother you with this request; if I should be

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fortunate enough to receive an answer containing your approval, I would show myself and remain your most learned Sir’s ever obliging Josephus Haydn mppria Fürst Estorhazischer Capell Meister. Vienna, December 3, 1781. Address: to be delivered to Prince Esterházy’s house. In Vienna.36

This so-called subscription letter is well-known in the literature for Haydn’s self-professed claim that the quartets are “of a new and special kind,” a description that reflects clever salesmanship or hints at a conscious new approach—or some combination of both.37 One might ask, however, why Haydn chose to share this with the Swiss minister and physiognomist Lavater. Lavater was hardly just another potential client on Haydn’s list. The letter to Lavater differs in distinct ways from the one he sent to Prince Kraft Ernst zu Öttingen-Wallerstein: Most Serene Highness, Gracious Prince and Dread Lord! As a great patron and connoisseur of music, I take the liberty of offering Your Serene Highness most humbly my brand new à quadro for 2 violins, alto, and violoncello concertante, correctly copied, at a subscription price of 6 ducats. They are written in a quite new and special way, for I have not composed any for 10 years. The noble subscribers who live abroad will receive their copies before I submit them here [to my publisher]. Expressing my high esteem for [His] Grace and hoping for [His] most gracious approval, I remain ever in most profound respect, His Serene Highness’ Humble and obedient Josephus Haydn, Fürst Estorhazischer Capell Meister.

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Vienna, December 3, [1781]. Address: To be delivered to the princely Esterházy house à Vienne38

The prince, “a great patron and connoisseur,” clearly made it to the list as a short-term business opportunity: the answer to Haydn’s request is a quick yes or no. But what exactly Haydn expected from Lavater is less clear. He does not ask him directly to subscribe, but rather (and even this is left as something for Lavater to read between the lines) to spread the word of the new quartets to others, namely to those “great patrons of music and the amateur gentlemen in Zürich and Winterthur.” The addressing of Lavater as “dear friend,” the casual captatio benevolentiae (“I love and like reading your works”), and the equally casual placing of himself on a par with his addressee (“I am also not without skill, since my name . . . is highly recognized in every country”) reveal a desire to liaise with a man as famous as the Zwinglian minister, whose work was widely read and discussed among the Viennese aristocracy, intellectuals and pseudo-intellectuals alike.39 One such gentleman in the orb of Lavater’s influence was Count von Zinzendorf, governor of Trieste. Given his onerous professional obligations, Zinzendorf “had barely any time for continued reading,”40 but in his diaries he mentions Lavater repeatedly (“Bunau and Miltitz couldn’t stop talking about Lavater”), adding that “Torres sent me a copy of Lavater’s Aussichten in die Ewigkeit.” When Zinzendorf eventually succumbed to peer pressure and actually read some of Lavater’s work himself, his first response was, “What extravagance!” He then critiqued Lavater’s ideas on the development of embryos, discussing his opinion of Lavater with Sigmund Zois, Katharina’s future brother-in-law. Zois showed Zinzendorf the new fourth volume of Physiognomische Fragmente, which included “many portraits of our lord and the apostles, the emperor, and military men,” and directed him to the work of the French-Swiss biologist Charles Bonnet, “a volume of whom he promises to lend me for on my voyage.”41 These entries, dating from December 1777 to September 1778, were made at the very same time that Haydn was contemplating an expansion of his career as a published author. Either by calculation or by intuition, Haydn understood that the market for his music was the same as that for Lavater’s theories; in modern terms, they “shared a demographic.” In a society preoccupied with proper esprit de conduite, it is not hard to see the attraction of physiognomy, which purports to recognize the “true”

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character of another person purely on the basis of the outer shape of the skull, nose, or underlip. This theory of “reading the internal from the external” is so contagiously practical and seductive that after even a cursory reading of Lavater’s fragments and studying a handful of his illustrations,42 most people succumbed to the lure of amateur physiognomy, applying the theory to any person or portrait encountered. Conveniently for Haydn’s contemporaries, furthermore, Lavater’s theory came with a theological imprimatur. The full title of the book is Physiognomic Fragments to the Advancement of Human Knowledge and Love and the motto from Genesis on the title page of the first volume—“So God created man to his own image”—applies to all four of them. In Lavater’s theory, vanity and moral judgment blur. Every human face, even the most wicked, is a presentation of moral and spiritual truth.43 Naturally, when encountering the grotesque or misshapen, you may feel “better, more beauteous, nobler, than many others of thy fellow-creatures” and “rejoice” in your physical and moral superiority, but, as Lavater cautions, you must “ascribe it not to thyself, but to Him who, from the same clay, formed one vessel for honour, another for dishonour.”44 In short, you are invited to analyze, categorize, and rank people by their facial looks with the assurance that you do so in the name of love and of the glory of God. This single premise permeates Lavater’s work. One does not need to read Lavater’s work in any particular order to appreciate his argument, since it is not so much an argument as an easily grasped assertion. Zinzendorf, for example, started with Lavater’s fourth book. Application and theory are freely mixed throughout, and Lavater’s stylistic choice of presenting his theory in fragments rather than clearly ordered chapters and paragraphs reveals his impulse toward the orphic rather than the philosophical or scientific. Lavater’s work is evangelical: he delivers the “good news” of his insight in ways that comport with his professional instincts as a Christian minister. Furthermore, he writes in a style that is conversational, narrative, and easily accessible—though to the modern reader he may come across as self-indulgent and manipulative. The Greiner Salon

Charlotte (Karolina) von Greiner, née Hieronymus, was “one of the most literate and cultivated women in Vienna.” Her particular intellectual passions were natural history and astronomy. She was also one of Lavater’s biggest fans.45 On July 31, 1781, some six months before Haydn’s letter, she wrote to Lavater:

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My Most Honored Sir, Never did you give away a silhouette of yourself that was received with more or even just with as much pleasure as the one that Herr Steinsky brought from you; for those who enjoy the advantage of knowing you personally it would be dispensable; for those who know you just by name it would be of no particular value. But among those who have read your writings, if anybody appreciates you as much as I do, then certainly no one appreciates you more.46

Lavater and Frau von Greiner had not met; they knew one another through shadow portraits. Soon after receiving Greiner’s first letter, Lavater requested one from her, “small but drawn razor-sharp.” This exchange of shadow portraits marked the beginning of a long and highbrow correspondence. Almost certainly, Haydn had not met Lavater either. But he must have met Frau von Greiner. It is quite possible that the idea of Haydn’s contacting Lavater began with the lady.47 This raises the intriguing question of what aspects of Haydn’s music, heard and discussed at her salon, made her or anyone present at such a gathering think that Lavater would be especially interested in the composer’s latest works. The Greiner salon—with the husband and host’s interests in the arts (poetry, music, and painting) and the wife and hostess’s passions for the sciences (astronomy and natural history)—almost certainly epitomizes “the insightful world” that Haydn refers to in his letters to Artaria. This is the world that, in the late 1770s and early 1780s, Haydn was eager to enter not just by the grace of his reputation as an out-of-town Kapellmeister, but as a flesh-andblood author. As he insisted in 1781 to Artaria, Haydn wanted to personally perform his newest songs in the critical houses because “a master must see to his rights by his presence and by true delivery” (see chapter 2). Texts for those songs had been selected by Councilor von Greiner himself, which more or less guaranteed an invitation to the Greiner salon. Although Haydn was eager to personally present his songs, nowhere in his correspondence do we detect any expressed desire to perform his “Auenbrugger” Sonatas in the critical houses. It is, of course, possible that he did, especially in a circle of like-minded friends as “gracious and uplifting” as the Greiner salon, where any established author—of poetry or music—was welcome to read or perform his own work.48 Haydn’s emphasis (in Letter 3) on the Auenbrugger sisters’ manner of performance and insight in composition as “equaling that of the finest masters” suggests a transferral of the

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rights of performance to them; possibly, in attending a performance by these accomplished players, Haydn would still have been able to “see to his rights by his presence.”49 Indeed, singing and playing a not-too-complex song is one thing (in this context, Haydn himself admits that “they’re just songs”; emphasis mine), but playing a long series of six keyboard sonatas in public is quite another.50 We may start to imagine the following scene. The Auenbrugger sisters have been invited by Herr von Greiner to play Haydn’s newest opus, his first collaboration with the Artaria cousins, who are well-known both to the Greiner household and to the sisters. Haydn is present. Keen to observe and learn, so am “I.” The audience sits in a half circle around the fortepiano. The lid has been removed; the tail of the instrument extends into the audience. The two sisters will alternate: the beautiful and energetic Katharina will play the odd-numbered sonatas, the lovely but somewhat mysterious Marianna the even ones. Polite conversation fills the time before the music begins and latecomers arrive.51 The subject turns to Lavater and his physiognomic studies. “We should try to make him visit us one day,” Frau von Greiner says. Dr. von Auenbrugger agrees. He’d love the opportunity to discuss medical applications with him: the physiognomy of the sick is already an important factor in diagnosing a disease—“but can Lavater’s theories also help predict illness, especially mental illness?” The painter Carl Schütz points out how indebted Lavater is to the visual arts: “Just look at Charles Le Brun’s drawings in his Traité sur les passions, still one of the major textbooks at the French Académie, but also here for us, at the Akademie.” “Of course,” Frau von Greiner knows, “Lavater himself has always been a passionate drawer.” “This reminds me of your old colleague at the Academy, the distinguished sculptor Messerschmidt,” Count von Zinzendorf jumps in, addressing Schütz. “We spoke about him yesterday at the residence of Duke Albert’s: they say that Messerschmidt, now living in Pressburg, has gone half mad.”52 Ignoring the gossip, Herr von Greiner restores the intellectual thread of the conversation: “Careful, though. Both Le Brun and Lavater have studied facial expressions, and have much in common doing so, but their approaches are also essentially different. Le Brun’s is concerned with pathognomy, or the study of passion or character in motion, while Lavater studies character at rest. The term character here may be better understood as a complex amalgam of passions itself.”53 The conversation swings back to Messerschmidt and his “character heads.” Haydn actually saw a number of them when he was in Pressburg last summer. At this point, careful not to burden the conversation with too

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much theoretical hindsight, “I” speak up: “In light of what you said, Herr von Greiner, about the difference between physiognomy and pathognomy: those character heads are a unique and interesting case. They are physiognomic, in that they each represent a certain character with amazing accuracy and with an eye for the finest or ‘rawest’ detail; on the other hand, strictly speaking, they’re pathognomic because their model is mostly one and the same person, namely the artist himself.”54 “Messerschmidt told me,” Haydn confirms (putting me at ease about the appropriateness of my contribution), “that for each new bust he pinches himself at various places of his body, studying his expressions in the mirror. One may find his method of invention [Erfindung] unusual, but I’ll say his execution [Ausführung] is stunning.” “That may well be,” someone objects ever so politely, “but these constructed poses: are they not artificial? Are they not distortions rather than expressions? Where’s nature in all this? Lavater, I dare say, would disapprove.” With the final guests having arrived and the piano tuned, it’s time for music. As we listen—and watch—several themes of the conversation linger and stir together in our minds: physiognomy, pathognomy, character, portrait, the persona of the artist. Speaking of whom: who’s the artist here? “One sees and hears it from him,” C. P. E. Bach wrote in reference to a keyboardist capable of conveying the emotional content of a piece or sonata through appropriate facial expressions (see chapter 2). These were part and parcel of good actio, as the last and culminating stage in the rhetorical process from composition to performance. So for Bach, it doesn’t matter whether we see the composer or the performer: in the end, they’re one and the same. But who are we looking at now? Well, we see Katharina. Come to think of it, the expression on her face has been rather constant through this movement, the first of the opening sonata in the easy key of C major. Granted, there were two exceptions (a developmental passage that veered off into D minor, and a moment in the recapitulation where C minor compelled Katharina to lower her eyebrows) but these seemed to serve the purpose of making the initial character shine through all the more strongly toward the end. She has had this contagious sparkle in her eyes that conveys genuine cheerfulness and optimism. Throughout her well-prepared performance she has managed to look away from her score toward her audience, revealing the confidence of a trained opera singer—which, of course, she is. She has been smiling, furthermore—at times even with her mouth open: we could see her beautiful teeth. But now, anticipating the beginning of the slow movement, her physiognomy changes. Gently closing her lips, her smile disappears; with her eyes cast down, her cheerfulness gives way to an induced seriousness. Now

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playing in a beautiful F major, she contemplates the full impact of Haydn’s musical thoughts. Two physiognomies? Two different poses? By Katharina or Haydn? Or by the present author? Plate 5 presents a series of twenty-one photographs of my performing each of the eighteen movements of the opus (including three additional images to account for two trio sections of a minuet and for the long finale). These snapshots form a gallery of physiognomic poses that Haydn might well have been looking for in his own metaphorical mirror, pulling and twisting his creator’s mind in various directions. Plate 6 makes the analogy with Messerschmidt explicit through a display of Charakterköpfe, selected to match or shape my interpretations of Haydn’s pieces.55 Inspiration for such a gallery comes from Lavater’s so-called physiognomic and pathognomic exercises, such as the one reproduced in fig. 5.3, where sixteen heads in profile are designed to teach the budding physiognomist to “observe varieties, make minute distinctions, establish signs, and invent words, to express these remarks.”56 In Appendix A I submit my homework, writing twenty-one descriptions of my own portraits in Lavaterian prose. Amateurish at best, these analytical sketches are intended to exactly echo the kind of pastime “physiognomizing” that might have taken place in Vienna’s critical houses in Haydn’s day. Ex. 5.3, finally, presents the incipits of the scores for the eighteen musical portraits or “Numbers.”57 An “Eccentric” Model

When the ever curious Nicolai visited Messerschmidt in Pressburg in 1781, he found the sculptor at work on his sixty-first character portrait. Of the sixty completed busts, the German visitor admits to liking only four, namely those “simple heads that are true to nature,” and distanced himself from the “poor twisted spirit of the poor Messerschmidt,” who held these simple ones as “very common,” instead dreaming of “creating some hypernatural spiritual power through compressed lips and ghastly convulsions.”58 Our gallery of snapshots and reproductions includes quite a few with “compressed lips and tense convulsions.” This is not out of some reflex to refute the Berlin critic (he was, after all, no friend of Haydn), but to provoke an appreciation of how also Haydn flirted with exaggeration or distortion to embody his musical characters. A comparison of portraits Nos. 5 and 13 (or the two pieces highlighted in Haydn’s avertissement) illustrates this point: see fig. 5.4 and ex. 5.1. When looking at No. 5 (“A Willful Buffoon”), one is struck by the wide-

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Fig. 5.3. Daniel Niklaus Chodowiecki, Sixteen Heads in Profile, from Lavater (1776), vol. 2, supplement. Reproduced by permission of the Osler Library of the History of Medicine, McGill University, Montreal.

open eyes, which force the eyebrows up and sideways; the tensely compressed lips (as if holding back laughter); the enormous wrinkles on the bald forehead; a broad but interiorized smile; and a chin that covers most of the subject’s neck. Lavater considers a larger gap between eyes and eyebrows as indicative of “a sense more cheerful, more open, more light,”59 but “cheerfulness” seems far too tame a description for a character that has been described as “malicious, treacherous, and spiteful.”60 The similarity with No. 13 (“A Buffoon”) is unmistakable: we find an almost identical malicious smile

Ex. 5.3. Incipits of the eighteen “Auenbrugger” pieces

Ex. 5.3 (continued)

Ex. 5.3. (continued) a = dotted; b = triadic; c = repeated; d = third in left hand, alto range; e = short appoggiatura (crisp); f = diatonic, at least three notes in the same direction; g = main note with neighbor, either direction; h = Alberti; i = arpeggio (thick chord); j = long appoggiatura (expressive); k = cantabile gesture (leap, slurred); l = legato (at least three notes); m = chromatic

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Fig. 5.4. Franz Xaver Messerschmidt, “A Willful Buffoon” (after 1770 [No. 5]) and “A Buffoon” (after 1770 [No. 13]). Reproduced from Krapf (2002), 245, 249.

but with less acute willfulness in the latter: no wrinkles on the forehead, chin tucked in, eyes slightly cast down. Of the eighteen pieces, No. 5 (Allegro con brio, 2/4, A major) is arguably the most awkward to play. First there’s the surprise of the key, which, after a gloomy C ♯ minor first movement, imposes itself with sudden and unashamed brightness. Haydn orders “scherzando”—the only such indication in his complete solo keyboard oeuvre. As can be seen from plate 5, I’m smiling, but somehow I never quite succeed in having the good time that the “con brio” challenges me to have—strikingly different from the C major Allegro con brio that opened the set. Consider fingering your left hand (see ex. 5.1a). You choose a 4–2 for the third, avoiding your thumb on a sharp key (the normal instinct for an early keyboardist). After the sustained upbeat in your right hand, you enjoy the pleasant, “bouncy” downbeat support in the left, but you must stay alert: in order to play the seventh on the second beat (5–1), you must turn your wrist quickly and rather painfully to the left. As you continue practicing, you may decide to anticipate the twist, and play 2–1 on the opening third. But by doing this, not only would you

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give up the physical pleasure of a downbeat, you would end up with a nagging hand position for more than twice as long. Meanwhile, the right hand has its own challenge. Haydn prescribes a variable (“long”) appoggiatura, requiring a “clash” of some sort with the dissonant chord underneath, but barely allows sufficient time to execute it since the left hand keeps bouncing away—should it wait for the right?61 The itching and twisting continues. Regardless which fingering you choose for the upbeat to m. 3, you have to jerk your left hand back up again, continuing with either 4 or 2 on c ♯1, as the start of a chromatic progression toward the half cadence. Your right hand, meanwhile, is coming down in thirds. On paper this countermotion between the two hands looks balanced, but the topography of the keyboard forces the right hand into at least one more uncoordinated twist of the wrist. Then, after a rare moment of synchronization (mm. 4–5), both hands are again thrown in erratic leaps or directions (mm. 6–7). Consider, finally, the deceptive cadence in m. 14. Often a moment of rest or contemplation, this one offers neither: after the special effort of grabbing two narrow accidental keys (f ♯ and c ♯1), the left hand is jolted into yet another awkward position (c ♯–a). And this is only the theme. In the variations there’s more pinching, twisting, and convulsing. Submit yourself to an erratic sequence of ever changing four-note groups (Var. I, mm. 35–50), try phrasing these kinds of groups by incongruent slurs that crisscross over good and bad beats (Var. II, mm. 68–84), and hopefully you garner sufficient self-confidence to still manage a double-hand virtuosic scale in parallel tenths just before your assertive final cadence and your two grand final chords (coda, mm. 90–91). It took me several concert performances to stop blaming myself for missing what looks on paper like an easy run. I can’t help thinking that Haydn has turned me into a Messerschmidt-like model, forcing me to be aware of and consolidate my physiognomic contortions through rehearsals and performances, all while wearing a painfully bright smile (scherzando!), mouth tensely closed. If No. 5 explores the more extreme, perhaps pathological side of cheerfulness, No. 13 feels more balanced and synchronized. Transposing everything down one tone, Haydn offers our hands a simplified topography. Thus, in m. 1 (ex. 5.1b) we deal with only natural keys, which largely eliminates any need for twisting the wrist: we can use our left hand thumb both on b and c1, as part of what has been restored to a “normal,” unproblematic alternation of tonic and dominant harmonies. Where the earlier single appoggiatura in the right hand confused us, the trill is now pleasant to play and smoothly slips into a dotted-rhythm pulse that may be executed in complete synchro-

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nization with the left. In fact, both hands remain well coordinated, moving in either parallel or contrary motion—almost as if a contrario proving the points we made before. The new key of G major has rounded off the edges of a forced smile. Less compelled to impose our emotional presence on our listener, we cast our eyes down; the “willfulness” of No. 5 has ebbed away. Nos. 4, 5, and 6: A Sonata in C ♯ Minor

With an actual portrait of Dr. Franz Anton Mesmer for No. 6 (the minuetfinale of Sonata 2), we invite yet another prominent local figure into our imagined salon.62 Leopold Mozart’s friendship with the man who became known as “the father of hypnosis” is well-known. In the same letter in which Mozart senior praised the talents of the Auenbrugger sisters, he raved about the physician’s musically gifted son, who is “truly talented, so much so that he should be my son, or at least be with me.”63 It had been Leopold Auenbrugger who first introduced the Mozarts and the Mesmers. Mesmer was also a close friend of Messerschmidt. Their work reveals a shared passion for bodily convulsions, whether induced by self-pinching or explained by Mesmer’s theory of “animal magnetism.”64 By the time Haydn composed his “Auenbrugger” Sonatas, Mesmer’s reputation as a magnetizer had already been tarnished (notably by his controversial attempts to heal the blind Maria Theresa Paradies), but he was not yet the “discredited charlatan” that a 1784 French scientific commission, presided over by Benjamin Franklin, would brand him.65 To represent respectively minuet and trio, Mesmer’s portrait (No. 6a) is paired with “Sweet, quiet sleep” (No. 6b). The latter shows the head of someone still awake enough to stand erect: the eyelids are closed, the eyebrows have been accented, the mouth is relaxed, and nostrils are open. The man is in a state of “magnetic sleep,” presumably at rest after some draining moments of crisis.66 In our performance of the “Auenbrugger” Sonatas, after the preceding five numbers, we too have reached a moment of emotional fatigue—whether as listener or as player. In No. 4, the first movement of the second sonata, we had been forced to cloak ourselves in C ♯ minor gloom; the mediant E major (as the second group in the exposition) and the glimpse of submediant A major (notably in m. 57 of the recapitulation) only made the subsequent darkness more oppressive. No. 5 forced us to drastically change facial expressions, from deeply frowning (No. 4) to lifting our eyebrows as high on our forehead as possible. Thus, having been forced to opposing extremes, we now yearn to relax—the perfect condition to allow ourselves to

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be “mesmerized” by the C ♯ minor minuet (No. 6a) and subsequently give in to the “trance” of the C ♯ major trio (No. 6b). For my performance of No. 6b I like to engage the device in Viennese fortepianos (operated either by hand or by knee) that slides a piece of felt in between hammers and strings to produce an “ethereal” or “celestial” cloud of sounds—the exact effect that Mesmer would have achieved by playing the glass harmonica during his séances.67 Through this haze of sound, at least one of our salon guests might have recognized Haydn’s melody from Die Feuersbrunst, Hob. XXIXb:A, written a few years before. “Now that I have my Wurstel, my heart feels light,” Columbina sings in D major, at the opening of a blissful duet at the end of this comic singspiel. Hanswurst responds: “Now that I have you, my darling, my heart feels light.”68 Ex. 5.4 shows the model, with our No. 6b transposed for easier comparison. We can see Haydn enhancing elements of pure “bliss”: No. 6b has no tonic support in m. 1; the canonical left hand in m. 2 suggests some dominant leading to a deceptive cadence on vi in m. 2, except that there is no leading tone on the second beat, so technically there’s no “deception” either; we tiptoe over an incomplete first-inversion tonic in m. 3; and when we finally play a tonic root in m. 4, it comes on a weak beat, its brief appearance immediately replaced by four bars of triple-pulse dance steps around the dominant (mm. 5–8)—not letting go of 5, which has been implicitly present since the opening. Time and harmony, it seems, have been suspended. Now, imagine all of this in the unlikely key of C ♯ major. The Artaria edi-

Ex. 5.4. (a) “Nun ich meinen Wurstel habe,” from Die Feuersbrunst, Hob. XXIXb:A, opening line; (b) No. 6b transposed from C ♯ major to D major

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tion (reproduced in fig. 5.5) replaces the usual graphics for the key signature of the circle of fifths by two straight lines, slanting either upward (for the treble) or down (for the bass). Pitches are ordered from G ♯ up to F ♯ and from F ♯ down to G ♯, or twice the span of a dominant seventh around which the trio will oscillate. The lines composed of sharp signs leave a bizarrely out-offocus visual effect. Like a magnetizer’s stretched-out finger or metal wand, they lure us, as it were, into a world where foreign tones have become the norm. Not only the trio but also the minuet features a tune, known in the literature as “The Night Watchman’s Song” (“Der Nachtwächter”). This is one of at least seven known quotations by Haydn.69 Another is the Baryton Trio Hob. XI:35, played in unison by the viola, cello, and baryton (see ex. 5.5). The tune, a diatonically ascending fifth in minor key followed by a formula characterized by a Lydian fourth (si–do–sol), has been documented to raise associations of “lateness” (the night watchman embarking on his first round), “darkness” (his lantern serving as a beacon of security), or “dawn” (the night watchman completing his final round).70 In No. 6a Haydn’s repeated use of the melody is strangely captivating—indeed, hypnotic. Counting the da capo, we are submitted to it no fewer than eight times. In my performance, I reengage my celestial stop of the fortepiano for the last recurrence of the minuet tune, deliberately prolonging the minuet-and-trio’s moments of “ethereal bliss” before opening up the blinds to a radiant D major sonata.71 Cheerful versus Serious

We have by now pinpointed two moments of shock: first, within a sonata, from No. 4 to No. 5, then between sonatas, from No. 6 to No. 7. With these back-to-back shocks, Haydn imposes a perception of pairs of pieces crossing through the boundaries of sonatas. Contrast—chiaroscuro—becomes the key word, and the generic model was provided at the outset of the opus by Nos. 1 and 2. Just as we admire the radiant teeth and eyes in Messerschmidt’s “The Artist as He Imagined Himself Laughing” (No. 1), we may consider the opening three bars of Haydn’s Allegro con brio (ex. 5.3) as sonically sculpted by the hammers of a stoss-action Viennese grand fortepiano. A dotted (a) and triadic (b) upbeat figure, staccato repeated notes (c) accompanied in the left hand by an alto-range third (d), a crisp appoggiatura on a slurred upbeat (e), and a playful three-toned voice exchange (f ) are all expressions of genuine optimism. As we switch to No. 2 (“The Serious Demeanor of the Artist”), playfulness yields to seriousness. Now playing the lower regions of

Fig. 5.5. Sonata in C ♯ Minor, Hob. XVI:36 (Vienna: Artaria, 1780), Menuet (No. 6a) and Trio (No. 6b). Reproduced by permission of the British Library Board. Music Collections, f.186.v.

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Ex. 5.5. Baryton Trio in A Major, Hob. XI:35, Trio, mm. 17–24

his instrument, the fortepianist explores the cantabile potential of the same hammer mechanism, taking the time to roll his opening chord (i), approaching a variable or “long” appoggiatura (j) by an expressive leap (k), exquisitely slurring groups of notes (l), and earnestly contemplating a chromatic passing tone (m). His mouth is closed, his nose is relaxed (allowing calm breathing), his eyes are cast down. These two distinct poses are the starting points for two respective strands throughout the opus, shown in ex. 5.6. We observe an intensification of “cheerful” (No. 1) to “mischievous” (No. 3) and “clownlike” (No. 5), an absolute peak in “manic/hyperactive” (No. 7), a temporary ebbing away to “witty/ naive” (No. 9), but then a modest curving up again to “roguish” (No. 13) and “mocking” (No. 15), before cheerfulness disappears altogether: these are the circled tones. The “serious” strand (starting in No. 2) includes “forceful” (No. 4), “serene” (No. 6), “lethargic” (No. 8), “melancholy” (No. 10), “poetic” (No. 11), “determined” (No. 12), “noble” (No. 14), “anguished” (No. 16), “(sort of ) accepting” (No. 17), and “tormented” (No. 18): see the squares. Until No. 10, the alternation between cheerful (the odd numbers) and serious (the even numbers) is crystal-clear. (The more objective division along tempo—fast vs. slow—in fact yields the same result.) But Nos. 10–12 display a more consistently serious content. Nos. 14–15 restore the alternation, but only briefly: while Nos. 10–12 have their lighter moments, Nos. 16–18 are unwaveringly (and, as we shall see, self-destructively) serious. Naturally, these strands accumulate contact points along the way. The default similarity of Nos. 13 and 5 is just the tip of the iceberg. In ex. 5.7, for example, the similarities between the themes of Nos. 1, 3, 5, and 13 (presented in C major for easier comparison) are unmistakable. The suspended single downbeat of No. 3 transforms into the upbeat figure of Nos. 5 and 13. No. 13 restores a dotted-rhythm bounciness, taking its cue, so it seems, from Nos. 1 and 3. No. 3—so clearly the source for Nos. 5 and 13—is itself derived from the consequent phrase of the theme of No. 1.

Ex. 5.6. Physiognomy of an opus

Ex. 5.7. Comparison of Numbers 3, 5, and 13, opening measures

Ex. 5.8. Comparison of Numbers 2 and 14, selected measures

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The “serious” strand has its own internal connections: slow movements that open with an arpeggio on a solemn downbeat (Nos. 2, 8, 11, and 14), themes that feature long appoggiaturas (Nos. 2, 4, 6, 8, 10, 16, 17, and 18), or some particularly striking harmony, such as a Neapolitan sixth, a diminished seventh, a deceptive VI, or an augmented (French) sixth (Nos. 4, 6, 8, 11, 16, and 18). In fact, like their two Allegro con brio counterparts Nos. 5 and 13, also the two Adagios Nos. 2 and 14 might have warranted a “warning”: ex. 5.8 isolates material from their respective first and second key areas that is almost identical, in spite of a change from duple to triple meter. From Physiognomy to Pathognomy

At some point, the physiognomic dyad “cheerful-serious,” which reveals itself so clearly for the single pieces from No. 1 all the way to No. 10, transfers itself to the broader structure of the six sonatas. As the performance progresses, this is clearest from Sonatas 4–6, but retroactively the alternation applies to Sonatas 1–3 as well: see ex. 5.6, second system. The odd-numbered sonatas, 1, 3, and 5, all have two circled single pieces, “cheerfulness” thus outbalancing “seriousness.” Sonata 2, with its awkwardly cheerful middle movement, yields to a majority of “serious.” Sonata 4 has three squares: “definitely serious.” Sonata 6 (can there be any doubt?) is “most definitely serious.” Thus, whereas the “serious sonatas” become more and more so as the opus progresses, the “cheerful ones” remain consistent in their inconsistency, their outspokenly cheerful outer movements (in the same major key, with similar tempo) always enclosing a serious middle movement (in the subdominant or parallel minor key, with a slow tempo). Fig. 5.6 presents a graphic overview of the opus. Groups of twos and threes multiply to six, both on the level of single pieces (the maximum amounting to six pieces or one sonata pair) and on the level of three-movement sonatas (together amounting to the complete opus). The surface alternation of dyadic physiognomies is most clearly manifested in the first group of six pieces, with “shocking” No. 5 jolting performer and listener alike out of an expectation of a conventional three-movement-in-one-sonata and the minuet-trio No. 6 conveying a sense of distanced conclusion. After the “consistently serious” Sonata 4, which puts a halt to the physiognomic alternation on the level of pieces, No. 13, as the opening movement of Sonata 5, eases us back into a perception of a six-sonata sequence. It is here that a gallery of eighteen pieces transforms into what will eventually reveal itself as a drama of six sonatas. Remarkably, Nos. 5 and 13—or the two pieces singled out by Haydn—

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Fig. 5.6. Physiognomy and pathognomy of an opus

are each the fifth member in their respective chain of six. At their respective level of piece and sonata, both are responsible for forcing a hemiolalike feel of twos against the threes: two pieces, two pieces, two pieces, or two sonatas, two sonatas, two sonatas. From an intellectual point of view, No. 13 heralds a new perspective: that of the pathognomist, whose interest is in “character in motion” rather than “character at rest.” Our focus shifts from the details of the single portrait to the dynamism of an opus as a whole. (It is tempting to imagine that Haydn “discovered” this double design after his breakthrough decision to recycle his old C Minor Sonata for the end.) Consider the facial expressions in plate 5 again. Taken separately, these various fixed poses do nothing more than expose my willingness as a performer to be coaxed into serving as the malleable clay of an experimenting composer-sculptor. But as the opus pro-

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gresses I am emancipated as a keyboardist-actor, whose pantomimes in sequence actually start making for a compelling story. Of the English star actor David Garrick, presumably in admiration, Denis Diderot wrote: “He passes his head through two posts of a door, and through the interval of four to five seconds his face changes consecutively from excessive joy to moderate joy; from this joy to tranquility; from tranquility to surprise; from surprise to amazement; from amazement to sadness; from sadness to despondency; from despondency to dread; from dread to horror; from horror to despair, and climbs from this last degree back to where he had descended from.” Similarly, C. P. E. Bach admires a performing musician who is capable of “constantly changing from the one to the other emotion.”72 Since Bach is clearly concerned with musical performance that is both seen and heard, changes in the performer’s facial expression would have been part of Bach’s equation. Diderot’s illustration, however, is used to prove that Garrick could not have possibly been sincere: in terms that Horace or Bach would have understood, Garrick cannot possibly have genuinely “felt” in order to “move”; rather, his actions were “acting” and as such must be taken first and foremost as a technique. Keyboard acting is no different. In Haydn’s “Auenbrugger” Sonatas we’re confronted with yet a different paradox. Physiognomy was conceived as a science, allowing the physiognomist to distinguish between what is “true” (sincere) or “false” (pretended). This distinction explains why Haydn’s contemporaries considered a stenciled silhouette more “just” and “faithful” than a painted portrait. The stenciled silhouette accurately captured the exact shadow of the subject’s profile, while the painted portrait contained the subject’s features and expressions necessarily interpreted through an artist’s eye and hand.73 Pathognomy, by contrast, imposed a rhetorical rather than an essentialist bias. Pathognomy studied “passions” or “emotions” in their ever changing manifestations rather than fixed and settled “characters.” In this respect it may be relevant that Artaria, when translating Haydn’s draft, changed Haydn’s “idea” (Idee) to “sentiment”: “ideas” may be presented by themselves, but “sentiments” are bound to change—and Artaria accordingly slipped into using the term “continuation” (continuazione) instead of Haydn’s “execution” (Ausführung). By initially focusing on physiognomic detail, then switching to pathognomy only at the meta-level of the opus, Haydn combined two competing perspectives on nature, art, and gesture into one “physiopathognomic” drama. Single characters are submerged in one long sequence of emotions, acted out not by two sisters (whose dual physiognomies, though initially attractive, could easily turn into a liability, as the novelty of alternation wore off ) but by

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a single performer, who enacts biphysiognomy before eventually revealing his own complex emotional self. The notion of enacting becomes key. If biphysiognomy exists, it takes something of an effort to switch from the one to the other. In 1797 Fredrik Samuel Silverstolpe said: “I discovered in Haydn as it were two physiognomies. One was penetrating and serious, when he talked about anything sublime, and the mere word erhaben [sublime] was enough to excite his feelings to visible animation. In the next moment this air of exaltation was chased away as fast as lightning by his usual mood, and he became jovial with a force that was visible in his features and even passed into drollery. The latter was his usual physiognomy; the former had to be induced.”74 By using such terms as “as it were,” “excite,” and “induced,” Silverstolpe was perhaps conscious of the very contradiction he has raised: strictly speaking, there can be one physiognomy only, and Silverstolpe recognizes Haydn’s “jovial” side as his “usual” physiognomy. In his Auenbrugger opus, one might argue that Haydn too eventually causes one physiognomy to supersede the other as the ultimately “true” kind. The Pathognomy of an Opus

In the Auenbrugger drama there’s no mistaking: “serious” wins over “cheerful.” When tracing the unfolding of an opus tonality (see ex. 5.9),75 we must be struck by an all-defining presence of Sonata 4 in E 𝅗𝅥, which not only imposes an alternative to any sharp-oriented keys that came before (C ♯ minor, E, A, D) but also locks into the overall “ pathetic” tonality of C minor. If A major (No. 5, but also other sections in Nos. 4, 7, and 9) is the extreme representative for all the twisting and pulling that went on in Sonatas 1–3, then Sonata 4 allows us to relax our muscles—but also to give in to our usual melancholy self. Taking into consideration the combined movements of Sonatas 4 and 6, which share a tonal realm of A 𝅗𝅥 major (adding the Trio No. 12b to the mix of Sonata 4), then two triads of A major and A 𝅗𝅥 major may be juxtaposed. The former symbolizes a painful grin—our “laughing” muscles stretched to a maximum; the latter initially allows us to relax our lower face (especially the area around the mouth), but also reverses the direction, a gradually collapsing upper face (especially the frowning eyes) sending us toward the ultimate doom of Sonata 6. If Sonatas 2 and 3 chromatically tag on to Sonata 1 (C major, C ♯ minor, D major), Sonatas 4, 5, and 6 together spell a C minor triad (E 𝅗𝅥 major, G major, C minor). Physiognomically speaking, we had been forced into thinking

Ex. 5.9. Pathognomy of an “Opus in C Minor”

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in twos, but the determining number for the pathognomic drama is “three,” a first group of sonatas looking “backward” to a “pleasant” C major, while a second plunges “forward” to “unpleasant” C minor.76 Imagine there was no C Minor Sonata. Our biphysiognomic experiment could have ended with No. 14, an exceedingly beautiful Adagio in C major (see the third system of ex. 5.9). In style and spirit it harks back to our “serious” prototype of No. 2, but in the overall harmonic scheme of the opus it has the double function of resolving a chain of dominants that had been set in motion by the three “cheerful” Allegro con brios, or from the “sharpest” A (No. 5), over D (No. 7) and G (No. 13), and “back home” to C (No. 14). In No. 14 the two physiognomic strands of “cheerful” and “serious” meet and dissolve at the same time. Whenever I play that gorgeous cadenza, keeping the dampers raised throughout as if singing in one long breath (see ex. 1.3), and I come to the final trill (m. 59), it is as if Haydn intends me to be overcome by nostalgia. At the very end of this double trill, after my left hand has crossed over to play the leading tone b2, I feel out of breath. Shifting my left hand down again, I have no choice but to leave the resolution to be imagined—as in a rhetorical ellipsis. But the B lingers in our memory, so when in the concluding “tutti” it is replaced by a B 𝅗𝅥 and the harmony of subdominant F (mm. 60–61), it feels as if we are guided back to those initial moments of the opus (No. 2 in F major and No. 1 in C major), back to a time when exploring two physiognomies was still an innocent parlor game and when we were unaware still of the drama about to unfold. The Pathology of Silent Rage

Around the time Haydn was composing sonatas for his daughters, Leopold von Auenbrugger was at work on a pioneering psychiatric study entitled Von der stillen Wuth oder dem Treibe zum Selbstmorde als einer wirklichen Krankheit (On Silent Rage or the Drive for Suicide as an Actual Disease). In this seventy-one-page essay, finished five weeks after the death of his daughter Marianna,77 Auenbrugger related his experience of more than twenty years with suicidal patients—some of them success stories, but most ending in tragedy. He provided well-organized empirical notes on his patients’ behavior and gestures. “Initially,” Auenbrugger writes, such a person is calm, limp, dispirited, sad, but this sadness is mixed with pensiveness and connects itself with an abnormal aversion from the social world; . . .

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midway through, a frightening melancholia [Schwermuth] reveals itself, at which point the outer senses become blunt and numb, so that any offered entertainments and distractions, or even any serious diversions are received indifferently and have been found to have no effect; . . . eventually there is the emergence of endless unrest, inflexibility, stubborn refusal of medicine and food, numbness, a desperate aspiration to flee violently [from the hospital room].

Among the final corporeal signs we find “heavy breathing,” which, as the act draws nearer, “changes to continuous snorting.”78 In the “Auenbrugger” drama it is the C Minor Sonata that constitutes the final “act” (for now in a theatrical sense). In its first movement’s opening theme (where I weep even before playing my first dissonance), development (featuring a hair-raising climax, during which I raise my voice to a piercing fortissimo), and ending (where senselessly repetitive five-note figures turn my right hand into a tense and angry fist), we find distinct equivalents for Auenbrugger’s depictions of “endless lamenting, piercing crying, and angry bodily gestures and facial expressions.”79 But a true outburst of rage occurs in the third movement, easily the “angriest” keyboard music Haydn ever wrote.80 In my own performances I never fail to internalize this anger, despite my usual reserved and rational tendencies. I also flatly ignore C. P. E. Bach’s advice that it is better to express powerful emotions like rage or anger by appropriate harmonic and melodic figurae rather than by exaggerated touch (see chapter 2). That said, I recognize Haydn’s rhetorical intent in mm. 107–119 (see ex. 5.10), where the left hand jerks back and forth between stern octaves down below and pathetic sighs on top—the latter expanded, for greater effect, from seconds to fifths. These melodic effects have been cast in a chain of excruciating chromatically descending seventhchord harmonies, which my right hand, with its running sixteenth notes, should ideally keep in check. But my adrenaline is pumping, and when I hit those highest notes, my right hand just rants along below. Meanwhile, literally throwing my left hand over my right, I make those high-tension short strings of the fortepiano squeak rather than speak. Given my understanding of the technology of a fortepiano’s hammers, strings, and action, I know better, but it seems that this is the only possible thing to do, especially at this point in the movement, in which a minuet-style opening, latently aggressive rather than true-to-its-model elegant, has been accumulating, as A. Peter Brown puts it, an unstoppable “demonic drive.”81 (Haydn knew better too: back in 1771, he must have written the sonata for his own clavichord rather

Ex. 5.10. Sonata 6, third movement (No. 18), mm. 102–end

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than the fortepiano that the sisters would have had in 1780. But flexing the strings rather than merely striking them, mistaking hammers for tangents, makes this particular moment undeniably dramatic.) And where does this uncontrollable outburst of rage bring us? Nowhere. After a prolonged altered pre-dominant chord in mm. 117–118, I settle again on the dominant, exactly at the point where I started back in m. 84. Exhausted, I need to recover, but I never quite do. Continuing with the theme—slow, hesitant, and out of breath (mm. 121–128)—I accumulate negative energy yet again and revisit that submediant pitch A 𝅗𝅥, which has permeated much of the melodic and harmonic content of what has come before (see the multiple brackets of A 𝅗𝅥 and its companion G in the example). I want to let go but can’t. This obsessive appoggiatura, as it turns out, has haunted us from the very beginning of the sonata. Consider the two melodic sighs of the first movement’s opening bar (see No. 16 in ex. 5.3). The first of these—g2 slurred to f2, technically a consonance followed by a neighboring dissonance—is immediately replaced by its “theoretically correct” version: a 𝅗𝅥2 with g2, or a “proper” dissonance followed by a “proper” consonance. If “sighing” was the main topic of the sonata, even by the end of the sonata, there is nothing to diminish the urge to do so; to the contrary: wherever we look in this finale movement, there are A 𝅗𝅥 s. What else can I do but embrace the dissonance in an overly dramatic precadential gesture on the Neapolitan sixth (mm. 140–142)? But even as my sounds ebb away on a cadence that doesn’t quite cadence (mm. 146–150), I find that pesky A 𝅗𝅥 still staring me in the eye. With a descending sequence of sixths (mm. 150–end), I resort to action. The falling sixths feel distinctly familiar: I played them in the second bar of the sonata’s first movement (see ex. 5.3; these are the only two such instances of parallel sixths in the opus, and they require unusual attention to the placement of the thumb). Did I fantasize about this moment from the beginning? Earlier, I still had the clarity of mind to call my dark fantasy to a halt (witness the half cadence), but now these falling sixths drag me down to the thickest and darkest of dissonances (m. 152). Remarkably, in this penultimate bar, A 𝅗𝅥—the identified cause of our pain—has disappeared: D and B ♮ (or the last sixth of the falling sequence) are joined by F, together a diminished vii, however not a diminished seventh (with A 𝅗𝅥).82 What happened? Is the A 𝅗𝅥 gone? I ask these questions as my hands lean on a triple appoggiatura and the octave of my soon-to-become-tonic chord—combining to create a thick, dark cloud of sound. I know that I must resolve soon. But in this bar, as despair and hope collide in the most dramatic of ways, seconds feel like minutes. I ask again: is the A 𝅗𝅥 gone? Did I accidentally play it with my third

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finger? Then why do I keep hearing it? As everything in me compels me to exhale, conditioned as I am to “enjoy” the release of my appoggiatura, no matter what I try, either in rehearsal or in concert, striking it either soft or hard, the unavoidably thick and pathetic C minor chord always comes out like a clumsy gasp. (The Artaria edition leaves the bass conspicuously not tied to the bar before: Haydn may have understood that those deep dissonant sounds would never lend themselves to a convincing release.)83 With this all-too-final C minor chord, then, there may be resolution in the technical melodic-harmonic sense, but there is definitely no emotional respite. The listener is left aghast in horror. According to Auenbrugger, the single absolute sign of the onset of “silent anger” is that the suicidal person, “whether his behavior is calm or restless, cannot look anyone around him in the eye for more than just a few moments.”84 After playing Sonata 5 (see plate 5), I no longer have the confidence to face the camera or audience: I withdraw into my own world, my eyes cast down at the keyboard, clearly much more in distress than in any other sonata cycle of images before. But if we were to remove the overt signs of distress of Sonata 6, we still get something remarkably close in Sonata 4. In Sonata 4 as well I found myself looking away and down, but my neck was still relatively straight; my forehead was also tensed into a frown, yet I did not appear consumed by pain; my mouth was closed, but my lips were not pressed together in the way they would be in Sonata 6. Would Dr. von Auenbrugger have been able to read these signs? The E 𝅗𝅥 major opening theme (ex. 5.3, No. 10) is sweet yet distracted, pensive yet repetitive—a good candidate for what Elisabeth Le Guin has termed “sensible melancholy.”85 We contemplate one idea over and over: across four bars we come up with an equal number of ways to approach the appoggiatura A 𝅗𝅥—or the dissonance that eventually will return to vex us. But there is as yet no sign of obsession; in fact, the short repeated patterns, little variants, and absent-minded pauses lend the movement an endearing kind of casualness. Consider now the opening bars of ex. 5.11, or the beginning of the development section. We’re in C minor, but the levity of the right-hand figure (which is an exact quotation of our “hyperactive” No. 7, in D major) continues to stress the comic over the serious. But irrational lightness (mm. 29–31) turns to earnestness in A 𝅗𝅥 major (mm. 32–34), which in its turn veers off into sweet reverie (featuring Haydn’s masterful three-voice texture in mm. 35–40). Then, somehow, our thoughts become entangled with the darker side of C minor doom (mm. 40–48). Where does this sudden anger come from?

Ex. 5.11. Sonata 4, first movement (No. 10), development and part of recapitulation (mm. 29–57)

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And why do we embrace it so feverishly (see the thirds in m. 45)? It takes sheer willpower to break out of C minor and restore E 𝅗𝅥 as the correct key. Describing m. 48 as a “false recapitulation” or the nervously brisk upbeat to m. 49 as a rhetorical correctio fails to capture the full emotional impact of these moments. This is not like Sonata 3, where, at exactly the same spot in the opening movement (mm. 57–61), we playfully worked our way out of a pretended B minor recapitulation back to D major. Here, I feel genuinely disturbed, frightened even, by my own passive-aggressive behavior. When, later on (mm. 54–56), I repeatedly hammer out the home key’s dominant seventh (with A 𝅗𝅥 on top), I seem to insist that I must keep thinking E 𝅗𝅥 major while pretending that nothing has happened, before slipping back into my “casual self ” again in m. 57. We can look for signs of melancholia even further back in the set: Dr. Auenbrugger, with his clinical eye for the physical manifestations of emotional states, especially their progressions, and his critical ear for musical expressions and their structural progressions, might have wondered about the two surprising patches of C minor that occurred all the way back in the very first sonata, in C major, along with a few moments of irrational violence, revealed in fortissimo outbursts that disappeared just as quickly as they appeared.86 (Ex. 5.9 cautiously acknowledges these brief manifestations of the minor third E 𝅗𝅥.) Having recognized silent rage, the doctor more than anyone else must have realized that sooner or later it would have to erupt. That moment arrives in the extraordinarily mournful C Minor Sonata. “If melancholia [Schwermuth] is the underlying cause [of suicide], then rage [Wuthsinn],” Auenbrugger hypothesizes, “is the trigger.”87 And so Haydn’s decision to recycle an already completed sonata leaves us with a strange aftertaste—one that would certainly have baffled Forkel (who rejects any “unpleasant” ending as an “exercise in expression” that can never become a “useful and usable work of art”),88 but one that also leaves me scrambling to defend my friend in the eyes of a German critic. At first I volunteered myself as a model for an interesting biphysiognomic experiment. But as I emancipated myself as keyboardist-actor, I also found myself turning into a potentially interesting “case” for a physician-psychiatrist, creating a gallery in which “bodily gestures betray attitudes of the soul.”89 While I am well aware that I am “just” acting, I must admit that the melancholy of Sonata 4 suits my temperament very well, and that I love to immerse myself in the Sturm und Drang depths of Sonata 6—as Haydn himself clearly did when fantasizing and composing the piece at an earlier point in his life. Yet, by taking that dusty sonata out of his drawer almost ten years later (when

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fortepianos were first making their entry in the Viennese salon), he may have found a convenient shortcut to completing his opus, but he also provided us—performer, critic, listener—with the formidable task of making that last sonata fit somehow with the preceding ones. A story is only as good as its ending—except that here we are either still not quite sure what it is or not quite ready to accept its devastating truth. As he finished his fifth and penultimate sonata, certainly conscious of the dramatic transformation with which he had just imbued his new opus, we may well wonder whether Haydn was aware of any ethical dimension to his decision: it is one thing to end one’s opus with a minor-key sonata (which was a customary procedure, after all, as illustrated by his own earlier “Anno 776” Sonatas), but to seal the presence of an emerging opus tonality with this particular sonate pathétique is quite another.90 The result is not your typical six-sonata opus. But then, the Auenbrugger sisters weren’t your typical players. Nor was their father your typical listener. If Haydn felt any yearning to associate himself with Vienna’s elite, then his brief avertissement, in which he apologizes for something that needs no apologia, may be one of music history’s most brilliant smokescreens. Or was it a cue? The enigma lives on.

“Back to Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven”—but back to which Haydn: the one that’s been misunderstood? And should it not actually say: forward to Haydn, since a true genius is never past alone, but also eternal future? H E I N R I C H S C H E N K E R (1922), 19



CHAPTER 6



A Contract with Posterity

On August 10, 1796, Haydn had an out-of-town visitor. Mr. Hyde, partner of the London firm Longman & Broderip, had traveled to Vienna with the copy of a contract. In legalistic language, this contract stipulates that “the said Joseph Haydn doth hereby covenant promise and agree to . . . during the time and term of Five years, if he the said Joseph Haydn shall so long live and continue in Health so as to be capable of Writing and Composing Musick Write and Compose new and Original Musick for the said Frederick Augustus Hyde.” Appended to the document is a wish list of works, each coupled with an agreed-upon fee. On the top we read, “Three Sonatas for the Piano Forte or Harpsichord [sic] with an accompaniment for a Violin and Violoncello—£75” and “Three Sonatas for the Piano Forte without accompaniment—[£]60.”1 The signing might have taken place ceremoniously in the very room where Haydn kept his English grand piano. That he had one we know from an entry in the 1809 inventory of his estate upon his death: “Ditto [i.e., a pianoforte] in massive mahogany wood, same range as above [i.e., the five and a half octaves of Haydn’s 1801 Erard], by Longman et Broderip in London.”2 The English organist, choirmaster, and scholar Vincent Novello, 219

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visiting l’abbé Stadler in 1829 (who was then in the possession of Haydn’s instrument and who “had often heard Haydn play upon it”), specifies that “Haydn had brought [his “Grand Piano Forte,” one of Longman & Broderip’s] with him from England and had retained it till death.”3 The instrument had almost certainly been a farewell gift. What better way for the firm to foster a continued business relationship with Haydn than to see to it that the composer had their brand of piano at home in faraway Vienna? And not just as a souvenir, but as a tool, allowing him to keep his finger, quite literally, on the pulse of piano-playing England. (Longman & Broderip had indeed published two sets of Accompanied Sonatas, Hob. XV:18–20 and 24–26, in 1794–95.) Were expectations fulfilled? In 1797, three Trios Hob. XV:27–29, did indeed appear from Longman & Broderip, dedicated to Theresa Jansen, but those had been written in London no later than 1795. (In his London catalogue, Haydn refers to them as “3 Sonates [sic] for Ms. Janson [sic].”)4 But four years into the five-year contract, in a letter to Hyde and Clementi dated April 29, 1801, Haydn still promised “3 good Clavier sonatas by the end of the summer.” (Hyde and Clementi had become partners in Clementi & Company, a revamped version of Longman, Clementi, & Company, itself reborn in 1798 from the bankrupt Longman & Broderip.)5 Good intentions aside, however, Haydn’s promise remained unfulfilled. The one trio known to be finished upon his return from London—Hob. XV:30 in E 𝅗𝅥 Major—was conspicuously sent to Breitkopf & Härtel, not Longman & Broderip.6 This leaves the Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52. A clear “English” production, if there has ever been one, Haydn offered it for print to Artaria in 1798. And this is not a reprint: the English edition (yes, with Longman, Clementi, & Company, in 1799) would materialize only later, presumably on a fast track in response to the Viennese edition. Because the latter came with its own dedication—to Magdalena von Kurzböck—and out of Haydn’s home turf, however, it had all the public signs of a “production” in its own right. Also now, in the post-Beethoven urtext era, we ought to take note, since this was, technically speaking, the sonata’s “first edition.” But we’re confused. Throughout this book we have proposed new readings of familiar scores, dwelling on detailed networks of composer, dedicatee, and instrument while steering clear of generalizations and post-1800 abstractions of them as “works.” In chapter 1 we in fact used the very Sonata No. 52 as a pinnacle example for Haydn’s modus operandi as “rhetorical man,” writing an English concert sonata as brilliant as it was effective. But now, as we home in on Haydn’s post-London period, we feel forced to explain why Haydn, of all people, would so blatantly ignore the sonata’s Englishness and

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simply offer it to Artaria. To be sure, many of Haydn’s keyboard works had made it to London from Vienna long before Haydn ever set foot in England.7 But this story is different, and not just because the direction from Vienna to London has been reversed. How should we conceive of the two publications, in London and in Vienna? Are we dealing with two versions of one work? If so, where’s the emphasis? “Version” hints at Haydn’s remarkable ability to adjust to external circumstances. “Work” implies a separation of score from context. For the first time in his career, Haydn was writing for a professionally active pianist (possibly receiving immediate feedback from Jansen), for an English piano (she may have been the one to have coached him), for solo performance that needed to have a “grand” effect on an audience, the “grand solo sonata” indeed having become a viable substitute on the London concert stage for the concerto.8 Clementi’s Sonata in C Major, Op. 33 No. 3, for “His Pupil Miss Theresa Jansen,” was a concerto rewritten as a sonata, and thus could be used in either form. So, if foreignness had been inextricably linked with the piece’s creation, what happened when the sonata was published by Artaria for a familiar market? Was it a “Viennese” publication in 1798? Or, three years after leaving London, was Haydn endorsing a contextless afterlife? It is fascinating, indeed, that “Haydn’s last piano sonata,” as we now know it, would very soon thereafter (in early 1800) reappear as the first of the first installment of the Breitkopf & Härtel Oeuvres complettes de Joseph Haydn, as if heralding a new epoch of thinking about “works” and “repertoire.”9 In Haydn’s Viennese appropriation of his London production of a grand sonata, it is tempting to stress the continuity: Kurzböck—in her mid-twenties at the top of her game—has a profile very similar to Jansen’s. Haydn may even have sat down with her at his Longman & Broderip, demonstrating to her the characteristics of an English grand (just as Theresa had done to him back in London). In her own choices of repertoire, Kurzböck clearly took the London pianoforte school to heart: she would be praised in the local press for her public performances of a Dussek concerto or a Steibelt sonata.10 And in 1809 Reichardt paid her the ultimate compliment by singling her out among Clementi’s “old pupils [ehemalige Schüler, i.e., men and women].”11 By 1809, sharing the epithet of “(old) pupil of Clementi” with her English counterpart, Magdalena had become almost the perfect clone of Theresa. We need to remember, however, that “Longman & Broderip” became “Longman, Clementi, & Company” only in 1798, right around the time of the Artaria print.12 While both Jansen and Kurzböck may be said to represent

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the same emerging type of pianist on either side of the Channel, Kurzböck could not have taken lessons with Clementi until 1802, when the celebrated pedagogue made it back to Vienna for the first time since 1780–81 (when he had faced Mozart in his famous Christmas Eve “duel” at the Imperial Palace).13 “Clementi” would soon become a brand name for much of what was new: the virtue of actually practicing difficult pieces while following a rigid regimen of scales and exercises; a new definition of “amateur” as “not yet” “professional” (as in a Gradus ad Parnassum); the idea of a pedagogical canon, in which his Op. 2 constituted a milestone for new generations of students (and an increasingly more surmountable one). But these are the germs of grand, pan-European changes at the dawn of a new century. In the 1798 Artaria print, as I would like to suggest, there is no joining a “revolution” yet.14 A Pragmatic Decision

I would not even have contemplated the hypothesis of “two versions” had it not been for a decision during a production of my own. For my “Virtual Haydn” recordings I designed my Program Nine to feature those pieces of the late 1780s and early ’90s that made it into the consciousness of musicloving Vienna through the persistent publishing efforts of Artaria. These were to include the 1789 C Major Fantasy, Hob. XVII:3 (which, in the wake of the three Trios Hob. XV:11–13, continued to celebrate Haydn’s purchase of a Wenzel Schanz square piano), the 1789–90 “Genzinger” Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:49 (which made it into print in 1792 while Haydn was away in London, leaving the composer scrambling to privately express his “shock” to Frau von Genzinger over “the unpleasant news,” going as far as to blame his own copyist for this “robbery”),15 and the F Minor Andante and Variations, Hob. XVII:6, written in 1793 but making it into print only in 1799, with a public dedication to the Baroness Josephine von Braun. I would play these three pieces on a circa 1790 Viennese fortepiano (after two previous programs on a square I opted for a grand), but in which virtual room? In scouting possible locations in the inner city of Vienna, my sound-recording colleagues and I had been impressed by the Festsaal of the Lobkowitz palace, which by the late 1790s became a popular venue for “participation concerts,” where professional musicians and aristocratic amateurs mingled to play and listen to string quartets, piano trios, symphonies, or oratorios (see plate 7).16 But what about solo piano music? More pressingly, what about Haydn’s solo piano music? To be sure, there is no evidence that any Haydn keyboard piece

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was ever performed at the Lobkowitzes’. That does not mean, however, that performing a solo Haydn sonata at any multimusician assemblée in or around Vienna would have been frowned upon. Carl Rosenbaum reports that on October 1, 1799, during “an academy at the Provost’s” in Eisenstadt, “Pölt [a male professional, no less] played a piano sonata by Haydn.”17 In a diary entry by Count von Zinzendorf, dated April 16, 1800, we find a reference to a solo piano performance at our very Palais Lobkowitz: “Steuebel [Steibelt] played the clavessin [piano?] with volubility that wasn’t very interesting.”18 (Steibelt must have shown off his tremolo effects—too much of a good thing in such resonant acoustics.) But these isolated pieces of evidence felt hardly sufficient. We had recorded the “Auenbrugger” Sonatas in a large though not enormous salon, imagining as our listeners the kind of people one might have run into at a von Greiner gathering—mostly from the upper-middle and lower-noble classes, all with a genuine interest in the arts and sciences. But as we now aimed to present ourselves to the crême de la crême of the higher Viennese nobility, in the acoustics of a de facto concert space, we craved something “bigger,” “grander,” and also “more difficult” to play—something that would stand its own amidst the various orchestral arias sung by the local divas, or at least something that the von Zinzendorfs in the audience couldn’t easily dismiss as “not very interesting.” So here’s the decision. We recorded Sonata No. 52 twice: once in its original English manifestation, as dedicated to Theresa Jansen, in the Holywell Music Room, on the 1798 Longman, Clementi, & Company replica, reading from the 1799 Longman, Clementi, & Company print (this performance became part of our Program Ten, “Haydn in London”); then a second time with all-Viennese parameters, reading off the 1798 Artaria print, dedicated to Magdalena von Kurzböck, using a circa 1795 Anton Walter fortepiano, which would have been the best available choice for a room with reverberant acoustics such as that at Lobkowitz (this performance, along with three named Viennese pieces, became our Program Nine, “Viennese Culture”). “The Lady Named on the Title Page”

Chances are that nobody listening to a performance of Haydn’s Grand Sonata in Vienna would have been aware of the English roots of Haydn’s sonata; nor, for that matter, was the German reviewer of the AmZ, who gives the following assessment of the Grande Sonate pour le Clav. ou Pianof., comp. et dediée [sic] à Madem. de Kurzbeck, par Joseph Haydn:

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Grand sonata [Grosse Sonate], rich and difficult too [reich und schwer dazu], both in regards to its content and its style [Manier]. It is true that the reviewer must join others here in exclaiming yet again, maybe for the one hundredth time: Haydn is inexhaustible and never gets old. Again, what an original path! No repeat of himself. Whoever can completely master this absolutely fine sonata, which is actually written for connoisseurs [Kenner]—his earlier ones can hardly compare with respect to difficulty [Schwierigkeit]—and can execute it with precision, without getting tripped up on anything, can always let it be said of himself that he plays. It speaks well for the lady named on the title page that the honorable Haydn, who does not have the desire nor the time to bother himself with empty compliments, dedicated such a sonata to her, of all people.19

“Grand, rich, and difficult.” What more can a professional pianist ask for? “Grand” refers to genre and style: the sonata is designed to startle and impress. “Rich” refers to invention: there’s a lot of it here, in terms of topics or ideas. But what about “difficult”? At first sight, we are inclined to jump ahead from inventio and elocutio to pronuntiatio and understand the term as “difficult to play,” especially since the review would have been directed to the potential purchaser of the score, who would have no other use for the score than playing from it. But this early part of the review, as it turns out, focuses on the composition of the sonata in and of itself: the sonata is grand, rich, and difficult “in regard to both content [Inhalt] and style [Manier],” or the quintessential res and verba. As the reviewer plays through the score at the piano a few times, occasionally pausing to reposition his fingers or hands along the way, he gradually acquaints himself with what a polished performance might sound like. The imagining of such a performance requires more than the usual effort, not just for the fingers, but also for the mind, making the sonata “difficult” (schwer) not in a mechanistic sense, as when Mozart famously dismissed the thirds and sixths of the ciarlatano Clementi,20 but rather, according to the reviewer, as a logical consequence to Haydn’s abundantly rich invention and his deliberate choice of “grand style” for a sonata. The perceived difficulty thus validates the reviewer’s ensuing exclamation that “Haydn is inexhaustible and never gets old.” “Inexhaustible” (unerschöpflich), usually applied as an illustration of “genius” or “originality,” appears to have become somewhat of a cliché in German criticism by the 1790s—with Haydn succeeding C. P. E. Bach as its prime recipient.21 In fact, the critic’s feigned exasperation with the composer’s repetitiveness (“exclaiming yet again . . . maybe for the one hundredth time”)

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stands in deliberate contrast to his unique object of praise in Haydn’s music: “Again, what an original path! No repeat of himself.” In light of Haydn’s fears about the “know-it-all” critics back in 1780 (see chapter 5), there’s irony here. Of all works, it would have been with this publication of No. 52 that Haydn would have needed an apology or explanation, since the whole sonata is a repeat. Aged sixty-seven by the time of the review, he had finished the sonata five years earlier, at sixty-two. So much for “never getting old.” The term “difficulty” pops up again as the author’s attention shifts to performance, and here the reference is unambiguously to pianistic skill and mastery. But as he moves from Haydn and his sonata to the dedicatee and her performance the reviewer struggles with two related facts. First, there’s the offhand remark that the sonata is “actually written for Kenner,” conveying surprise in light of all of Haydn’s previous sonatas. (The reviewer could not have been acquainted with the still unpublished Sonata in C Major, Hob. XVI:50.) No longer für Kenner und Liebhaber, this new, single sonata is only for Kenner. And this raises a second issue. The sonata is dedicated to an aristocratic lady, who, all things being equal, must be a Liebhaberin: she may be a Klavierspielerin—and an excellent one—but definitely not a Klavierspielerin von Profession (keyboard player by profession), which would have been an absolute contradiction in terms.22 The perceived difficulty of the sonata, thus, leads the reviewer to assume that “the lady named on the title page” must be really good, “since Haydn has no time for empty compliments.” This indirect compliment—by association with Haydn—confirms a gender gap similar to the one we observed in chapters 2 and 5 regarding Haydn’s praise of the Auenbrugger sisters. But if the Leipzig reviewer did not yet know of Mademoiselle von Kurzböck, then it was high time, since, rather astonishingly, we find her named only a few pages later in the same issue of AmZ, where she is referred to not as the dedicatee of a famous master’s printed sonata, but as one of the five pianists whose identity and artistry are revealed to the magazine’s readers in a witness report on “the most famous Klavierspielerinnen and Klavierspieler in Vienna.” First the anonymous correspondent, who has been visiting the imperial city presumably from Germany, writes profusely about Demoiselle Auernhammer, whom he heard during her own benefit concert at the Imperial Court Theater. “Every year she gives similar proofs of her existence and her zeal,” he editorializes rather sarcastically. In spite (or precisely because) of her “ambition to surmount almost insurmountable difficulties [Schwierigkeiten],” she failed to impress him with “what one in a more noble sense calls Vortrag.” Then the author turns to our dedicatee:

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Almost diametrically opposed to the playing of the latter virtuoso [Virtuosin] is the playing of Miss von Kurzbeck [sic], whom I had the pleasure of hearing recently. She is completely invested in the expressiveness [dem Ausdrucksvollen] and pleasantness [Angenehmen] of her performance [des Vortrags], always thinks herself into the meaning [Sinn] of the composition that she performs—thus I heard her play a sonata by J. Haydn, which [when played] in this manner and also because Miss K. possesses plenty of skill [Geschicklichkeit] to make all passages in both hands heard with rare precision [mit seltner Präcision], was bound to make the most glorious effect, which it did. She fully deserves her reputation as the most excellent [die treflischste] and in particular the most pleasing [female] keyboard player [die angenehmste Klavierspielerin] in Vienna.23

“Keyboard player” clearly ranks higher than (just) “virtuoso,” though the review serves as historical testimony to a growing bifurcation between skill and meaning, or between technique and expression, which in C. P. E. Bach’s books had remained under the single umbrella of Vortrag. When the report shifts to the men (“After we left priority to the ladies, as is proper, let us now turn to the gentlemen”), the reviewer shows himself in awe of Beethoven’s brilliance and improvisational prowess. But he ends up preferring Wölfl, citing the same quality of precision that he had used to describe Kurzböck’s playing as part of a longer list of accolades including “lightness” (Leichtigkeit) and “clarity” (Deutlichkeit), which, when combined, are said to “transport the listener to utter amazement.” While Kurzböck’s musicianship is described as allowing Haydn’s sonata to have its proper “glorious effect,” thanks to her capacity to “think herself into the meaning [Sinn] of the composition,” Wölfl’s pianism is praised for his “thorough musical learnedness [Gelehrsamkeit] and true worth in composition.” Significantly, Wölfl’s “learnedness” is revealed through the playing of his own works, while Kurzböck’s gift clearly is her ability to interpret the works of others. Still, the reader of this report comes away with a sense of Kurzböck as the female embodiment of Wölfl. The coincidence of the back-to-back review of Haydn’s “new” sonata and the description of Kurzböck performing “a” Haydn sonata is remarkable. If the subscriber to this double-folio magazine had actually registered Kurzböck’s name as she read the Haydn review, all she needed to do was to turn the page to find it again, graphically at the same recto right-handcolumn spot as before. No longer in italics as part of the title of a work, she now is featured as part of a top-five list in a city known for stiff competition among pianists.24 This double mention underscores the fact that, in

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the opinion of the critics, she is nothing short of a star, deserving of international recognition. You may follow the first critic’s syllogistic logic that “Haydn dedicates a good sonata only to a good pianist,” and that “since this is a good sonata, Kurzböck must be good,” but nothing beats the empirical evidence of an actual witness account by an independent critic. Kurzböck played a sonata by Haydn that “was bound to make the most glorious effect.” Change “glorious” by “grand, rich, and difficult,” and this is almost certainly the very Haydn sonata just reviewed, now performed by its dedicatee. These combined reviews praise Haydn for his wisdom in selecting Magdalena as the dedicatee of his sonata, and Magdalena for deserving that endorsement. It’s a win-win for both performer and composer. Viennese Pianism

From a Viennese perspective, selecting Magdalena must have been a nobrainer from the start. For his 1796 Yearbook on Music in Vienna and Prague (the year when Haydn would have been eager to reconnect with musical life in Vienna after his residencies abroad), J. F. von Schönfeld prepared an entry on her: “Magd. v. Kurzbeck, one of our most excellent keyboard players [Klavierspielerinnen]. She reads well and has velocity [Geschwindigkeit], clarity [Deutlichkeit], and neatness [Nettigkeit]; additionally, she has as her own special talent the power to assimilate and memorize so that, when she hears a piece that she likes just a couple of times—be it in large orchestration as, for example, a symphony, or on the piano—she is capable of playing it back very accurately on the fortepiano.”25 The musicianship of the twentyfive-year-old is described in terms that perfectly match the qualities of Viennese pianos of this time: “clear” (thanks to the relatively hard leather used to cover the hammers, as well as the general concept of the case, soundboard, strings, etc., which Viennese builders still designed to “speak” rather than to “sing”); “quick” (thanks to the very responsive prell action and the generally low key dip and light key weight); and “neat” (thanks to the efficient wedgeshaped, leather-covered dampers, constructed to cut the sound immediately after releasing the key). If pressed for a finer classification, Schönfeld himself would almost certainly have proclaimed Kurzböck the “Streicher type” of pianist he had proposed, who looks for “nourishment of the soul” and who prefers “a clear, but also a sweet, liquefying playing.” Furthermore, if indeed—according to our German witness—Kurzböck was more than capable of producing a “glorious effect” on the listener, then she would have shared with Schönfeld’s competing “Walter type” of pianist the “power and

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strength of nerves” to play “rich tones” or “the most difficult runs and the fastest octaves”—all of which are abundantly present in Haydn’s sonata. But the point stressed by the reviewer is that she did so “with rare precision.” “With precision” is precisely how the English organist Samuel Wesley remembered Haydn’s playing back in London, when he presided over an orchestral performance of his Symphony in B 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. I:98, from what presumably was an English grand piano: “His Performance on the Piano Forte, although not such as to stamp him a first rate artist upon that Instrument, was indisputably neat and distinct. In the Finale of one of his Symphonies is a Passage of attractive Brilliancy, which he has given to the Piano Forte, and which the Writer of this Memoir remembers him to have executed with the utmost Accuracy and Precision.”26 “Playing with accuracy and precision” may not necessarily have been meant as a compliment in a country where pianos were built not to aspire to clarity and transparency, but were built to be vague in articulation and designed to produce an overall full but muffled and homogenous kind of sound, and where pianists were praised for their bel canto, expressive, legato—“grand”—style of playing, which involved reveling in octaves, resonant chords, exquisite effects (such as music boxes, bagpipe, or dulcimer), and almost continuous footwork on the two pedals (una corda and damper), rather than in neat three-voice textures, eloquent cadences, well-defined melodic figures, and the use of the hand stop or knee lever (moderator and damper) as a special register. With the double edition of No. 52, it becomes difficult to distinguish between what is supposed to be indigenous and what is foreign. Both versions—Kurzböck’s Viennese edition and Jansen’s London one—may be said to have elements of each. That is to say, to English ears, Haydn’s sonata may still have sounded “Viennese” (one can imagine Haydn having to explain a thing or two that would have gone against the principles of Jansen’s own teacher, Clementi), yet the sonata would have made a fine Viennese pianist such as Kurzböck sound impressively virtuosic—or “English.” We acknowledged Jansen’s input in the creation of Haydn’s English concert sonatas back in 1794. But what about Kurzböck’s in the transference of one of these to the Viennese salon? A Philological Tradition

In preparing his authoritative 1966 JHW edition of No. 52, Georg Feder cites four major sources (see table 6.1).27 The autograph, which he labels “A,” is his uncontested primary source (Hauptquelle). His secondary sources (Ne-

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TABLE 6.1. Traditional hierarchy of sources for the Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52 A

Autograph Title:

(general:) Sonata; (on top of score:) Sonata composta per la Celebra Signora Teresa de Janson

B

Date:

1794

Place:

London

Longman, Clementi, & Co. Title:

A / New Grand Sonata, / for the / Piano Forte / Composed Expressly for / Mrs Bartolozzi / by / Joseph Haydn, M.D.

Date:

November 1799 (announced in the Times on Oct. 29, 1799, for “in a few days”;

Place:

London

advertised in the Morning Chronicle on Dec. 27, 1799)

C

Artaria Title:

Grande Sonate / pour le Clavecin ou Piano-Forte / Composée et dediée / a Mademoiselle Madelaine / de Kurzbek / par / Joseph Haydn.

D

Date:

December 1798 (announced in the Wiener Zeitung on Dec. 5, 1798)

Place:

Vienna

Breitkopf & Härtel Title:

(general:) Oeuvres de J. Haydn / Cahier I. / contenant / VIII Sonates pour le Pianoforte. (in front of the first system of the score:) Sonata I.

Date:

early 1800

benquellen) are the 1799 Longman, Clementi, & Company and the 1798 Artaria editions, labeled respectively B and C. Feder additionally consulted the Leipzig Breitkopf & Härtel Oeuvres complettes “only for particularly doubtful passages or to check on clear mistakes,” identifying this fourth source as “D.” A, B, C, and D do not follow a strict chronological order: the London edition, B (released between October 29 and December 27, 1799), and the Viennese edition, C (released in December 1798), have been reversed.28 Feder gives greater credence to A and B, since both were produced in London, and A must have served as a direct source for B. But C must have been based on a manuscript copy too, perhaps by Haydn’s amanuensis Johann Elssler, who had joined his master during the London trip. In any case, the lack of such a document (which we might hypothetically label A2) caused Feder to privilege London versions (A and B) over the Viennese (C). The Leipzig Breitkopf & Härtel version (D), finally, is found to be an almost irrelevant copy of the Artaria print (C). If the autograph (A) had not surfaced in 1933 (at which point it was

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purchased by the Library of Congress in Washington), we might have been dealing with a much different understanding of the sources. But it did, and in his 1934 milestone essay “Notes on a Haydn Autograph,” Oliver Strunk combined his enthusiasm over this newly recovered nineteen-page manuscript, composta per la celebre Signora Teresa de Janson [sic], with what has remained the single most influential study on Haydn and Jansen. But this newly established English connection almost instantly led to the discrediting of the Artaria version (C). Strunk finds it an “interesting thing . . . that the Vienna edition appears to have followed an inaccurate copy of the autograph, while the London edition was obviously engraved by someone who had Haydn’s original before him.”29 Notes in pencil written in English confirm that A was used for the engraving of B. With A and B inextricably linked as autograph and “first” edition, C became a philological black sheep. In her 1964 Universal Edition score (later Wiener Urtext Edition), Christa Landon, though acknowledging the Artaria print as historically the first, even doubts “whether this edition was made with the agreement of Haydn.” She also questions the dedication, asserting that it “is probably not by Haydn but by Artaria.” But her final argument against the credibility of the Artaria version concerns the text itself: “Artaria shows additions to the autograph and divergences from it, the authenticity of which must be questioned. They were therefore not included in our text but are mentioned in the Editor’s Report.”30 Feder too invokes the magic word “authenticity” (which, in this context, stands for anything written in Haydn’s hand or at least instigated by Haydn) and questions C’s “additional performance directions.” Consequently, Feder does not acknowledge them in his JHW text. Miklós Dolinszky, for his 1997 Könemann Music edition, chooses not to take C into consideration at all, not just for the text but in his critical report as well. The revised 2010 Wiener Urtext edition, prepared by Ulrich Leisinger, is more nuanced: it acknowledges C in footnotes (for alternative pitches, i.e., those that are not clear mistakes) and parentheses (for “additional” performance directions, i.e., not the divergent ones). But the fact remains that in preparing all these urtext editions, A and B are taken as undisputed “main sources” with C relegated to peripheral status as a “reference source.”31 If we wish to entertain the notion of a “Viennese version” of Sonata No. 52, we must begin by restoring the philological status of C. Granted, the Artaria version includes a handful of blatant mistakes, consisting mostly of misprinted notes (wrong pitches that rudimentary proofreading would have easily identified and corrected); however, these errors should not over-

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shadow the other additions or changes, which do not so much diverge from the London text as reflect the conscious hand of someone trying his or her best to make the English sonata work in different—that is, Viennese—circumstances. Given the subtlety of these interventions, one is inclined to think that they would have carried Haydn’s approval even if they had not been instigated by him personally. My argument, briefly, is that the Viennese print (C) is a worthy counterpart of the English production (B). I bolster my hypothesis with some significant examples from the first movement. Because acoustics figures so prominently in the assessment of these examples, I refer the reader to the “sound excerpts” posted on the website. An English versus a Viennese Production

Near the end of the second page of the autograph manuscript (A) (see fig. 6.1), Haydn leaves a portion of the stave blank, carefully controlling the moment of the page turn, in the middle of what might be called a rhetorical suspensio. The act of turning the page in effect adds to the execution of the figure: a holding in suspense. This is one of four similar examples in the whole piece. Each of those moments has been honored in the Artaria print (C) (thanks mainly to its oblong format; see fig. 6.3), and differs from the layout of the Longman, Clementi, & Company edition (B) (fig. 6.2), which either presumes the assistance of a page turner (there are some awkward though not impossible page turns) or a more practiced, perhaps partially memorized, or more “professional” performance. By comparison, the autograph of the “Genzinger” Sonata Hob. XVI:49 included two such “empty stave” moments (one of which was discussed in chapter 2). These differences may be sociocultural: the Viennese edition, with its user-friendly page turns, catered to a sight-reading culture, while the London edition reflected a burgeoning culture of “practicing,” in which the player is forced to anticipate and memorize what comes ahead, her eyes gradually free to look down to her keyboard rather than to the music desk. But this explanation should not obliterate the music-rhetorical significance of Artaria’s page turns: the act of physically turning pages with a keen sense of timing heightens the drama of a successful and polished performance. In m. 31 of the English edition (fig. 6.2, first system) we find in the left hand the typical English “wiggly” legato slur, often crossing the bar lines to indicate long stretches of connected sounds. Here the marking is limited to one long bar. The English piano’s “pushing action” (whereby a hopper catapults the hammer toward the string, forcing the player to anticipate

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Fig. 6.1. Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52, autograph, second page (recto). Reproduced by permission of the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

the sound rather than allowing her to control it as it happens), the softer hammer leather (softening the initial blow of hammer against string, thus allowing for a larger and more flexible surface of impact, both on hammer and string), the more resonant after-ring (enhanced by the English “feather-duster” dampers)—all contribute to a sense of mystery or “mistiness” that the pianist hangs on to after arriving on the low dominant in m. 32, deliciously switching from minore (the d 𝅗𝅥1 in the right hand) to maggiore (d ♮1) only through the middle of the bar, before the upward sweep to an enthusiastically exclamatory version of the opening theme. Sound excerpt 6.1 features my performance of these measures on a Longman, Clementi, & Company piano, as played in the virtual Holywell Music Room. Some of the piano-technical comments may be gauged by studying the close-up photo in plate 8.

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By contrast, in the same m. 31 of the Artaria print (fig. 6.3, fourth system), we find not a wiggly legato, but a clearly defined “Viennese” slur over three notes. The augmented second (from the octave A ♮ to G 𝅗𝅥 in the bass) is distinctly separated, turning the dominant in the next bar into a more conscious point of arrival, accompanied at that very moment by a change

Fig. 6.2. Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52 (London: Longman, Clementi, 1799), first movement, mm. 31–43. Reproduced by permission of the British Library Board. Music Collections, g.75.xx.

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Fig. 6.3. Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52 (Vienna: Artaria, 1798), first movement, mm. 21–37. Reproduced by permission of the British Library Board. Music Collections, Hirsch IV.1617.

of minore to maggiore, a half bar sooner than in the English print, which somehow “stumbled” upon the dominant in the bass while still hanging on to minore in the treble. From the perspective of the Viennese piano—with its harder leather (resulting in a more outspoken attack), more precise prell action (making articulation almost unavoidable), more precise dampers (removing the much-loved English after-ring), and insistence on clarity in every register (including the bass)—this double change makes a lot of sense. I have tried many times, from my longer experience of playing the piece on an English instrument, to integrate that low G 𝅗𝅥 bass octave within one overall “cloud” of sound, but on a Viennese piano it is difficult to ignore the melodic effort that goes into playing the augmented interval; it is hard to play the pulsating figure in the right as some mysterious and undefined background rumble; it is hard to treat your knee lever as a more distant foot pedal; it is hard to obliterate the generally more distinct attacks and individualized striking points.32 So, why not articulate the moment? Only an experienced Viennese pianist, someone intimately familiar, furthermore, with Haydn’s

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piece and caring enough to find an alternative because the original effect no longer works, could have suggested this adjustment. The two d ♮ 1 signs within the same bar (the latter rendered superfluous by the former) indicate that this is indeed a last-minute change. To appreciate the difference from the previous English rendition, I refer the reader to sound excerpt 6.2 as performed on an Anton Walter fortepiano in the Lobkowitz Festsaal. For a visual of the Viennese piano-technological features, see the close-up of plate 7. A single thick opening chord (see ex. 6.1), as Katalin Komlós points out, is not so uncommon for Haydn: to her examples from three piano trios (Hob. XV:12, 14, and 17) we may add three more from solo sonatas (Hob. XVI:9, 13, and 41).33 The purpose in each is similar, whether to give the pianist that extra edge to stand her own with respect to her string-playing male partners (her initial roll being the equivalent to their first downward bow), or to muster assertiveness when embarking on a performance on her own. But here we’re dealing with something more and something different. More, because this is no single seven-part chord, but a whole sequence of them—seven in total. Different, because “assertiveness” has become a topic of its own at this prolonged start of a movement and sonata, to the point of taking over altogether an identification as “theme.” Komlós, for instance, calls the “main theme,” that is, only the two first bars, “Haydn’s most robust construction for a keyboard instrument.”34 In reality, however, they are “just” the beginning to a much larger musical period that stretches all the way to m. 8, or even beyond to m. 10 (see below). Is this assertiveness generically English? Comparing Haydn’s No. 52 and Dussek’s Sonata Op. 13 No. 3 (see ex. 6.2), also dedicated to Theresa Jansen, we are struck by the similarity in material: apart from the grand chords, there’s the emerging melodic content—a rising major third followed by a minor second, which Haydn (if he indeed took Dussek as a model) has transferred from a middle voice to the top voice. But equally, if not more important during a hypothetical brainstorming session with Theresa, would have been the issues of instrument (“This is what a Broadwood can do really well”), sociocultural context (“Many people tend to crowd the concert halls of this city”), and acoustics (“We’ll need something that projects well to the listeners”). All of these factors combine into what we may call “English.” Regarding the dotted rhythm, Leonard Ratner and Wye J. Allanbrook evoke the topic of a “French overture” or “entrée,” which, again, is not a first for Haydn’s solo sonatas.35 The above-mentioned Sonatas Nos. 13 and 9 are two examples of a single assertive chord on the downbeat. The Sonata in

Ex. 6.1. Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52 (London: Longman, Clementi, 1799), first movement, mm. 1–13

Ex. 6.2. Jan Ladislav Dussek, Sonata in G Minor, Op. 13 No. 3, first movement, mm. 1–4

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C Major, Hob. XVI:21, the first of the “Nicolaus Esterházy” Sonatas (see ex.1.4a), offers an example of an entrée that starts on the upbeat. Its evocation seems particularly fitting for an opus so overtly cast in the sociocultural context of the court. In the “English” opening chords of the E 𝅗𝅥 Sonata, however, I propose to see the equivalent of the act of “rising to speak.” Just as for the first time in his life Haydn would have heard a performance of a solo piano sonata as part of a larger formal concert, it was also in London that for the first time in his life he would have witnessed public soliloquies by officials, lawyers, or politicians.36 Rhetorical man he was, Haydn would have been fascinated by English displays of public oratory. In early November 1791 Haydn wrote enthusiastically about a luncheon in honor of the Lord Mayor that he had attended along with some twelve hundred other guests. “No toast was more applauded than that of Mr. Pitt.”37 While admitting to “feeling quite silly” (recht possierlich) in his gown when he received his honorary doctorate at Oxford,38 he received unexpected praise for his oratorical skills from Dr. Burney, who, in a letter to Latrobe, wrote that Haydn “took the opportunity [when seeing the doctor at a professional concert] of making fine speeches innumerable, viva voce” in thanks for a gift.39 “By that means,” Burney continued, Haydn “saved himself the trouble of writing a letter.” Endearingly—but significantly, in terms of our understanding of him as a composer—Haydn started to feel and act “in character” barely two months into his first English sojourn. “Rising to speak” in the British House of Commons is an act as conscious as raising one’s arms when sitting down all alone at a keyboard in front of an audience in a specially designated concert room. (See plate 9 for an actual image of William Pitt addressing the Speaker of the House, painted by Haydn’s countryman Karl Anton Hickel in 1793. The setup of the room, especially the fixed benches on either side, is similar to that of the Holywell Music Room: compare plates 8 and 9.)40 In the words of the early nineteenth-century constitutionalist Thomas Erskine May, “Proper respect is paid to the assembly, by every member who speaks rising in his place, and standing uncovered.”41 The following spoken example by the Irish statesman Henry Flood is recorded in The British Cicero, a historical collection of actual parliamentary speeches, published to enliven the study of rhetoric through real-life English models: “Sir, I rise to propose a reform in the parliamentary representation of the people. . . . But I am told this is not the time. And why? because forsooth there are disturbances in France.”42 The speech is dated March 1790—nine months before Haydn’s first trip to England— and Flood’s mention of “disturbances” refers, of course, to the blood-soaked

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French Revolution, just across the Channel. The interjection “and why?” is typical for a deliberative oration such as this, where the speaker must establish contact with as large a group of sympathetic listeners as possible. Because the orator proceeds to give his own answer, the applied figure would be subiectio, or a mock dialogue with both question and answer integrated in the orator’s monologue, “to enliven the line of thought.”43 Flood continues: Now, first I say, that if those disturbances were ten times greater than with every exaggeration they are represented to be [irony and hyperbole combined], yet that mass of confusion and ruin [hyperbole, now to his own advantage] would only render the argument more completely decisive in favor of a timely and temperate reform here [a nice reversal of argument]. And why? [he asks again, presumably leaving a pause] because it is only from want of timely and temperate [literal repeat, allowing the orator to savor the alliteration once more, now perhaps in a ritardando delivery] reform there [emphasizing “there” vs. “here” before], that these evils have fallen upon France.44

These repeated oratorical questions are present also in Haydn’s theme— “theme” used here in the conventional sense of a more or less complete opening period. We refer to the repeatedly embellished appoggiatura/release pairs of a 𝅗𝅥2 and g2 in mm. 3–5 of ex. 6.1. We call these questioning figures y in distinction to the assertive opening gesture of x (“I rise”). As the pianist ruminates over y, leaving meaningful pauses in between, she has the unique opportunity—here at the beginning of the piece—to explore the acoustics that surrounds her and her audience for any lingering reverberation as she leaves sufficient time for the questions to have their proper impact. (We hinted at this kind of interplay with the open-lid instrument and space at the beginning of this chapter and at the outset of this book.) In oratorical terms, she gives the impression of “consulting” her audience (the applicable rhetorical figure of address being communicatio). The repeated questioning figures (c3–b 𝅗𝅥2–a 𝅗𝅥2–g2) become transiting ones in m. 5 (transitio), leading to the next three-bar phrase. If Jansen asked Haydn for thirds—the signature of her teacher Clementi—she got a whole cascade of them; however, she got them in a key and of a kind that would have challenged her eloquence as much as her technical skill. Picking up on a subdominant harmony—the same that had firmly grounded the “I rise” motive, but now in first rather than second inversion— the ensuing phrase evokes the soundscape of a dulcimer or a pantalon:

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imagine the alternating tones in the left hand being played by two mallets to produce a pleasant mixture of sounds, here held together by a smooth but not particularly meaningful 7–6 suspension swing. For this passage I like to keep my pedal down (or the dampers raised) for every half bar, or for every new bass note, with the inefficient English dampers sustaining a pleasant blur through any change of pedal. Digressive in nature—since nothing much happens, and if there is any cantabile at all, then whatever is sung would be fragmentary at best45—mm. 6–8 become one prolonged suspensio, accumulating in two short cadential chords (piano!) just before the “I rise” returns in full force. No longer a “speech act” (since we’ve already “risen”), this recurrence—the first of three in this exposition—confirms a generic stance of “assertiveness.” If there was feigned consulting on the orator’s part in mm. 3–5, she now answers for herself: a questioning y is replaced by an emphatically answering z (mm. 9–10). The long descending scale is no unusual technical challenge. Similar scales may be found—or could be easily improvised—in Haydn’s earlier works: the first movement of the Sonata in A 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:46 comes to mind, especially m. 30. But what is striking here is the sheer oratorical force (Heinrich Schenker speaks of a “crushing effect”)46 of what in essence is a very direct and simple gesture, from the high b 𝅗𝅥2 (which had previously halted on an inconclusive 3) all the way down to E 𝅗𝅥, or 1—the equivalent perhaps of a member of Parliament flamboyantly pointing his index finger at a decisive moment in his speech. Haydn counts on the homogeneity of the English sound in every register to pull off the austere effect, in contrast to similar examples in his earlier output, like the previously mentioned No. 46, or like the erratic scale patterns in the first movement of the Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:38 where the nonhomogeneous plucking and striking points of the Viennese harpsichord and fortepiano would have created an interesting layer of sonic waves over the descending and ascending scales. With this massive gesture, have we marked the end of one large opening period, or have we progressed into the next period, paragraph, or section? The answer is yes, and yes: mm. 9–10 can be considered a gigantic, almost slow-motion elision (ending also being the beginning), designed for grand effect. Indeed, the broad elocutionary strokes—“elocutionary” in the British sense of the word (i.e., combining stylistic force with viva voce execution)— would have been clear to every single listener in the room. The rhetorical strategy emerging from them is as straightforward as it is directly engaging: the pianist-orator moves from “asserting” to “consulting” to “narrating/ digressing” and back to “asserting” or “confirming.” This pattern will be more

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or less sustained throughout the first movement. (For example, the third part, i.e., the part after the third “I rise” moment, expands the consulting section, with y being repeated many times; it also expands the narrating/ digressing section, with the “music box” passage in mm. 27–29 and the ensuing minor-to-major suspension discussed above.)47 This distinctive Englishness is as exciting to us as it must have been to Haydn. But what happens when we play the same movement on a Viennese piano? To limit the comparison to instruments alone—without any distraction of the larger room and those concertgoers in the far reaches of the hall who expect us to “project”—we eliminate the virtual acoustics of the Holywell Music Room for sound excerpt 6.3. That is to say, I play an English piano in the dry, absorptive Immersive Lab, with no added reverberation. Listen especially to the resonance after each pause, a lingering desire to “connect” with the audience “out there” while also seeking to incorporate whatever one says within the overall flow of one’s expressed ideas. Then compare this excerpt with sound excerpt 6.4, on the Viennese fortepiano, in identical dry circumstances. In the English rendition, the listener can clearly follow the first four bars as one coherent whole (“I rise . . . to make a proposition . . . and why? . . . because . . .”), while the Viennese rendition makes a bizarrely fragmented impression. During the first two bars, the arpeggio marks, of which there are many more in the Viennese than in the English edition, remind me to lend weight to each of my chords, seven in total, but the ensuing piano interjections fail to have the same argumentative impact as they did on the English instrument. The Viennese piano does better with something like the opening of the Sonata in C Major, Hob. XVI:48 (see ex. 1.5b), where we have a self-reflective kind of declamation, starting from something full, with lots of impact, but where the decay of sounds takes over the expression until it is the silence itself that speaks. Haydn, of course, knew what he was doing. The opening idea (an assertive tonic chord followed by a retreating, neighboring dominant one) lasts five beats or, in this tempo, for about five seconds. These correspond more or less to the time it would take for a single note played on a circa 1790 Viennese fortepiano to decay from a healthy forte attack to an exquisite pianissimo. Withdrawing, thinking backward, playing within the decay of sounds is Viennese; sustaining, thinking forward, beating the odds of piano technology to play long lines is English. To be sure, we are here characterizing the situation in the 1790s and early 1800s. A crossfertilization between schools—mostly from England to the Continent—is arguably the single most important narrative in the history of piano building in the early part of the nineteenth century.

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Ex. 6.3. Ludwig van Beethoven, Sonata in B 𝅗𝅥 Major, Op. 22, fourth movement, mm. 1–8

Consider again ex. 6.3, or the opening of the fourth movement of Beethoven’s B 𝅗𝅥 Major Sonata Op. 22 of 1799. Slurs have a clear beginning and end. Releases in mm. 2 and 4, furthermore, are tied over to the next, longer slur, resulting in elided double slurs rather than single, longer ones— each to be inflected, that is, to be played diminuendo.48 This expectation also plays itself out in the long slur of mm. 5–7, where a crescendo creates a “backward momentum” (since we pile up on what came before, rather than move ahead to what comes next), until finally we can let go on an exquisite cadence in m. 8, also the end of the opening period. Now compare mm. 6–8 in the Viennese print (ex. 6.4) with the same in the English print (ex. 6.1; this is the pantalon evocation discussed above). In the Viennese version (C), we detect an instinct to keep specifying the slurs in both hands, in the left hand no fewer than nine consecutive times; in the English print (B), the pianist is left to her own judgment after six. Are we supposed to inflect each group of 4 sixteenths (“tidididi–tidididi,” etc.), or are they beat-by-beat pulsations in what we should assume to be a basic legato context? Exacerbating a Viennese fortepianist’s puzzlement, when the alternating mallets jump to the treble in mm. 11–12, we find longer slurs—now over bars rather than beats, with less incentive to articulate; in the English version, one casual, wiggly slur crosses the bar line. Especially problematic on a Viennese instrument is the accent on the d 𝅗𝅥1 in the right hand in m. 6. Haydn had not used this sign before his time in London. Does the d 𝅗𝅥1 add weight to the end of a slur, much like Beethoven’s crescendo, creating a sudden bubble of sound that evaporates as quickly as it formed; or does it force a connection with the

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Ex. 6.4. Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52 (Vienna: Artaria, 1798), first movement, mm. 6–12

downbeat c of the next bar? In either scenario, is one supposed to separate d 𝅗𝅥1 from c1? These are questions, I would suggest, that English pianists would not have asked; by 1799 they would have become much more accepting of the “higher beauties of the [overall] legato,” as Clementi put it in his Introduction to the Art of Playing on the Piano Forte.49 When we “turn on” the Viennese acoustics (sound excerpt 6.5), all the described difficulties dissolve as if by some miracle. The resonant acoustics of the Lobkowitz Festsaal more than generously compensates for the resonance that is built into the English piano. What’s more, Haydn’s fine articulations— those little marks of precision incorporated in the English text—survive remarkably well on the Viennese instrument and prove useful especially in a ceremonial room of aristocratic proportion. Not merely providing clarity for clarity’s sake, they create interesting sonic shapes that no longer feel at odds with the instrument’s tendency to retreat or withdraw into silence, but illustrate the pianist’s story, blooming and reverberating through the silences and reaching out to a whole assembly of listeners. In the hands of Magdalena von Kurzböck, playing one of the newest top-of-the-line Viennese instruments in acoustics appropriate to her talents, the ever so subtle adjustments to the text from the English to the Artaria print do pay off.50 Two Dedicatees

The fact remains, however, that Haydn would not have written Sonata No. 52 had it not been for London or Jansen. Also to me, playing the piece on an English piano in an English concert room feels like a much more comfort-

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able fit. Perhaps this is why, for my Viennese performance, I was keen to stress the professionalism of the Viennese dedicatee, just as the reviewer of the sonata focused on the ability of the performer to handle the difficulties inherent in the piece. By contrast, in our earlier discussions of Haydn’s dedicatees, we barely addressed their actual level of playing—with the possible exception of the Auenbrugger sisters. I was happy to adjust my professional self to them, their aprofessionalism making our triangular interactions with Haydn all the more lively and interesting. The discussed German review of No. 52 seems to augur a new era of composer-performer relationships in which both are potential masters. From this perspective, the highest compliment to Kurzböck was that “she always thinks herself into the meaning of the composition that she performs.” Kurzböck does not need Haydn the same way that Frau von Genzinger did; she did not ask him to adjust a difficult hand-crossing passage, nor did she need him to “analyze the many things” that an Adagio is supposed to mean. And since we’re dealing here with a rededication, Haydn did not need Kurzböck in the same way he had needed Jansen. More than any other prior dedicatee, including Jansen (since she was indigenous to the English production), Kurzböck must have understood the business of playing “masterworks,” anticipating what François-Joseph Fétis would preach to all piano students some forty years later: “The performer must contemplate the composer’s work, seize its spirit [esprit], and then content himself with rendering it with all the facility of which he is capable, with all the life and sensitivity he could muster, and with as much respect for the productions of others as he would wish for his own.”51 The performer has to do the best he can. Regardless of instrument, environment, or purpose, it is the spirit of the work that he must contemplate. But in our analysis we’re not quite ready to change the “she,” the Klavierspielerin of 1790s Vienna, to a generic male conservatory student of 1840s Brussels, Leipzig, or Paris. We’re not quite ready to separate score from dedicatee and reserve a place for it in the Repertoire of Classical Piano Music. So, let us continue to ask what made both women so uniquely similar and/or so intriguingly representative of a newly emerging type of pianist. In Appendix B I’ve organized the available biographical information, whenever possible from primary sources, under the headings of Childhood, Accomplishments (to use the contemporary British term for marriageable women), Piano lessons, Marital status, Connection with Haydn, Noted performances or Testimonies of their playing, “Dedications of published works, and (if applicable) their own Published compositions. Continuous numbering for each of the items makes for easy reference. For information on Jansen,

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I have built mainly on the work of Strunk (1934), which was admirably clarified, corrected, and expanded by Katelyn Clark (2012). For Kurzböck, while referring to the work of Gerlinde Haas (2001), I have drawn further from AmZ as well as Reichardt’s 1808–9 Confidential Letters from Vienna. Given Jansen’s training and reputation (an 1814 Italian dictionary lists her with “John” Baptist Cramer and John Field as one of Clementi’s three “distinguished pupils”; item 12), one might expect a reasonably well documented career. However, only one public record has come to us: the announcement in the Times of a “Grand Concert” that she’s about to share with Wölfl in the Great Room of the King’s Theatre at the Haymarket (item 22).52 At age thirty-six, “Mrs. Bartolozzi” is scheduled to play a concerto by Mozart (“being her first appearance in public”), as well as “a new Duet for two Piano-fortes, composed by Woelfl.”53 We’re not sure which should be more surprising: the late date for her public debut in spite of her reputation as one of Clementi’s best students, or the fact that it occurred long after her marriage to the painter Gaetano Bartolozzi (item 14), violating the custom according to which a lady was expected to withdraw from public life after marriage. We find an explanation in the account of a “near relative,” also the author of the Memoirs of the Life . . . of Madame Vestris, Theresa’s daughter, a celebrated dancer and singer: “Miss Janson [sic] was one of the most noted performers of her time on the pianoforte; but her father’s income being sufficient, she, during his life, had no occasion to make use of her abilities further than to contribute to the amusement of her father’s guests, who were generally persons of the very highest rank and fashion” (emphasis mine).54 The young Jansen didn’t perform publicly because she didn’t need to. Her professional activities instead revolved around dancing (her father was a well-respected dancing master from Aachen). “Teaching that beautiful and graceful art,” along with her younger brother Louis, she “realized rather more than two thousand pounds per annum” (item 6). (One can imagine that he would teach the gentlemen, and she the ladies.)55 By all appearances, her musical activities remained private—by lack of further evidence after her public “debut” at the Haymarket. But they must have been so prestigious that they clearly allowed her to build an impressive name for herself. “Private,” furthermore, did not mean “local,” as the following note on the title page of her own Variations on a Minuet of Dussek (item 31) demonstrates: “This Piece has never been Published before being reserved by Mad.me Bartolozzi for her own performance, at the most celebrated concerts in the Kingdom.”56 If anything, this kind of sales pitch, so prominent on the front of the score, implies an active performing career. The score of these “Five Bril-

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liant Variations” contains dazzling displays of pianistic effect and flourish that, especially when presented by a mistress who is as skilled on the dance floor as she is at the piano, would have come across as utterly charming and entertaining.57 The mere existence of such a composition (hitherto overlooked in the literature) accounts for a bigger surprise. In exploring the English roots of Haydn’s London music, scholars have typically looked at Clementi, Dussek, or other colleagues of Haydn who had also dedicated works to Jansen (items 23, 24, and 28).58 But Theresa’s brother Louis also wrote a grand sonata for her (item 26).59 And, most important, Theresa wrote one herself (item 33). Ex. 6.5 reproduces the incipits of each of the movements. We immediately recognize the murky bass in the opening Allegro, which starts in an unusual piano, comparable to the first of Clementi’s Three Sonatas Op. 33, also in A major. The Andantino in E major is exquisitely colorful, strikingly reminiscent of the second movement of Haydn’s Sonata No. 52 but also of his Trio Hob. XV:28 for Jansen in the same key; it features figurations and groups of solid eight-voice chords, so superb on the English grand and so clearly present in Haydn’s Adagio too (except that Haydn most often reduces them to seven voices, three in the bass and four in the treble). And the finale is an exhilarating rondo, with a few dramatic, gypsylike episodes that Haydn would certainly have appreciated. This is the work of a first-rate artist, compositionally perhaps more imaginative than the sonata by Marianna von Auenbrugger discussed in chapter 5. The date of publication is unknown, but it may well be in proximity of her Minuet and Variations, also published by G. Walker in 1814. In light of her professed desire to keep pieces “for her own performance,” it is probable that both pieces had been composed much earlier.60 It is clear that Haydn had social contact with both the Jansen and Bartolozzi families long before he wrote his E 𝅗𝅥 Sonata for Theresa (items 16 and 17). Less clear, as a result, is on whose behalf he would have been invited to the wedding of one of their children as an official witness (items 14 and 20). The fact that Theresa was introduced to her future husband only in early 1795 (item 13), soon after Gaetano had returned from Italy, raises the pleasant question of what role Haydn might have played in the match. Like Jansen, Kurzböck was born in 1770, the eldest of seven siblings, all girls (item 3). In 1773–74, when Haydn had dealings with her father, Joseph Edler von Kurzböck, over the printing of his “Nicolaus Esterházy” Sonatas, she would have been four years of age. Magdalena was raised in an outspokenly academic environment: her mother’s family was also in the book-

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Ex. 6.5. Theresa Bartolozzi-Jansen, Grand Sonata in A Major, three movements, incipits

printing and -selling business (item 2). In contrast to her German/London counterpart, Kurzböck remained single (item 4) in a city where continued musical activity was actually accepted and encouraged among married aristocratic women, provided that they remained Dilettantin and as long they displayed their skills within the confines of the private Viennese salon. References to her playing—in the regular press and through accounts by Reichardt—are many and plentiful. But to confuse “private” with “intimate”

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would be a mistake: at the new concert hall of the Streichers, which boasted no fewer than three hundred seats, she played a Concerto in B 𝅗𝅥 by Dussek (item 21),61 and with Frau von Pereira she played a “brilliant duo-sonata of Steibelt” (presumably four-hand) for “a large assembly of three, four hundred people at Baron Arnstein” (item 24)—the latter as the opening act to the dancing of “many beautiful waltzes” played by them “with unbelievable patience and goodness.” Among the consistently positive superlatives, we find but one minor “negative” qualification in item 20, where the critic adds that “slightly more shadow (Schatten), aplomb, and power” could have elevated her performance of Mozart’s C Major Concerto (K 467?) to “true excellence.” Paradoxically, while Kurzböck is praised for her “very thorough insight in musical theory” (sehr gründliche Einsicht in die musikalische Theorie) (item 28) and is reported to have composed “a few things for her instrument” (item 31) (though none have survived), she is perfectly satisfied to play “some beautiful and appropriate new fermatas” (i.e., cadenzas) that “Eberl had prepared” (item 20). The reviewer concludes that “all this [including Eberl’s cadenzas] was received with the loudest applause.” It is plausible that Eberl could have been present at the concert: one can imagine Kurzböck gracefully acknowledging him in public and him graciously returning the compliment. But the point here is that, with her reported skill and insight, Kurzböck would have been perfectly capable of preparing her own cadenzas. By contrast, Theresa Jansen’s Grand Sonata includes no fewer than three such extended improvised moments printed in small notation—exactly like the ones we find in her teacher’s C Major Sonata Op. 33 No. 3 or in Clementi admirer Beethoven’s Op. 2 No. 3, also in C major. We may also be suspicious of the apparently public perception of Misses Kurzböck and Spielmann as “pupils” (Schülerinnen) of Haydn, as reported in AmZ in the context of the famous gala concert of Haydn’s Creation at the Vienna University Aula (item 10, i). Did these ladies take actual lessons from Haydn? In any case, the relationship between Haydn and Kurzböck blossomed into something directly beneficial to him. According to Kurzböck’s brother-in-law, Jean de Carro, “Whenever Joseph Haydn had composed some new piece of music, he came and very humbly asked mademoiselle Madeleine to try it out first because, as he said, he could not judge the quality of his work very well until [he heard it with] the extreme delicacy of her fingers.” Kurzböck apparently not only had a phenomenal memory (see Schönfeld’s report, item 15) but was an excellent sight-reader as well. For Carpani, the perception of Kurzböck as a “pupil of rare talent” (bra-

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vissima scolare) immediately sparks the other one of “friend of Haydn” (item 14).62 We find touching glimpses of a caring, almost self-effacing personality in items 9, 10, and 12. She treats the old man like the daughter he never had, and Haydn in return loved her “as if he were her father” (item 23). She also was the one who acted as a liaison between Reichardt and Haydn, after playing for him “a big, difficult sonata by our deceased Prince Louis Ferdinand,” in itself a thoughtful gesture toward the German visitor (item 23). The Prussian prince so revered by Reichardt had died on the battlefield two years earlier. It is in this context that Reichardt adds, almost as an explanation of her “accomplished execution,” that “she is a pupil of Clementi.” The Father of the Piano

I have dropped his name many times. Longman, Clementi, & Company was the publisher of the English print. For my recording I used a Longman, Clementi, & Company piano. By 1802, when Kurzböck might have started taking lessons from Clementi, the company’s name had been simplified to Clementi & Company, not only making him the single central figure (if only for marketing purpose) but also eliminating any lingering hint of Longman (either James or John) and Francis Broderip, together having formed the Longman & Broderip firm that Haydn had known in London.63 When Haydn followed up on the contract signed with Hyde, he found himself dealing with his old-colleague-turned-businessman Clementi (see the beginning of this chapter). As James Parakilas so succinctly wrote, “Clementi did it all.” Muzio Clementi was professionally active as a pianist, teacher, composer, author, publisher, manufacturer, and sales agent; but his greatest talent was perhaps the entrepreneurial verve he applied in all. What, though, does it mean to be called, as Kurzböck was, “a pupil of Clementi”? In item 27, Reichardt describes Clementi as someone “indescribably precise and critical about the performance of his compositions, whose inner refinement and solidity one can recognize only with difficulty if one hasn’t heard them played either by himself or by one of his best pupils.” Kurzböck was one of those “best pupils”—in Vienna, she even was his favorite, enjoying “his own special endorsement.” If Haydn ever sat down with Kurzböck at his English piano (which in 1795 must have been one of the very first such instruments to be exported to Vienna), then it is tempting to speculate whether she and Clementi would have organized their lessons at such an instrument too. Reichardt mentions that, by 1809,

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“even from his own London factory [Fabrik] there are several here.” But it is much more likely—and characteristic of the kind of diplomat that Clementi would have needed to be in order to separate his activities as a representative of his firm from promoting his public image as a classical-canonical composer on a par with Beethoven or Haydn—that he would have been capable, by either choice or necessity, to separate “interpretation” from “instrument,” especially in a fortepiano-building stronghold as Vienna. Reichardt tells us elsewhere that after a performance by the Baroness von Ertmann of “one of his most difficult sonatas,” Clementi “did not let the perfection of the execution [Ausführung] stop him from expressing his wish for some additional subtleties of expression [Ausdrück] and interpretation [Vortrag], as he had thought them during the composition [Arbeit], and the equally modest and great artist satisfied him in these on the spot with equally great receptiveness as accommodativeness.”64 I have deliberately translated Vortrag here as “interpretation” rather than “delivery” (as I did in chapter 2) or “execution” (the more music-technical equivalent). Reichhardt uses Vortrag as an “added” value to Ausführung, traditionally reserved for a composer’s activity (as the German equivalent of elocutio, exactly as Haydn used the term in his Auenbrugger avertissement; see chapter 5). Reichardt’s Ausführung, however, refers to a “correct” way of playing—as in “the art of playing perfectly, spotlessly, with fluidity, et cetera”—as opposed to Ausdrück (expression) and Vortrag (interpretation), these two presumably encapsulating “the art of playing well, artistically, with a soul, et cetera.” Regardless of terminology and semantics, imagine the actual scene that Reichardt describes. The Baroness von Ertmann sits at her piano. Clementi, Reichardt, and another musician friend from London—all three distinguished foreign masters in music—are fully attentive to the single female pianist, who plays a work by Maestro Clementi. This is a master class avant la lettre. We can picture the two male colleagues nodding in approval at Clementi’s remarks. But there would be no talk about any “English way” of doing things: Ertmann was playing her own “splendid Streicher fortepiano.” The principal topic of conversation was the subtlety of interpretation. But when Reichardt compliments the pupil on accommodating Clementi’s comments “on the spot,” we understand that the coveted epithet “pupil of Clementi” emphasizes “pupil” just as much as “Clementi”—the latter standing for the master of masters (the “father of the piano”), the former for the absorptive and accommodating student. Ertmann is praised profusely for her “modesty”: her identity as an interpreter in no way contradicts her identity

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as a “great artist.” Ertmann also happened to be Beethoven’s favorite performer; in Reichardt’s episode, she would have been twenty-seven, at the peak of her career as a pupil. Magdalena von Kurzböck would have spent her days practicing masterworks by Haydn, Mozart, Dussek, Steibelt, Prince Louis Ferdinand, and Clementi. Yet even at almost forty years of age, she still submitted herself to intensive coaching from Johann Streicher in the name of Art. Reichardt glowingly reported (item 25) that “seldom did I enjoy such a beautiful work of art [Louis Ferdinand’s F Minor Quartet in an arrangement by Streicher] in such a perfect presentation [Darstellung].”65 She makes herself fully available to the greatest of masters, Papa Haydn, helping him any way she can, serving as a soundboard for his creative work. She graciously plays cadenzas written by a male colleague; and, last but not least, she doesn’t get married (for whatever reason), allowing her social life to keep revolving around art. In short, she is the perfect “pupil of Clementi,” more perfect perhaps than the “original” Clementi pupil Theresa Jansen, who ended up raising two daughters, one of whom became a diva of the London theater scene, but whose “unkind conduct to her mother” became a “prolific topic” of gossip.66 Just before her second child was born, Jansen tried to put her performing career back on track by entering into an entrepreneurial partnership with a male colleague, in a city where everything revolves around money (as in renting concert venues or having to sell one’s own tickets). She published two greatly imaginative and surprisingly difficult pieces at the end of a performing career that—if we must be honest about it—never quite blossomed the same way as that of her younger brother Louis, or of her classmates Cramer and Field. She had the dedications, but not the actual press—almost the reverse of her Viennese counterpart. Given her accomplishments as a pianist-composer, we can easily understand why Theresa Jansen would have felt entitled to the same kind of exclusivity in concert programming as her male colleagues. But unlike her peers, who typically enjoyed expanded careers as widely published authors, she must have felt a need to be protective with “her” pieces—not just those composed by herself, but also those dedicated to her. In a note added to the Adagio of the Sonata in C Major, Hob. XVI:50, which had existed as a single piece in an Artaria print before Haydn left for London and which was being considered for inclusion in the Breitkopf & Härtel Oeuvres complettes, Haydn wrote: “Cannot be printed yet” (Kann noch nicht gedruckt werden).67 The “not yet” is key. Sometime in 1798, while en route to Venice with her young family, Jansen happened to visit Haydn in Vienna (and may well have

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been introduced to Kurzböck). The topic of Artaria’s publication of Sonata No. 52, which by this time had either been offered to Artaria or already published, may have come up.68 The composer and his dedicatee(s) may have amicably worked out a compromise that the other sonata, No. 50, would stay in Jansen’s hands, at least for a while. But Jansen’s interests, if financial at all, may have had a different rationale than hitherto believed. Rather than rushing into a publication, she may have preferred to reserve it “for her own performance, at the celebrated concerts in the Kingdom.”69 Not enjoying as many opportunities as her male colleagues (who would have had no trouble publishing what they played while continuing to turn out new pieces for their own future performances), she had to protect what she had. The question, in other words, is not why Jansen waited so long to publish “her” two Haydn Grand Sonatas (which, from our canonic point of view, seems incomprehensible: who wouldn’t want to be associated to a Haydn piece as dedicatee?), but rather what eventually made her give in to the pressures to do so. It is hard to imagine that her teacher Clementi would not have played an active role in the 1799 transaction of Sonata No. 52 to Longman, Clementi, & Company. By the same token, that Sonata No. 50 was conspicuously not published by Clementi & Company, but by Caulfield in 1801, raises a red flag. Had there been a rift between teacher and pupil? One might extend this question to Jansen’s own works, which were eventually published by yet a third, still less significant London company. (Reluctantly) Entering the Canon

A piece expressly written for Theresa Jansen, a summum of Haydn’s rhetorical writing, has since entered the classical canon as a must for every pianist. But the sonata has also become a centerpiece for the analysis of the “classical piano sonata.” Table 6.2 compares the key words of three twentieth-century analyses, by Donald Tovey (1900), Heinrich Schenker (1922), and Leonard Ratner (1980)—each paradigmatic in its own right. None of them mentions London—on the contrary, the piece is heralded as emblematic for “classical art,” for “Haydn holding the fore and holding his own in the Viennese triumvirate,” or is used as the pinnacle of analytic demonstration in a book on “classic music,” which has no qualms about drawing all of its examples from Mozart, Haydn, and Beethoven as representative of “a language spoken throughout the western world in its time.”70 There is no mention of dedicatee—Ratner, in his reference to the AmZ review of the sonata, significantly truncates the quote just before the line on “the lady mentioned on the title

TABLE 6.2. Three canonical analyses of the Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52

Dedicatee

Tovey (1900)

Schenker (1922)

Ratner (1980)

No mention

No mention

No mention; deletes the line on “the lady on the title page” in his quote of the AmZ review

Instrument

“Expressly for piano-

[No reference, but piano by

“Clearly written for the

forte, but not so as to

implication]

fortepiano yet the entire sonata has a strong flavor

exclude harpsichord”

of harpsichord style” Persona behind

1. Haydn as the builder

1. “The Urlinie,” “scale de-

1. Both passive and active

the analysis

or architect of material

gree,” “register,” “the upper

language, with “topics,”

voice,” etc., as subject of

“play of rhetoric,” “develop-

active language

ment,” “the movement,” or

2. Material itself personified

2. (Exceptionally:) “the mas-

Work and canon

“the sonata” as subject

ter” = Haydn

2. (Exceptionally:) Haydn

“Classical art,” “a work

“20 years after Mozart’s

Example of a “masterpiece,”

of noble proportions

wrote his A Minor Sonata

illustrative of “a language

and rich material,” “the

(1778) and two years after

spoken throughout the

transition from Bach’s

[recte: two years before]

western world in its time”

art to the maturity of

Beethoven published his So-

(The two other example

Haydn and Mozart”

nata in F Minor, Op. 2 No. 1.”

masterpieces are by Mozart

Haydn as individual “genius”:

and Beethoven.)

“His miraculous synthesis must and will sustain him for eternity!” Critical

“Organic develop-

“The organic,” “synthesis,”

Musical rhetoric, and es-

metaphor

ment,” “originated,”

but also evoking human

pecially topics, but “skillful

“traceable,” “thematic

speech, musical rhetoric

shaping” of them ultimately

transformations,” “or-

(Tonrede) and gestures

leads to “organic unity” of

ganic completeness”

(Gebärden)

the three-movement sonata

“The mature works of

“All geniuses create from

“C. P. E. Bach’s influence

Haydn and Mozart” vs.

God and from Him alone”; no

appears throughout the E 𝅗𝅥

“immature works of its

influence from his teachers

major Sonata, as it does

own epoch,” written

(Franck, Reutter, Porpora),

in much of Haydn’s other

by “the Dusseks and

nor even C. P. E. Bach;

keyboard music.”

Hummels of a hundred

“Haydn holding the fore and

years ago” or (earlier)

holding his own” (vis-à-vis

“the Boccherinis and

Mozart and Beethoven).

Contemporaries

Dittersdorfs”

A Contract with Posterity Opening chords

253

“Implying something

“Arpeggios, as though

Topic of French overture,

unusually grand and

plucked from the strings by

marchlike, full voicing in

broad”; “on the piano-

a bard, divided artistically

six- and seven-note chords,

forte, which Haydn

between both hands”

ceremonial style calling for

certainly preferred,

overdotting, low center of

these thick chords give

sound in both hands sug-

a very orchestral im-

gesting a “deliberate tempo,

pression, as contrasted

slower than the allegro

with the light and thin

specified by Haydn”

style of writing which the small pianofortes of that time naturally favoured”

page.” The persona behind the prose of the analyses is mostly the material itself (“the Urlinie,” “the scale degree,” “the topic”) or, to a lesser degree, Haydn as “the master” or “the architect.” As far as instruments goes, we do find Tovey and Ratner referring to piano versus harpsichord, but there’s definitely no awareness of the English piano, which Haydn had so effectively discovered. The term “organic”—that buzzword of mid to late nineteenth-century criticism—is found in each of the analyses, including Ratner’s, whose own proposed “topics” and “gestures” (both part of some independent “musical rhetoric”) are somehow situated in the living score (as some expanded concept of elocutio), but surely not in the concrete choices of technology, acoustics, or performance. The possible exception here is Schenker, who sometimes allows riveting analogies with human speech to slip into his otherwise highbrow analytical prose. In all this canonical branding, what happened to Haydn the rhetorical man? When Breitkopf & Härtel asked him to provide a preface for the first volume of the Oeuvres complettes, he complied. After announcing, with pride and gratitude, “the complete edition of my keyboard works [Klavierkompositionen],” Haydn could not resist adding the following paragraph: “If my increasing age and my occupations permit, I will gladly fulfill the wish of the publisher to increase the desirability of this collection with a few new works.”71 The concept of a “complete edition,” for publisher and composer alike, still sparked the desire to produce more. It would have been fascinating to see what Haydn considered fit for a pan-European publishing effort such as this—one that, in the name of “completeness,” mixed difficult with easy, grand with intimate, male with female, Kenner with Liebhaber—the

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only standing criterion for selection being “authenticity,” that is, the confirmation by the composer that all works were indeed composed by Haydn. In the first paragraph of the printed announcement, Haydn provided just such a stamp of approval. But there was no “more.” Clementi tried it his way, with a legalistic contract. Breitkopf tried it with an ambitious new endeavor. Haydn, however, did not—or could no longer—deliver. Having returned to Vienna a universal hero, his mental focus turned instead to writing grand-scale oratorios, masses, but also part-songs—an impressive body of music that, in his final years, offered him new and exciting challenges, new music that without exception resulted in actual performances that he could still direct, participate in, or at the very least attend. He had sniffed the profit of a market surrounding the English drawing room, but he now lacked the concrete impetus—those people (Rebecca, Theresa!), instruments (Broadwood, Longman, & Broderip!), rooms (the Hanover Square Rooms, the Holywell Music Room!)—to take part in it. (His own English grand wouldn’t have changed much: surrounded by Viennese piano technicians and musicians, it is unlikely that as a decontextualized object the instrument would have meant the same as in London.) So, when Prince Nicolaus Esterházy II ordered Haydn to write a new sonata for the beautiful general’s wife Madame Moreau, he had no choice but to send her Hob. XV:31, with the “Jacob’s Dream” movement that he had originally written for Theresa Jansen.72 Back then the piece had the specific rhetorical purpose of a practical joke (item 19 in Jansen’s biography), but now it was recycled as a generic “violin sonata” with a deleted cello part. The Trio had been published by Traeg in Vienna a few months earlier, in August 1803, and dedicated to, of all people, Magdalena von Kurzböck.

Epilogue

When in 1829 the English musician Vincent Novello found a “Grand Piano Forte” “that belonged to Haydn,” he assumed that the reader would take the continuation of his story for granted: “I need not add that I sat down and played upon it with peculiar pleasure.”1 What exactly Novello played, we’ll never know—and chances are he wouldn’t have thought it too important: what mattered was that, as he touched the keys the late master once played, he was able to transport himself back in time and breathe Haydn’s spirit—an experience enhanced by the physical presence of the Abbot Stadler, himself an éminence grise of what was rapidly becoming known as “the Viennese classical era.” When I traveled from Montreal to Belgium in 2004 to make a recording of Haydn’s three Accompanied Sonatas, Hob. XV:27–29, a set that Haydn wrote for the English pianist Theresa Jansen-Bartolozzi, I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. I had known and loved the circa 1798 Longman, Clementi, & Company piano that Chris Maene had restored not long before, an instrument that was similar if not structurally identical to the Longman & Broderip that Novello found in Stadler’s home. But Maene surprised us by announcing that he had constructed a brand-new version of it. I will never 255

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forget the moment when I saw both the skillfully restored original and its carefully cloned replica side by side, their juxtaposition creating a surreal reversal of the passage of time. I remember having to shake off any feelings of nostalgia, almost forcing myself to embrace new over old. Playing on an instrument whose action felt strangely equal throughout all registers, that didn’t have those yellowed ivory keys, and that had dampers that, contrary to my expectation, actually functioned quite well (though still not as efficiently as the Viennese ones) almost made my eyes twitch at the cleanliness and newness—a cross-sensory experience similar to what mid-1990s visitors reported experiencing after seeing Michelangelo’s rejuvenated Sistine Chapel ceiling in the Vatican. To rejuvenate our image of Haydn at the keyboard has been the main purpose of this book. Whenever I sit down at a newly crafted historical instrument, I like to believe that I’m involved in an endeavor to practice history, not just celebrate heritage; to find concrete solutions to concrete problems (as Haydn once did), and not just confirm the sainthood of a canonized composer; or, my experience of performing in digital acoustics in mind, to find the “virtual” in “reality” as we (re)construct in our collective imagination a myriad of choices and combinations—not just involving instruments, but also various types of human interaction, sociocultural contexts, intellectual backdrops, or venues of performance. When Haydn twice crossed the Channel and found himself in rough waters, he “had to laugh instead of vomit thinking back on Bernardon’s tempest.” Neither Haydn or Bernardon had ever witnessed a storm, but each had imagined one that ended up surpassing reality. I wonder whether Haydn ever witnessed the castration of a boar, but through his music, I feel as though I have a pretty good idea what it must have been like. I cannot pretend to be able to empathize with the sensitivities of a fifteen-year-old princess, but Haydn at least made me try. Similarly, I’d never found much use for Lavater’s physiognomic theories (which are bizarre, to say the least), but Haydn made me take note of them with unexpected interest. Haydn’s solo keyboard music is not just some repertoire for the piano-learning student: it’s a treasure trove of clues—clues to real people, real instruments, real rooms, the “real” Haydn. So let us laugh, be deeply moved, charmed, startled, or teased. Haydn’s inexhaustible genius and his down-to-earth humanity demand nothing less.

Let the physiognomist observe varieties, make minute distinctions, establish signs, and invent words, to express these remarks. J. C. L AVAT E R (1775), 158; trans. Lavater (1826), 12



APPENDIX A



Physiognomic Analyses of Plate 5 à la Lavater

Sonata 1

1.

2.

3.

Look at the sparkle in the man’s eyes! Who will not be convinced by the confidence and genuine optimism of the artist? He holds his head straight and smiles with open mouth. His cheerful demeanor and joie de vivre has a catchy effect on anyone around him. It is the listener in front of him with whom he seeks to communicate. How effortlessly he can switch to his other physiognomy, perhaps his more natural one: that of the serious artist, whose eyes are cast down, as if contemplating the full impact of his thoughts. His mouth is relaxed (as before) but now his lips are closed, suggesting a tendency to listen rather than to speak. His tilted head equally suggests an inclination to take some distance from what’s being said or done, or from the object of his art. By his demeanor he seems to be thanking the Creator for his talent rather than showing off his craftsmanship. Here we see the artist slightly stretching his neck forward, with a teasing smile, his eyes wide open, nose projecting forward. He’s up to

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something! His forehead conveys alertness or acuteness, but if there is any stress in the muscles, there are no wrinkles to show it.

Sonata 2

4.

Who will fail to be affected by the forcefulness of this expression? The artist’s mind is focused on conveying the pure strength of his ideas—of simple and logical truth. There’s no distance here, as in No. 2. The artist is fully engaged, straight head bent down to the center of the keyboard, keeping tight control over both hands. His lowered eyebrows come close to the eyes: the sign of an earnest, deep, and firm character. But they’re also brought nearer to one another, resulting in a distinct groove in his forehead, another sign of determination and fortitude. 5. What clownishness! Notice the wide gap between the eyes and the eyebrows, as well as between the eyebrows and the hairline. Opening up these gaps usually indicates increased cheerfulness, openness, or lightness. But here: what excess, what caricature! Contrary to No. 3, where the mouth is in perfect harmony with the rest of the face, the artist here compresses his lips, as if to hide mischief or derisiveness. This is a distorted face, awkwardly tilted to the artist’s left. Also, the wrinkles on the forehead are a sign of tension. 6a. What is the artist looking at? Everything and nothing. He’s scanning the environment around him. His left ear, pointed outward, is alert to any unfamiliar sound. Similarly, his neck, slightly bent and tilted, conveys sensitivity and control. And his nose and chin are projected forward, indicative of increased acuteness. We see a serious, attentive man, who treads carefully in a dark and silent world. But he projects no fear. On the contrary, we see someone we can trust. 6b. How beautiful is it not to leave behind earthly worries to submit oneself to heavenly sleep, knowing that we are in safe hands? The artist’s face is relaxed and serene; his eyes are closed. In his dream he listens to soft and ravishing sounds.

Sonata 3

7.

More pointed than No. 3, but less distorted than No. 5, this countenance depicts a highly energetic and lively person. Notice the slight opening of his mouth, in synchronization with the overall extroverted

Physiognomic Analyses of Plate 5

8.

9.

259

character. There’s definite brilliance in the man, but also irrationality. One imagines his gestures to be quick, small, and quirky. How contrasting is this demeanor! There is the stern forehead groove again, in a face that deliberately averts itself from the observer. Pursed lips, sinking eyebrows, firm nose. After the hyperactivity from before, we see extreme fatigue and lethargy. After these two extremes (hyperactivity vs. lethargy), we are presented with the physiognomy of a genuinely cheerful and witty person. Whoever examines this countenance cannot but perceive in it the traits of a sanguine temperament: a soft smile, a relaxed lower face (from nose to chin), two curly lines marking the area between the nose and each side of the upper lip. Notice also the warm glow in the eyes, even if they are in all modesty cast down. Compare with No. 1. But there’s less selfconsciousness in No. 9.

Sonata 4

10. Reflection and deliberation of a deep and serious nature are the most apparent characteristics of this countenance. We see a melancholy man. His slightly elevated head, his undetermined gaze, his somewhat sunken eyebrows, and his mouth shut except for the somewhat open lips in the middle reveal someone who has left the here and now and whose mind wanders in a vast meadow of diverse ideas and emotions. 11. Two intensely focused eyes, straight head slightly bent downward, closed lips (but not pressed)—these are proofs, not to be mistaken, of a man in deep concentration. Not contemplating a variety of thoughts at once, he selected one in particular, examining it for both its intellectual and poetic value. His countenance shows dispassionate meditation and serenity. 12a. Firm and compressed mouth and lips; stern eyes and eyebrows, together a thick, straight line; contracted forehead; nose tip forming a quasi-equilateral triangle with this upper line; chin projecting forward—who does not recognize here the signs of fearless determination and focus? 12b. What eloquent expression! Look at the shape of the cheeks, the ear, the nose, eyebrows, beard, and moustache. There’s no single straight line in this face! Only arched ones. How graciously do they interplay with one another! What kindness, calmness, almost-feminine understanding!

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Sonata 5

13. Here we must compare with No. 5. We see the same clownish face, with the high eyebrows and the wide open eyes. But the forehead shows no wrinkles, the chin is slightly tucked in, and the eyes are cast down. If we perceive the same roguery as in No. 5, there’s less tension, less caricature in the face to show it. 14. The resemblance to No. 2 is striking. What nobility speaks from the half open mouth, ready, as it were, to speak the most comforting words! More outspokenly than in No. 2, perhaps more affected by life’s experiences, there’s unconditional faith in God’s eternal love. The purity and wisdom in thought are as apparent in this man’s demeanor as they are touching. However, the contraction of an upper facial muscle in his lower forehead, right between the eyes, remains a sign of deep empathy and complete selflessness. 15. What contrast! Sincere empathy there, utter malice here! Note the forward-projecting chin, the sharp nose, the slyly imbalanced shape of the man’s smile, the mischievous eyes. Here’s someone ready to laugh at someone else’s expense. Resemblances with Nos. 13, 9, 7, 5, 3, and 1 are unmistakable. But this is definitely the shrewdest of them all.

Sonata 6

16. Here’s someone self-absorbed in bothersome thought. Heavy grooves mark his forehead; his downward gaze seems lost in darkness; thick lips, rounded and slightly opening his mouth, suggest utter despair. Just looking at him, we hear his deeply felt cries for help. 17. Is a different voice or person addressing our worrier? If so, he speaks words of comfort and wisdom, very much like No. 14. But reacting to a tragic situation, the empathy here is altogether more intense. Note how the isolated muscle contraction between the eyes from before has now spread to both sides of the lower forehead to form one thick, waving line over eyes and nose. Nobility and empathy result in unrest, sadness, and ultimately an admission of powerlessness. 18. (a) Back to our pose in No. 16, but the lips are now more and more tightly pressed while the mouth sinks deeper and deeper. The vision of hope offered by No. 14 seems far gone. (b) Instead we succumb to the debilitating pressures of despair and anger.



APPENDIX B



Biographical Outlines of Theresa Jansen and Magdalena von Kurzböck

Theresa Jansen

b. Aachen, ca. 1770; d. Calais, June 6, 1843 Childhood

1. 2. 3. 4.

Daughter of German dancing master. (a) Mother, Charlotte, is a gifted pianist. (b) One older sister later marries “Dr. Jackson, of Hanover Square.” (c) One younger brother, Louis (b. 1774), becomes a dancing master, professional pianist, violinist, and composer. 5. Family settles in England by 1787 (date of Louis Jansen’s public debut as performer of a sonata by Haydn at the Anacreontic Society) (d), but probably already by 1782 (when James Gillray’s caricature “The German Dancing Master” was published, with Jansen senior as possible model). (e)

261

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Appendix B

Accomplishments

6. “Miss Janson [sic] likewise immediately commenced teaching that beautiful and graceful art [of dancing]. . . . She was eminently successful . . . she and her brother, Mr. L. Janson . . . realized rather more than two thousand pounds per annum.” (a) 7. “Miss Janson [sic] was one of the most noted performers of her time on the pianoforte; but her father’s income being sufficient, she, during his life, had no occasion to make use of her abilities further than to contribute to the amusement of her father’s guests.” (a) 8. “A very fine girl, and known to possess great talent . . . no wonder that she had so many suitors.” (a) 9. “Salomon gave my aunt and family a free admittance to the series of concerts; the same to the Janssen [sic] family, the son and daughters being good musicians . . . the youngest Miss Janssen, one of Clementi’s favourite scholars, afterwards married Bartolozzi.” (c) 10. Per la celebre Signora Teresa de Janson [sic]. (f )

Piano Lessons

11. “They [i.e., Theresa and Louis] were both musical pupils of the immortal Clementi.” (a) 12. “Among [Clementi’s] distinguished pupils are Cramer, Field, madama Bartholozzi [sic] and others.” (g)

Marital Status

13. “About the commencement of the year 1795, Miss Theresa Janson [sic] was first introduced to Mr. G. Bartolozzi, at a musical party at Colonel Hamilton’s, of pugilistic notoriety.” (a) 14. Marries Gaetano Bartolozzi (1757–1821) on May 16, 1795, at St. James’s Church in London. (h) 15. After two miscarriages gives birth to two daughters, Lucia Elizabeth (b. January 3, 1797; later Madame Vestris) and Josephine (b. 1807). (a)

Connection with Haydn

16. The Jansens attended all his Hanover Square concerts in 1791–92, with complimentary tickets (see 9). (b)

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17. Haydn had been a longtime friend of the Bartolozzi family: i.

Bartolozzi junior (Gaetano) visits Haydn in 1786/87, giving rise to rumors in the London press of Haydn’s wishing to come to England. (i) ii. Print of Haydn’s portrait (by A. M. Ott) is engraved by Bartolozzi senior (Francesco), as the first to be published in London, on April 4, 1791. (j) iii. “Mr Bartolozzi Junr N: 30 Poland Street london” is entered by Haydn in his list of subscribers for The Creation (1799–1800). (k) 18. Manuscript of Sonata No. 52 dated 1794, i.e., before she was introduced to Bartolozzi junior. (f ) 19. Anecdote of a German amateur violinist, who has trouble playing high notes: “The amateur often visited a Demoiselle J.++, who played the piano with great skill and whom he usually accompanied. Haydn secretly wrote an accompanied sonata with the title Jacob’s Dream.” They play it; Jansen gets the association with Jacob’s Ladder and bursts out in laughter. After discovering only five to six months later that Haydn was the composer, she sends him a thank-you gift. The movement later becomes the final one of the two-movement Trio Hob. XV:31: see Kurzböck, 30. (l) 20. Haydn acts as official witness at her wedding. (m) 21. The Bartolozzis visit Vienna, Gaetano arriving ahead of his wife and daughter, sometime in 1798, en route from Paris to Venice, and return to London by January 8, 1800, when Bartolozzi advises his old customers that “being now returned from Italy, he means to resume giving Lessons in Drawing.” (a and n)

Noted Performances

22. Shares a “Grand Concert” with Wölfl in the Great Room of King’s Theatre, Haymarket on May 28, 1806, playing a duet by Wölfl for two “Piano Fortes” with the composer and a concerto by Mozart, “being her first appearance in public.” The full advertisement on May 28 reads: “GREAT ROOM, KING’S THEATRE, HAY-MARKET.—Under the Patronage of H. R. H. the Prince of Wales.—Mad. BARTOLOZZI and Mr. WOELFL’s GRAND CONCERT, This Evening, the 28th of

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Appendix B

May.—Part I. New Grand Overture; Woelfl. Song, Signora Griglietti. Duet, two Piano Fortes, Mad. Bartolozzi (being her first appearance in public). Scena, Miss Parke; Guiglielmi. The celebrated Overture of the Opera Die Zauberfloete, performed by Mr. Woelfl on the Organ, without an accompaniment; Mozart.—Part II. Grand Symphony; Woelfl. Scottish Duetto, Mad. Dussek and Mr. A. Corri. Concerto, Piano Forte, Mad. Bartolozzi[; Mozart]. Scena, Mad. Bianchi. Variations on the Harp, Mr. Dizi; Dizi. Mr. Woelfl will perform a Grand Fantasia on the Organ. Finale. Leader of the Band, Mr. Weichsel. Doors to be opened at 7, and the Concerto to begin at 8 o’clock.—Tickets 10s. 6d. each, to be had of Mad. Bartolozzi, No. 85, Newman-street, Oxford-street; and of Mr. Woelfl, No. 43, Gerrard-street, Soho; at the Opera Office; and at the principal Music Shops.” (o)

Dedications (on printed title pages)

23. Dussek, Trois Sonates (with violin accompaniment; B 𝅗𝅥 Major, D Major, G Minor/Major), Op. 13. London: J. Dale, 1790. 24. Clementi, Three Sonatas (A Major, F Major, C Major), Op. 33. London: Longman & Broderip, 1794. 25. Haydn, Three Sonatas (with violin & cello accompaniment; C Major, E Major, E 𝅗𝅥 Major), Hob. XV:27–29. London: Longman & Broderip, 1797. 26. L. Jansen, Grand Sonata, in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Op. 6. London: J. Longman & Co., ca. 1797. 27. Haydn, New Grand Sonata, in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI: 52. London: Longman, Clementi, & Co., 1799. 28. Dussek, Sonata, in A Major, Op. 43. London: Longman, Clementi, & Co., 1800. 29. Haydn, Grand Sonata, in C Major, Hob. XVI:50. London: J. and H. Caulfield, 1801.

Published Compositions

30. FIVE QUADRILLES, / & One Waltz. / as Danced at the / ARGYLL ROOMS, / with New Figures by / M. Vestris, Ballet Master . . . / BY MADAME BARTOLOZZI. Two sets. London: Royal Harmonic Institution, ca. 1813.

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31. DUSSEK’S MINUET, / With Five Brilliant / Variations / FOR THE / Piano Forte . . . / BY MAD M. BARTOLOZZI. In B 𝅗𝅥 Major. London: G. Walker, 1814. 32. ROSY ANN, / A Favourite / Song, / with an Accompaniment for the / PIANO FORTE, / The Melody . . . / by Mrs. Bartolozzi. London: G. Shade, ca. 1815. 33. A / Grand Sonata, / for the / Piano Forte, / . . . By Madame Bartolozzi. In A Major. London: G. Walker (date unknown). Sources: (a) Anonymous 2 (“a near relative”; 1839), 4–6; (b) Appleton (1923), 2; (c) Papendiek (1839/1887), 294; (d) Gazetteer and New Daily Advertiser, January 5, 1787; (e) website of the National Portrait Gallery, London, www.npg.org.uk, accessed June 13, 2013; (f ) autograph A; (g) Bertini (1815), under “Clementi”; (h) Sun, May 23, 1795, and Oracle and Public Advertiser, May 26, 1795; (i) London Chronicle, November 23, 1786, and Gazetteer and New Daily Advertiser, February 2, 1787; (j) Landon (1976), 64; (k) Landon (1977a), 623; (l) Dies (1810/1962), 154–55; (m) parish register, facsimile of entry in Strunk (1934), between pp. 196 and 197; (n) Times, January 8, 1800; (o) Times, May 3, 26, and 28, 1806.

Magdalena Edle von Kurzböck

b. Vienna, March 17, 1770; d. Vienna, February 4, 1845 Childhood

1. Daughter of Josef Lorenz Kurzböck (1736–1792), imperial and academic printer, author, translator, and from 1755 successor to his father as director of the Hof- und Univ. Buchdruckerei; honored with title of nobility in 1766 and knighthood in 1787, among others, for his typographical advancements. (a) 2. Mother, Katharina Edle von Kurzböck (b. 1746), is also in the book business (her brother Joseph is the founding owner of the GeroldVerlagsbuchhandlung), and she continues the Kurzböck business after her husband’s death in 1792. (a) 3. Oldest child of seven siblings, all girls: (from second to youngest) Josepha, Marie, Caroline, Marianne, Johanna, Sophie. (a)

Marital Status

4. Remains unmarried.

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Appendix B

Piano Lessons

5. “Pupil of Haydn”? (see 10/i) 6. “Pupil of Clementi,” but no earlier than 1802 (when Clementi visited Vienna for the first time since 1780/81). (b) 7. “Present piano teacher Streicher.” (see 25)

Connection with Haydn

8. Her father published Haydn’s “Nicolaus Esterházy” Sonatas, Hob. XVI: 21–26, in 1774. 9. “Mademoiselle Madeleine de Kurzbeck [sic], my sister-in-law, was considered the first among the amateur pianists of Vienna, and a few tourists had proclaimed her as such in their writings. Whenever Joseph Haydn had composed a new piece of music, he came to ask mademoiselle Madeleine very humbly to be the very first to try it out because, as he said, he could not judge the quality of his work well until [he heard it played with] the extreme delicacy of her fingers. Neither of them with much of a voice, they nevertheless sang duos together, which created something sepulchral and celestial at the same time. Haydn often dined in Kurzbeck’s house, built on a high rock. Prone to always repeating himself, he spoke with joy about the honors that had been bestowed on him in Great Britain, where the University of Oxford had made him docteur en musique.” (c) 10. On the gala performance of Haydn’s Creation at the Vienna University Aula on March 27, 1808: i.

“His patrons and friends who had seated themselves around him, among whom Prince Lobkowitz, Princess Esterhazy, his two pupils [Schülerinnen] Fräulein Spielmann and Kurzbeck [sic], Beethoven, and Collin, tried to temper the impact of the noise [caused by the cries of joy that affected his nerves so strongly] by constantly catering to his needs.” (d) ii. “[Haydn] had to take a seat next to Princess [Marie] Esterházy. On the other side was Fräulein von Kurzbeck. . . . For this festive occasion, poetry had been composed by Mister Collin in German and Carpani in Italian. The works of these poets were presented to the old man, visibly moved, by Baroness v. Spielmann and Fräulein Kurzbeck.” (e)

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iii. “[Haydn] was carried into the room in an easy chair. The Princess Esterhazy, and his friend madame de Kurzbeck, went to meet him.” (f) iv. “Magdalena v. Kurzböck, an excellent Klavierspielerin, who was often with Haydn in his final years, knew to convince our master to attend this performance.” (g) v. A watercolor miniature of the event, by Balthasar Wigand, shows Kurzböck offering Haydn her scarf. (a) 11. Acts as liaison between the visiting Reichardt and Haydn. (see 23) 12. “Madame de Kurzbeck, at the moment of the [French] occupation of Vienna [in February 1809], had entreated him to allow of his being removed to her house in the interior of the city: he thanked her, but declined leaving his beloved retreat.” (f ) 13. Letter of Streicher to Griesinger: “You know, my dearest friend, that I had requested of Fräul: Kurzbeck, even before your departure, to notify me immediately when Haydn would be approaching his end; but she herself learned about it only when it was too late, on the day of his funeral. I only learned five days later from Fräul: Kurzbeck what had happened. I asked her to send me Johann; she promised, but he didn’t come.” (g) 14. “I have received [Haydn’s] story in the first instance from himself, and, in the next, from persons who have associated most with him during different periods of his life. I will mention the baron Von-Swieten [sic], professor Fribert, professor Pichl, the violoncello Bertoja, counselor Griesenger [sic], professor Weigl, M. Martinez, and mademoiselle de Kurtzberg [sic], the intelligent pupil and friend of Haydn, and the faithful copyist of his music.” (f )

Testimonies of Her Playing Schönfeld (1796), 38–39

15. Quoted in full on p. 227.

AmZ (1799–1812)

16. Back-to-back review and report, quoted in full on pp. 224 and 226 (May 15, 1799). 17. Mentioned as a standard for Viennese pianism, along with distinguished colleagues: “a [ein] Beethoven, Eberl, Hummel, a [eine] Kurz-

268

Appendix B

18.

19.

20.

21.

böck and Spielmann, who have certainly reached a very high degree of Art.” (April 11, 1804) Plays in one of the private concerts (Privatkonzerte) at Herrn von Würth: “All virtuosos [Virtuosen] who recently made it here [Vienna], like Misters Metzger and Flat, Kalmus, Pou, Kalkbrenner, Thieriot, and also most of our excellent amateurs [Dilettanten], Miss von Kurzböck, Baron Kruft, the young Brehm and Cermi performed in this venue. With very few exceptions only works by the most famous masters were performed, namely Mozart, Haydn, Cherubini, Beethoven, Eberl, Winter, Mehul, and others.” (May 9, 1804) “In the Würth concerts [Würthischen Musiken] . . . Miss Kurzböck played Mozart’s beautiful piano quartet in G minor exquisitely; just as exquisitely was she accompanied by Clement, Maiseder, and Krafft.” (February 26, 1805) “At Herrn von Würth . . . Fräulein Kurzböck played Mozart’s piano concerto in C major with the delicacy, charm, and elegance that one so loves in her execution, which slightly more shadow [Schatten], aplomb and power could have elevated to true excellence. Eberl had prepared some beautiful and appropriate new fermatas to this concerto. All this was received with the loudest applause.” (April 17, 1805) “In the tasteful newly built concert hall [Concertsaale, with ca. 300 seats] of Hrn. Andreas Streicher, widely respected here as piano teacher and internationally renowned as maker of high-quality grand pianos [Flügel-Pianoforte], . . . Fräulein Magd. Kurzböck played a concerto of Dussek (B 𝅗𝅥 Major) on the piano. She is widely known and admired as one of our most excellent artists [Künstlerinnen] on this instrument, and, if possible at all, she has surpassed herself today.” (May 27, 1812)

Reichardt (1808–9/1915)

22. “One of the most interesting people I met was Miss von Kurzbeck, who was introduced to me as the greatest Klavierspielerin of the local musical world, and that is saying a lot. After everything I had heard of her great talent, a long time ago, then again in Dresden and Prague, I had been especially looking forward to making her acquaintance. She received me exceedingly well and in such a friendly manner so as to appear genuinely glad to reciprocate.” (November 25, 1808) 23. “I’ve been eagerly hoping to find a free, quiet moment so I can de-

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scribe truthfully to you a moving scene that I shared with the old Haydn. Fräulein von Kurzbeck, whom he loves as if he were her father [väterlich liebt], along with Frau von Pereira, who is full of enthusiasm for him, as for anything Great and Beautiful, brought me to him. But first, as a dignified overture to this scene, the former played on her fortepiano a big [große], difficult sonata by our deceased Prince Louis Ferdinand for me. She played it so masterfully, with gentle expression [Ausdruck] on par with her perfect execution [Exekution], which in terms of purity and clarity left nothing at all to be wished for. She is a pupil of Clementi [eine Schülerin von Clementi]. . . . [after arriving at Haydn’s:] Ms. von Kurzbeck first explained to him that she wished to introduce me to him.” (November 30, 1808) 24. “One of these evenings I attended a large assembly of three, four hundred people at Baron Arnstein’s. . . . Before the whole company had assembled, Frau von Pereira and Fräulein von Kurzbeck played a very brilliant duo sonata [Doppelsonate] of Steibelt in a quite masterful manner and then with unbelievable patience and goodness many beautiful waltzes to the delight of an ever larger crowd of young and beautiful spinning bodies.” (December 16, 1808) 25. “I still have to tell you about a truly elevated artistic experience of last Sunday. Frau von Pereira and Fräulein von Kurzbeck had prepared for me and a few other real music friends an exceptionally exquisite treat. Their present piano teacher, the excellent instrument maker Streicher, whose wife is the worthy daughter of the Augsburg genius Stein, also a good Klavierspielerin, and whose outer appearance in itself betrays a thoughtful and sensitive artist, had arranged with much art and skill for the two artistic ladies the glorious quartet in F Minor by our deceased Prince Louis Ferdinand for two fortepianos and had long and with the greatest care rehearsed the very difficult movements with the ladies. Thus we heard on a beautiful, clear morning in the house of Streicher on two of the most beautiful fortepianos by this master, this most brilliant [geniale] composition, performed by beautiful, artful hands, with a perfection that one seldom hears. These gentle souls of Art entered the sublime and beautiful thoughts and fantasies of the composer with so much spirit and emotion and performed the biggest difficulties with so much precision and smoothness that they, as by magic, created a whole world full of music around us. Only very few select art friends participated in this delightful experience, which made it even more special.

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Appendix B

The entire noble audience consisted of the beautiful, sensitive Fürstin Kinsky, who had volunteered her own excellent instrument to the event, along with her sister, her brother-in-law, Frau von Henikstein, and Prince [Fürst] Lobkowitz. Seldom did I enjoy such a beautiful work of art in such a perfect presentation [Darstellung], and I can say that the ride back in the open carriage of Prince Lobkowitz under an open, sunlit sky [Himmel] was pure heaven [mir himmlisch wohl].” (January 26, 1809) 26. “We’ve enjoyed that most beautiful duo on two fortepianos at Streicher’s once more this past Sunday, and those artistic ladies performed it again with the same perfection.” (February 2, 1809) 27. [Reichardt saw Clementi and expresses regret for not having heard him play yet, because Clementi doesn’t want to play:] “Now [Clementi] does not have the excuse anymore, very much well-founded in Italy, that there wouldn’t be any good instruments around: even from his own London factory [Fabrik] there are several here. He also finds so many friends and admires here, who know to honor and appreciate his great art. Former pupils he finds here as well, who perform his fine, tasteful works [Arbeiten] excellently, among whom Fräulein von Kurzbeck enjoys his own special endorsement. That certainly means a lot, because he is indescribably precise and critical about the performance of his compositions, whose inner refinement and solidity one can recognize only with difficulty if one hasn’t heard them played either by himself or by one of his best pupils. (February 20, 1809)

Additional Review

28. “Overview of the Present State of Music in Vienna. . . . “Keyboard Players” . . . Dilettanten. . . . First rank is due to Fräulein Magdalene v. Kurzbeck, whose playing, as all connoisseurs [Kenner] testify, is closest to that of the deceased Mozart and who also possesses a very thorough insight in musical theory. (h)

Dedications (on Printed Title Pages)

29. Haydn, Grande sonate, in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52 (“Oeuvre 82”). Vienna: Artaria, 1798. 30. Haydn, Trio, in E 𝅗𝅥 Minor/Major, Hob. XV: 31. Vienna: Traeg, 1803.

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Compositions

31. Gerber, Gaßner, and Wurzbach state that she composed “a few things for her instrument [Einiges für ihr Instrument],” but none are extant (a) Sources: (a) Marx and Haas (2001), 248–50; (b) Reichardt (1808–9/1915), vol. 1, 120; (c) de Carro (1855), 61–62; (d) AmZ, April 20, 1808, 10/30, col. 479; (e) Dies (1810/1962), 164; (f ) Stendhal (1817), 309, 11–12, 314; (g) Pohl and Botstiber (1927), 257–58, 388; (h) Vaterländische Blätter für den österreichischen Kaiserstaat, May 31, 1808, 1/7, 49–52.



NOTES



Prologue

1. Bartha (1965), 250–51. 2. For more technical detail, see Woszczyk, Beghin, de Francisco, and Ko (2009) and Woszczyk, “Virtual Acoustics,” in the liner notes of The Virtual Haydn (Naxos 2009/2011). 3. For an explanation of these parameters and decisions, see Beghin (2009 and 2011). 4. Taruskin (1995) and Kivy (1995) together encapsulated a critical wave in the 1980s and early 1990s. 5. Wright (2004). 6. Small (1998). 7. Drafted in 1769, Diderot’s “Paradoxe sur le comédien” was published posthumously in 1830 and has been widely discussed ever since. Diderot (1830/1995), 3–4. 8. The works I have in mind, all from the early 1990s, are Schroeder (1990), Bonds (1991), Webster (1991), and Sisman (1993). An important impetus to take Haydn’s music seriously as a catalyst of the intellectual thought at his time came from Feder (1972). 9. Beghin and Goldberg (2007), 327–31. 10. See Wanda Landowska’s legendary response to Pablo Casals (“Continue to play

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Notes to Pages xxix–4

Bach your way, and I, his way”), or the subtitle of Newman (1988), Playing [Beethoven’s] Piano Music His Way (emphases mine). 11. Le Guin (2006), 24.

Chapter 1

1. For this culinary metaphor for the effect of a dissonance or ornament, see C. P. E. Bach (1753/1994), 54, and Quantz (1752/1997), 82. 2. On slurs as indicators of accents, see C. Brown (1999), 30–36. Leopold Mozart’s directive that one should “attack the first of such united notes somewhat more strongly, and slur the others to it very smoothly and gradually more quietly” is well-known. Mozart (1756/1995), 135. 3. Inspired by Haydn’s utterance about his compositional process: “I sat down [at the keyboard] and began to improvise [phantasiren], sad or happy, serious or playful, depending on my mood.” Griesinger (1810/1954), 61. On “to what I am used to,” see below. 4. Jan Ladislav Dussek, whose Broadwood Haydn may have used during the summer months of 1791. Walter (1970), 269. 5. I am inspired here by the program of a benefit concert in Hanover Square by Ms. Parke on May 19, 1794. She played a solo sonata in the second act, after an overture and a song. Haydn “preside[d] at the piano-forte” during the orchestral pieces. H. C. R. Landon (1976), 255. 6. The Viennese hammer, attached to the key, is pulled up by the escapement and brushes the string in a slightly curved motion. English hammers, on the other hand, are pushed up by a hopper and hit the string in a straight fashion. My narrative suggests that Haydn searches for a known (Viennese) physical feeling that the new (English) mechanics do not produce. Van Oort (1993), 20. 7. Like the ones that open the Sonata in E 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:52, or the Trio in C Major, Hob. XV:27, also dedicated to Theresa Jansen. 8. Václav Tomaschek, in his autobiography, tells us that Dussek was the first pianist to turn the instrument sideways on the stage, “because he wanted to show his handsome profile to the audience.” Komlós (1995), 65; Loesser (1954/1990), 239. Beyond anecdote, my narrative suggests that the custom was inherent to the English Piano School and its context of public performance. In Vienna, the lid of a keyboard would either remain closed (in the chamber) or altogether removed (in the theater), listeners either loosely gathering around the instrument or sitting at the extension of its tail (where the sound of the instrument projects best). For organological evidence, see Huber (1987). 9. In reference to the continuation of the same “I sit down at the keyboard” statement quoted above (n. 3): “Once I got hold of an idea, my sole purpose was to execute and sustain it in keeping with the rules of art. That’s how I tried to work, and this is precisely how so many of our new composers don’t work; they string one little piece to the other, breaking off what they’ve barely started: but nothing sticks in the heart, after one has heard it.” 10. This language conforms to the title page of the English edition.

Notes to Pages 6–13

275

11. Two monographs, supplemented by two essays, have raised the scholarly awareness of Haydn’s solo keyboard music to unprecedented level: see A. P. Brown (1986); Somfai (1995); Sisman (1994a); and Wheelock (1999). To this “essential Haydn keyboard bibliography” I would add Fillion (2005); Harrison (1997); and Leisinger (1994). In the wake of this display of scholarly excellence, three complete recording projects come to mind: Bart van Oort’s for Brilliant Classics (with Ursula Dütschler, Stanley Hoogland, Yoshiko Kojima, and Riko Fukuda), Ronald Brautigam’s for BIS, and Christine Schornsheim’s for Capriccio/WDR3. 12. Taruskin (1995), 52, and again (2009), 130. 13. The paradigmatic “museum” metaphor is from Goehr (1992). For another compelling deconstruction of “the work,” see Small (1998). 14. Kaptainis (2006). 15. AmZ 1/33 (May 15, 1799), 520. 16. The concert, featuring among others the “Marie Esterházy” Sonatas, Hob. XVI: 40–42, took place in UCLA’s Schoenberg Hall on February 28, 2001. 17. Quantz (1752/1997), 100, 153. 18. Eager for self-improvement after his dismissal from the St. Stephen’s choir in Vienna, he first bought a copy of C. P. E. Bach’s Versuch über die wahre Art, das Clavier zu spielen, which many years later he still called “the best, most thorough, and most useful textbook ever” (das beste, gründlichste und nützlichste Werk, welches als Lehrbuch je erschien). Dies (1810/1962), 40. 19. Expressed most clearly by Quantz (1752/1997, 120): “Variants should be applied only after the simple melody has been heard; otherwise the listener cannot know that they are variants.” 20. But my performance may be gauged from my recording, which features two versions: one with and one without repeats. The do-it-yourself recipe for removing the cadenza the first time around would read: continue the Alberti pulsations in the left hand and the melodic meanderings in the right for a little while longer, in analogy with the A section; replace the brutally final diminished seventh chord by a luscious Neapolitan subdominant; connect with the closing material of mm. 37–39; and do not end the right hand with a 7–8 suspension quite yet but replace it with a less final 4–3. 21. Somfai (1995), 67. 22. Significant, in this respect, is that Haydn refers to them in his Entwurf catalog as “6 gedruckte Sonaten v A 774” (six printed sonatas von Anno 1774; emphasis mine). Larsen (1979), 22. 23. I borrow this distinction between wesentliche and willkührliche Manieren from Türk (1789/1997), 235, 299. 24. The attaca in No. 24 is a first in Haydn’s scores: a non-opening slow movement that ends on the dominant and runs on straight into the finale. On No. 22, see chapter 2. 25. Somfai (1995), 167. 26. A. P. Brown (1986), 4. 27. Somfai (1995, 175) calls them “court-style” sonatas. 28. Webster and Feder (2002), 22.

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Notes to Pages 14–21

29. These clear signs have led James Webster to state that “there is only one writtenout cadenza in Haydn’s authenticated keyboard sonatas” (in XVI:39). The example of XVI:23, in Webster’s classification, is “cadenza-like,” but not “a cadenza.” Webster studies improvisation as part of the res facta of Haydn’s scores, whereas I look at cues for improvisation in performance. Webster (2007), 185, 187. 30. Türk (1789/1997), 313. 31. Webster (2007, 179–83) mentions two more instances of written-out cadenzas in Haydn’s keyboard music: his piano trios Hob. XV:5 (in G, 1784) and 9 (in A, 1785), both published by Forster in London. Both are post-1774 and omit repeat signs as well. 32. For C. P. E. Bach (1753/1994, 113), “to play a fermata” was an activity deserving of its own verb fermiren: “Zuweilen fermirt man aus Affeckt, ohne daß etwas angedeutet ist” (Sometimes, inspired by the affect, one “fermatizes” without anything being notated). 33. Even though Jansen played a few pieces of her own as well; see chapter 6. 34. On Clementi’s revolutionizing activities as pianist, piano composer, publisher, and manufacturer, see Parakilas and Wheelock (1999). We find the popular epithet “the father of pianoforte playing” in an 1827 diary fragment of Moscheles (1873, vol. 1, 192). 35. Apart from all earlier unpublished pieces, this list excludes the “Anno 776” Sonatas (published abroad without Haydn’s consent) and the Sonatas Hob. XVI:34 in E Minor and 48 in C Major, published without dedication. The Andante and Variations in F Minor, Hob. XVII:6, requires some explanation. An early copy of the manuscript has the title (in Haydn’s hand, with a puzzling sense of sarcasm) of “Un piccolo Divertimento / Scritto e composto / per la / Stimatissima Signora / de / Ployer.” While Haydn scholarship has continued to identify Signora de Ployer as Barbara, the well-known pupil of Mozart, who wrote the concerti K. 449 and 453 for her, Senn (1978, 24–25) and Lorenz (2006, 313), two authorities on the biography of Barbara von Ployer, have instead pointed to her aunt Antonia von Ployer, née von Spaun. Here’s the problem: Haydn refers to “Mrs. Ployer,” but Barbara would have been “Mrs. von Agg-Telek”—her husband’s name. One generation older, Antonia belonged to a family of musicians, among whom cousin Joseph von Spaun was a close friend of Schubert senior. In his facsimile edition, Raab (2008, vi) continues to credit Barbara Ployer. For the Sonata in D Major, Hob. XVI:51, I follow the research by Thomas Tolley (2001a), who identifies Maria Hester Park as the recipient of this “little Sonat” [sic, in Haydn’s English]. Mrs. Park replaces Rebecca Schroeter as a likely candidate and is not to be confused with the professional pianist, singer, and composer “Miss (Maria) Parke,” whom Haydn knew as well (see n. 5). (Rebecca Schroeter had replaced Theresa Jansen in an earlier round of scholarly scrutiny.) 36. The actual dedicatee, as per Haydn’s manuscript, was Mademoiselle Maria Anna Gerlischek, a well-to-do lady, housekeeper, and intimate of Prince Esterházy, who acted as an intermediary between Madame von Genzinger in Vienna and Haydn in Eszterháza. Later that year, she would marry a court violinist, Johann Tost. H. C. R. Landon (1978), 81. 37. Bartha (1965), 54–55. 38. Schmitz (1995), 17. 39. Bartha (1965), 247–48. 40. This delightful fact has been overlooked by Bartha (1965, 248 n. 1) and

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H. C. R. Landon (1978, 747 n. 4), who date the letter August 15, the Virgin Mary’s Ascension Day, in spite of a penciled note (by Frau von Genzinger?) “From Estoras, July 1790.” The corrected date matches another indication of time in Haydn’s letter: “Thus those 8 days fled away,” i.e., since the receipt of Genzinger’s last letter, written on July 11. For July saints’ and name days, see Catholic Online, http://www.catholic.org/saints/f_day/jul.php, accessed January 18, 2010. 41. See chapter 4. 42. Der Grätzerische Secretär ([S.N. 3], 1800), 114, “Glückwünschungsschreiben zum Nahmenstage an ein Frauenzimmer.” The full title of the manual continues: “Thorough guide through all kinds of written documents that occur in civil life, to be drawn according to the rules of good writing and the existing provisions of the imperial states.” On Haydn’s library and this particular item, see Hörwarthner (1997), 436–37. 43. Haydn’s letter of June 20, 1790; Bartha (1965), 240. 44. A. P. Brown (1986, 134–35) argues that the prince’s taste for anything French (as demonstrated in the construction of Eszterháza in imitation of Versailles or in the significant role that French music played at his court) surely resulted in the purchase of French harpsichords too. No hard evidence exists, however. 45. These comments are based on own experience of performing in the Ceremonial Room of Eszterháza (Fertöd, Hungary), both “real” and “virtual.” 46. The enormous fresco “depicting Apollo, the sun god, driving his chariot across the sky bringing light to the world” adds a visual aspect to the described performance. Tolley (2001b), 83. 47. On what he calls a “triumph of variability” in reference to this Haydn’s autograph, particularly its “ambiguity,” “incompleteness,” and “inconsistency,” see Webster (1998). I like to perform this sonata from the entirely legible manuscript, published in facsimile by WUE (UT 51016). 48. Calling this theme “one of the most perfect and characteristic themes of Haydn’s keyboard music,” Somfai (1995; 240–41, 255) nonetheless finds no single classifying term for it, trying either “A,A.B. extended period” or “an irregular, overrefined variant of the classic A,A. period.” (“.” stands for “tonic cadence”; “,” for “half dominant, or deceptive cadences.”) His indecision reflects exactly the rhetorical ambiguity suggested here. 49. “Snapped turn” (geschnellter Doppelschlag) is Bach’s term (1753/1994, 96) for an ornament that consists of a fast turn (Doppelschlag) with a “snap” (Schneller) added to the front. 50. On slurs and diminuendos, see n. 2. On the need to emphasize higher tones, see Türk (1789/1997), 337. 51. Heartz (1995), 313. 52. Griesinger (1810/1954), 16. 53. A. P. Brown (1986), chapters 1 and 2. 54. The full Genzinger correspondence discussed in this section may be found in Bartha (1965), 240–46. 55. On October 26, 1788, Haydn wrote to Artaria: “In order to compose your 3 Clavier sonatas particularly well [Hob. XV:11–13], I was forced to buy a new Forte-piano. Now, since you must have long been aware that from time to time even the learned are

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short of money, which is the case with me now, I must entreat you, well-born Sir, to pay 31 gold ducats to the organ and instrument maker Herr Wenzl Schanz, who lives on the Leimgruben at the blauen schif [blue ship], No. 22. I will repay these 31# with thanks by the end of January next year 1789.” Bartha (1965), 195. The price, as Maunder (1998, 129, 124) explains, “is towards the lower end of the range of prices for German-made squares.” And the extra ducat (the “one” of the thirty-one) may be exactly what someone like Vieheyser, a piano teacher with an instrument-commissioning business on the side, charged for out-of-town delivery. “Almost certainly,” Maunder concludes, “Haydn’s Wenzel Schanz was a square.” Walter (1970) and Haydn scholars after him have equated the Schanz fortepiano with the “old fortepiano” or “my beautiful Fortepiano,” which Haydn sold in 1809 for an exorbitant two hundred ducats (see table 1.2). After Haydn bequeathed “my Forte piano von orglmacher Schanz” to the daughter of the prince’s accountant Wenzl Kandler (a perfect candidate for a square) on December 6, 1801, it seems unlikely that he would have hung on to it for another eight years at a time when he clearly had too many pianos in the house (let alone that he would have undone a commitment to a colleague at a time when his daughter would have needed the instrument). “My beautiful Fortepiano,” I therefore propose, was an unidentified Viennese fortepiano, a grand just like his two foreign instruments, but one acquired before, possibly in between his two London trips. Walter (1970), 279; Maunder (1998), 129 n. 36. 56. Though not specifying, Haydn certainly means Wenzel Schanz, rather than his younger brother Johann (see n. 68), even if this means that Haydn was not aware of the elder piano maker’s passing. Haas (1951, 14) gives “early 1790” as a date for Wenzel’s death; Maria Anna Schanz was described as a widow in September 1790 (Maunder [1998], 215). 57. The letter clearly reads “at our Mademoiselle Nanette’s” (bey unser Mademoiselle Nanette). 58. Haydn refers to Genzinger’s prospective instrument with the exact same wording as for his own (see n. 55): “a new Forte piano” (ein neues Forte piano). It is thus unlikely that Haydn would have owned a piano before his 1788 purchase, contrary to a speculation, sometimes made in the literature, that “new” would refer to the replacement of an older piano. 59. As per Walter’s own words in his petition (dated December 15, 1790) for the title of imperial instrument maker. Rice (1989), 49. 60. This trend is reflected in the proceedings of a 1972 Haydn conference in Washington, D.C. See especially the post-presentation discussions of Walter (1981) and A. P. Brown (1981). 61. Latcham (1997), Angermüller and Huber (2000). The Mozart-Walter is presently in the Mozart-Wohnhaus, Salzburg. The “bombshell” metaphor (from P. Badura-Skoda 2002, 333) concerns the organologists’ hypothesis that these changes would have occurred after Mozart’s death—a possibility I have been quite willing to entertain (see n. 66), but which has met tremendous resistance by E. Badura-Skoda (2000), Bilson (2001 and 2005), and others. 62. Like one by Ignaz Kober of ca. 1785: Huber (2000), 192–93. 63. Huber (2006), 7, which is a concise version of Huber (2000), but the five-year gap

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between the two publications made Huber change “until c. 1780” (in the earlier version) to “until long after 1780” (the later version)—a sign of continuing revisionism. 64. Telling examples are square pianos built by Walter himself (then “Walter und Sohn”) shortly after 1800. Huber (2000), 193–94. 65. The original Kober is in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, Vienna. 66. For exactly such an experiment, see my CD with works by Mozart (Klara/ Et’cetera KTC 4015, 2006). Beghin (2008) is a follow-up scholarly essay. 67. Another is the well-known “Eisenstadt piano,” presently in the Haydn-Haus (although there’s no proven connection with Haydn). Latcham (1997), 386–88. Walter may well have been the first to adopt Stein’s prell action in Vienna (see his claim in 1790 that “he was the first to make pianofortes here as they are now in general use”), but Ferdinand Hofmann and Gottfried Mallek would have been the first Viennese Meister to do so. Walter, it should be reminded, was “something of a maverick,” who from early on in his career was at constant war with the Organ Makers’ Guild. Maunder (1998), 25–26, 63 n. 19; Rice (1989), 45; Steblin (2007). 68. In 1796, but in reference to younger brother Johann (Wenzel had passed away in 1790), Schönfeld (1796/1976, 89) may well be right to call Schanz pianos “almost an exact copy of the fortepianos by the artist Stein in Augsburg.” In the 1780s Stein’s invention would still have been absolutely new: his own earliest extant piano with the “German” escapement action is a Claviorganum from 1781, presently in Gothenburg, Sweden: Latcham (2002), 510. When Mozart praised Stein’s pianos in October 1777 because “they’re made with escapement,” he was not necessarily endorsing a prell action; it is more likely, in fact, that those pianos didn’t have one yet. For a new reading of Mozart’s well-known letter about Stein, see Beghin (2008), 29–35. 69. A more respectful way of putting it than the aristocrat J. F. von Schönfeld’s often-quoted association in 1796 of “Walter-type playing” with a “love of powerful noise” (1796/1976, 87–91). I keep my discussion specific to 1788–90 and deliberately do not dwell on Schönfeld’s comparison of “Walter-type” and “Streicher-type” pianists, the latter including “Schanz-type” pianists. Johann may well have continued his brother’s ways but, as Maunder (1998, 28, 204) points out, could not have officially apprenticed from him, since Wenzel never was a Bürger. Wenzel’s shop was possibly taken over by Johann Hartmann (who may have married Wenzel’s widow). 70. This thought came to me when my colleague, the harpsichordist Hank Knox, sat down to try my newly arrived stoss Maene/Walter and spontaneously exclaimed that this was the first fortepiano he’d ever really liked. 71. Bartha (1965), 244. 72. Schönfeld (1796/1976), 45. In their section “Customers of Anton Walter,” Berdux and Wittmayer (2000, 42–52) make the same identification. See also Clive (2001), 248–49. 73. Genzinger’s older children (she had no fewer than six) may have just started to leave the house: she was forty at this time. Raab, Siegert, and Steinbeck (2010), 264. I am revisiting my older claim (Beghin 2009) that Genzinger would have needed only a square. 74. Had she wanted a piano with prell action and hand stops (rather than knee levers), chances are she would easily have found one. One extant example is a ca. 1785–90

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Walter (Germanisches Nationalmuseum, Nuremberg, MIR 1098). The date is Maunder’s (1998, 71). Latcham (1997, 385) gives “c. 1785.” 75. Presently in the Steiermärkisches Landesmuseum Joanneum, Graz. 76. Maunder (1998), 16. 77. The date is Feder’s: Webster and Feder (2002), 126. Chapter 2

1. Quintilian XI, iii, 6. 2. Quintilian XI, iii, 9. 3. Judicial oratory, as distinct from political and epideictic, is the type of oratory most thoroughly discussed by Quintilian. 4. Aldrete (1999), 46. 5. Quintilian X, vii, 3. 6. Cicero, pro Cluentio 58–59, partially quoted by Quintilian (VI, iii, 40). On the perils of inflexible declamation in court and more on this particular anecdote, see Goldberg (2007), especially 56–57. 7. Quintilian X, vii, 1. 8. Ad Herennium IV, xxxiii, 44: “Hyperbole [superlatio] is a manner of speech exaggerating the truth, whether for the sake of magnifying or minifying something,” and among the examples: “So great was his splendor in arms that the sun’s brilliance seemed dim by comparison.” 9. Dido’s words in Virgil, Aeneis 4.595, cited in Quintilian IX, iii, 24. 10. Quintilian IX, ii, 22: “Sometimes . . . when we are sharing a thought with the audience, we add an unexpected item—this is a Figure in itself—as Cicero did in In Verrem: ‘What then? What do you think? Some theft, maybe, or plunder?’ And then, having kept the judges’ minds in suspense for a long time, he put in something much worse.” “Haydnesque,” incidentally, is a term that Haydn applied to himself, in a letter to Genzinger of February 9, 1790: “Yesterday I studied for the first time, and quite Haydnesque, too [und So zimlich Haydnisch]” (Bartha 1965, 229). 11. Ad Herennium IV, xxvi, 35: “Transition is the name given to the figure which briefly recalls what has been said, and likewise briefly sets forth what is to follow next, thus: ‘You know how he has just been conducting himself toward his fatherland; now consider what kind of son he has been to his parents.’” 12. Lausberg (1998), 381, §849. 13. Koch (1793/1983), 203: “The two-voice sonata or the solo, because it expresses the individual feelings of a single person, necessarily requires the greatest refinement of expression and of the modifications of the feelings to be portrayed.” It is no surprise that Johann Nikolaus Forkel’s most complete and most directly helpful application of his theory of musical rhetoric is on a keyboard sonata by C. P. E. Bach, who, again in Koch’s words (ibid.), “among the Germans, has distinguished himself particularly in this type of composition.” On Forkel, see below. 14. Grétry (1797), 356. Some sixty years before, Mattheson (1739/1995, 211) had expressed a similar frustration about the composition of songs or odes: how to make one melody fit the different texts of a song’s several verses.

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15. But the issue of repeats remains subsidiary to my focus on oratory. For more on the question of whether or not Haydn intended repeats to be performed, especially in light of the modern practice of omitting formal repeats even when prescribed (which appears to have started with Clementi), see Harrison (1997), 129–66. 16. “Fantasizing” (phantasiren) is Haydn’s term: Griesinger (1810/1954), 61. 17. This comment is based on a comparison of JHW (ed. Georg Feder) and the old and new versions of WUE (ed. Christa Landon and Ulrich Leisinger). 18. Somfai (1980), 87–110. 19. For an introduction to the literature on the “question of the extent to which Cicero’s published orations reflect speeches actually delivered,” see Craig (2002). 20. Letter dated March 2, 1792; Bartha (1965), 279–80. Whether or not Haydn made those changes has not been established. See H. C. R. Landon (1976), 521. 21. Bartha (1965), 58–60: “If I for some reason in my work [mit meiner arbeith] I have not properly anticipated the taste of the Herrn Musicis, I should not be blamed for it because the persons nor the place [of performance] are known to me; ignorance of them has truly made this work [diese arbeith] sour [sauer].” This is from the concluding paragraph of a long letter listing a whole series of performance directions. In the opening line Haydn explains why: “Because I cannot be present for this applausus, I deemed it necessary to include a few explanations.” 22. Haydn to Artaria, July 20, 1781; Bartha (1965), 101: “I particularly pray you, good Sir, not to let anyone copy, sing, or tamper with these songs, because after they’re finished I will sing them myself in the critical houses: a master must see to his rights by his presence and by true performance.” On two such “critical houses,” see chapter 5. 23. Silverstolpe (1841), 22–23, trans. Stellan Mörner (1969), 28; and Webster and Feder (2002), 40. 24. Aldrete (1999), 25–26. 25. The recognition of a contrapuntal tour de force is the starting point of Gretchen Wheelock’s discussion (1992, 67–68) of this movement in its earlier version in G major as the Minuet and Trio of the Symphony Hob. I:47 (1772). It is true that the eventual listener would have heard a rehearsed performance. On the other hand, to have eavesdropped on that first rehearsal (including Haydn’s interaction with his band members) would be priceless. Identify the listener with Prince Esterházy and we get yet another story: one of private interaction between court composer and patron, or between one connoisseur and another. Winkler (1996, 346) interprets “formal and technical tricks” of this kind as directly addressing the prince. 26. Possibly the Empress Maria Theresa. See chapter 1, nn. 25 and 26. 27. Feder (1966), vii. 28. Letter of June 20, 1790; Bartha (1965), 240–41. 29. Similarly, although less spectacularly, Haydn turns the page before the minore of the last movement. 30. A commentary of the definitions and examples of dubitatio by Forkel and Gottsched may be found in Beghin (1996), 109–24. 31. Engel (1785–86), vol. 1, 87–88. 32. Türk (1789/1997, 367) recommends Engel “to the singer, especially the one on

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stage.” It is not insignificant, for our purpose, that he does so in a keyboard treatise: the implication, in a chapter furthermore devoted to delivery (Vortrag), is that the keyboardist, if willing to check out the book, might also learn a thing or two. 33. Bach (1753/1994), 122. 34. Ibid., 118. 35. One example is the following note on caesuras, printed in the smaller font that Türk reserves for the eager student: “A closer explanation of these caesuras, for instance where they are to be applied, what the underlying harmony adds to their effect etc., is more a matter for the composer. The mere performing musician only needs to know them so that he may arrange his execution accordingly.” Türk (1789/1997), 344. 36. “From the preceding [that a cadenza, rather than a regular composition, should sound more like a fantasy that originates from the depth of emotion], it follows that a cadenza that perhaps has been memorized with ever so much effort or that has been written out beforehand still must be performed as if these were just incidental and random thoughts, which occurred to the player then and there.” He elaborates in smaller print: “I, for one, would prefer to choose the more certain path and would sketch the cadenza in advance. After all, whether the player invents it on the spot or has sketched it already, the listener cannot know, provided that the performance is as it should be.” Türk (1789/1997), 313. 37. “This, however, is absolutely necessary: that a singer learn from [the theory of ] oratory or, if it is available, through oral instruction of good orators or at least through careful observation of their [actual] delivery—learn which kind of tone of voice is necessary for the expression of every affect or every rhetorical figure, as taught particularly thoroughly and elaborately by Gottsched’s Redekunst in the chapter on good delivery by an orator.” Tosi and Agricola (1757/1994), 139 (emphasis Agricola’s). Unfortunately, Julianne C. Baird’s published translation of Agricola is flawed by too many inaccuracies. In this excerpt, she translates guter Vortrag eines Redners as “good diction for a speaker” (Baird 1995, 163). 38. Quantz (1752/1997), 100. 39. Illustrated, amusingly so, by Quantz (ibid.): “Both in regard with the elaboration [Ausarbeitung] of the matter to be delivered and the delivery itself, orator and musician share one and the same threefold goal: 1. to capture the heart [sich der Herzen zu bemeistern], 2. to rouse and still the passions [die Leidenschaften zu erregen oder zu stillen], 3. to transport the listener first in this, then in that emotion [die Zuhörer bald in diesen, bald in jenen Affect zu versetzen],” or three times movere. 40. “Bey matten und traurigen Stellen wird er matt und traurig. Man sieht und hört es ihm an.” Bach (1753/1994), 122. Mitchell (1949, 152) translates: “In languishing, sad passages, the performer must languish and grow sad. Thus will the expression of the piece be more clearly perceived by the audience.” 41. Quintilian XI, iii, 67: “If gesture and the expression of the face are out of harmony with the speech, if we look cheerful when our words are sad, or shake our heads when making a positive assertion, our words will not only lack weight, but will fail to carry conviction.” Bach (1753/1994, 123): “As inappropriate and harmful as bad gestures [heßliche

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Gebährden] are, as useful are the good ones [die guten], when they help our intentions come across to the listeners.” 42. Quintilian XI, iii, 68. Türk (1789/1997, 366–67) is more reluctant to allow facial expressions to play a role but admits that proper countenance is “at least not disadvantageous to good performance” (dem guten Vortrage wenigstens nicht nachtheilig). He goes on to refer singers in particular to Engel (1785–86). Türk’s more restrictive stance may reflect a general change in opinion since Bach’s days. 43. Burney (1775/1969), vol. 2, 270. Burney (ibid., 266), incidentally, compares Bach with Cicero: “Quintilian made a relish for the works of Cicero the criterion of a young orator’s advancement in his studies; and those of C. P. E. Bach may serve as a touchstone to the taste and discernment of a young musician.” 44. Quintilian XI, iii, 5. 45. Bach (1753/1994), 123: “They do not know what is in their pieces, because they cannot bring it out. But if someone else who possesses tender feelings and who has mastered [the art of ] good delivery plays those pieces, then they learn with surprise that their works contain more than they [ever] knew and believed. One can understand from this that good delivery can lift also a mediocre piece to a higher level and make it receive praise.” 46. Türk (1789/1997), 332. 47. Bach (1760), preface. 48. “It is my joy to be the first, as far as I know, to work in this genre to the benefit and pleasure of my patrons and friends.” Ibid. 49. “The goal of each alteration, is it not to bring honor to the piece and to him who performs it [celui qui l’exécute]?” Ibid. 50. “All variations . . . must always be if not better than at least as good as the original.” Bach (1753/1994), 132. 51. Quantz (1752/1997), 173–74. 52. “One must have a vision of the piece as a whole.” Bach (1753/1994), 133. 53. Forkel (1783/1974), 22–38. For an extensive commentary and complete translation, see Beghin (1996), 16–183, 265–76. 54. Sulzer (1787, vol. 4, 348, under “Sonate”) grants that Forkel’s essay contains “much good” (viel Gutes) on the subject. Cramer (1783, 1244) uses it as a new standard, classifying another C. P. E. Bach sonata (Wq. 58/2 in G Major) “according to the third way of ordering recently proposed by Forkel.” 55. Forkel (1783/1974), 34. 56. Ibid., 35. 57. The harmonic progression from m. 40 to m. 41 is the same as the one from m. 29 to m. 30. 58. This example (from Othello, act 5, scene 2, lines 3–4) is given by Vickers (1988), 495. The definition is from Vickers (1984), 30. Incidentally, Vickers (ibid.) asserted that hyperbaton was not expressible in music: “In rhetoric hyperbaton means the dislocation of word-order, caused by violent or disordered feelings. This effect depends on the laws of grammar and syntax being known to and shared by the audience, for the dislocation

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must be instantly recognizable. Since music has no such strict convention, lacks indeed the concepts of logical verbal sequence or standard word-order, the effect is barely possible.” 59. [Longinus], On the Sublime, xxii. Translator Prickard (Longinus 1954, 47) notes: “In this long period the writer has fallen, as he often does, into the vein of the author whom he is considering.” 60. Ibid., xvii. 61. Vickers (1988), 314. 62. Quantz (1752/1997), 120. 63. Quintilian X, vii, 1. 64. Lausberg (1998), 148, §313. And Quintilian IV, ii, 128: “There is also a kind of repetition of the statement [narratio] which the Greeks call epidiegesis. It belongs to declamation rather than forensic oratory, and was invented to enable the speaker (in view of the fact that the statement should be brief ) to set forth his facts at greater length and with more profusion of ornament, as a means of exciting indignation or pity.” 65. Sussman (1987), 71–72. 66. Stroh (1975), 52. 67. “All these faculties [inventio, dispositio, elocutio, memoria, pronuntiatio] we can acquire by three means: theory, imitation, and practice.” Ad Herennium I, ii, 3. 68. Marianna Martines was the first female composer to become a member of the celebrated Accademia Filarmonica in 1773, three years after Mozart (Godt 1998, 136–58). Charlotte von Greiner’s knowledge of Latin opened the door for her to the study of scientific publications. She became particularly knowledgeable on natural history and astronomy, traditionally male disciplines (Melton 2001, 217–18). Haydn knew both Viennese women: at the request of Metastasio, who was in charge of Marianna’s education, he taught the child Martines in the 1750s; in the late 1770s and 1780s he frequented the Greiner salon, held by Charlotte and her husband, Councilor Franz Sales von Greiner: see chapter 5. 69. Goodman (2002), 194. 70. The first example is from Goldberg (2007), 46; the second from Quintilian’s first Major Declamation, “The Case of the Bloody Palm Prints on the Wall” (Sussman 1987, 1). 71. Letter of February 25, 1780; Bartha (1965), 90. 72. Craig (2002), 516. 73. Broyles (1980). Similarly, scholarship has observed a shift from “strictly” strophic to “modified” strophic or through-composed songs at the end of the eighteenth century. Compare, for instance, Haydn’s Pleasing Pain (1794), Sailor’s Song (1795) and The Wanderer (1795) with his earlier German songs. In these three later songs Haydn changes the pattern of the accompaniment, varies the interludes, or adds a third voice to an originally two-voice texture. These are printed (and all the more polished) examples of what a performer anno 1781 (including Haydn himself ) might have improvised. For an argument in sound, see my recording (with Andrea Folan) of Haydn’s XII Lieder für das Clavier (BCD 9059, Bridge, 1995).

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74. It is in hybrid binary sonata/sonata-rondo form. No. 50 does indicate both repeats. However, Haydn’s autograph of this work, unlike that of the E 𝅗𝅥 Sonata, is lost. 75. Grétry (1797), 357. 76. Ibid., 358. 77. Feder (1966), vii. Chapter 3

1. Stranitzky (1760s). The exclusive authorship by Stranitzky himself is in doubt: Johann Valentin Neiner has been named as the probable (co)author. The fictitious location “Pintzkerthal” (see “Works Cited,” p. 318) is surely Vienna. 2. Stranitzky (1760s), 5. Instead of the commas in this 1760s edition, I opt for virgules to convey the line-by-line format of Stranitzky’s original text. 3. Ibid., 6–7. 4. The occasion was a conference of the Canadian Society for Eighteenth Century Studies (Montreal, October 15, 2008). Since then, I had two more occasions to master my delivery: “Haydn 2009: A Bicentenary Conference” (Budapest, May 30, 2009) and the 2009 meeting of the American Musicological Society (Philadelphia, November 13, 2009). The excerpt is from the fifth episode of Stranitzky (1760s), 38–41. 5. Leisinger (1994), 148. 6. A. P. Brown (1986), 14. His analysis (ibid., 222–25) includes references to C. P. E. Bach. 7. Dies tells us that Haydn bought C. P. E. Bach’s Versuch after venturing into a bookstore and asking the shopkeeper for “a good theoretical text” (ein gutes theoretisches Lehrbuch) (Dies 1810/1962, 40). Present-day consensus places this event in 1762 and not in the early 1750s, as Dies would have it. Haydn would have bought the two volumes (1753 and 1762) together shortly after their combined appearance. That year, 1762, is also when Haydn adjusted his notation of appoggiaturas, abandoning the one-for-all eighth note and starting to distinguish between “variable” and “invariably short” appoggiaturas, hypothetically after reading Bach’s recommendation. See A. P. Brown (1986), 209, 219; Somfai (1995), 38–39. 8. Somfai (1995), 350–51. 9. Sonnleitner (1996), 348. 10. Griesinger (1810/1954), 11. 11. I here go further than Webster (2007) and Wheelock (2008), who have sensitized us to the improvisational aspect of Haydn’s composing. 12. Melton (2007), 101. 13. Starting with an Imperial Decree of February 11, 1752, by which “all local works [compositionen] of Bernardon and others should be banned; if, however, there are a few good ones of Weisker, they should be read in advance, and no ambiguous or dirty words may be allowed in them, nor may the actors themselves use [these words] without punishment.” Sonnleitner (1996), 348. 14. See especially the prefaces of Goebels (1982) and Gerlach (2006). 15. The “very specific” is from Gerlach (2006), viii. The second part of the quote is

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from Somfai (1995), 27. For Gerlach, the connection of “Sauschneider” with 1765 is so strong that it begins to supersede information from Haydn’s own catalog: “Considering the presence of grips for the ‘Viennese short octave,’ this divertimento [“Il maestro e lo scolare,” Hob. XVIIa:1] might have been composed around 1765, i.e., the same time as the ‘Sauschneider’ Capriccio; the entry in the ‘Entwurf-Katalog,’ on the other hand, as is the case also for the A Major Variations, Hob. XVII:2, suggests a composition date of 1766/67 at the earliest.” Gerlach (2006), xvii. Feder (1970a), in the JHW edition of the sonatas, similarly positions the Sonata in E Minor, Hob. XVI:47, as the first from a group composed “around 1765–1772.” 16. Huber (2001). The Kunsthistorisches Museum in Vienna (where Huber is curator) houses the world’s most significant collection of eighteenth-century Viennese keyboards. Among them are a 1696 unlabeled (reworked in 1703, with the signature “Walter fecit”) and a 1747 Johann Christoph Pantzner harpsichord, both with Viennese multiple-broken octave. 17. This reference has since Maunder (1998, 172) become a classic in the organological literature: Huber (2001), 168; Richter (2003), 111. 18. In 1785 the deceased organ builder’s (presumably Johann Moyse’s) sale of effects included “1 clavichord, 4 unstrung keyboard cases, partly for fortepiano, and partly arranged with broken octave, several organ making tools.” The unfinished state of the instruments suggests that Moyse was still actively making them with a broken octave. Maunder (2001), 458; Huber (2001), 168. 19. For a new reading of these letters, see Beghin (2008), especially 29–32. 20. Bauer and Deutsch (1962), vol. 2, 70. 21. Mozart does not specify the constellation of the manual keyboard(s), but like the pedal, also the one or two manuals of Austrian organs would have followed the norm of the Viennese broken octave. Before 1700 the pedal was usually exactly as Mozart describes, starting with C–F–D–G–E–A–B 𝅗𝅥–B–c, then continuing chromatically. After 1700 F ♯ and G ♯ were normally added, as upper split keys, to D and E. See Forer (1983) for many examples. 22. It is likely that the idea of a short octave crossed the border to Austria from Italy, perhaps as early as the seventeenth century: see Huber (2001), 170. The more intriguing question is why the Viennese short octave remained the norm for so long. Was it because the builders’ guild had strict rules about construction dimensions, and/or did musicians somehow get used to the feature to the extent of relying on it? 23. “If pointed as it were face downwards toward the ground, [the index] expresses insistence.” Quintilian XI, iii, 94. 24. Feder (1970a, viii) expressed doubt about the authenticity of this particular movement (though not of the sonata as a whole), but the more recent consensus is to also accept the first movement as Haydn’s. 25. See the section entitled “Keyboard Literature in View of Keyboard Compass” in van der Meer (2001), 237–39. 26. In earlier years, commenting on the A Major Variations, Hob. XVII:2, H. C. Robbins Landon hypothesized that “one of Haydn’s pupils (or Haydn himself ) had a left hand capable of stretching a tenth.” See H. C. R. Landon (1980), 549.

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27. The date for Fux is “between 1710 and 1730”: Riedel (1964), xii. 28. In hindsight the episode is rather hilarious: footage may be seen as part of Litz and Tusz (2009). 29. Rommel (1952), 170–71. Would the actor of “the limping devil” (Asmodeus) from Kurz and Haydn’s Der (neue) krumme Teufel have used the same trick? JHW XXIV/2 (1989), 3. 30. Adelung (1808), vol. 3, 1735, under “Schweinschneider,” explains “cutting” as “castrating by cut” (durch den Schnitt castriren). The most extensive resource available is Wirnsperger and Gappmayer (1989), published in conjunction with a 1990 exhibition in the Lungauer Landschaftsmuseum. Also useful is Walter Aumayr’s contribution (“Die Lungauer Sauschneider”) to the CD-ROM Bräuche im Salzburger Land ([S.N. 1], 2003). 31. Huebner (1796), 491. 32. Hueber (1786), 52; copied verbatim by Gartori (1811), 114. Similar observations may be found in Kürsinger (1853), 775–76. 33. There are also stories of Sauschneider applying their skill to humans. The most spectacular is also the oldest, by the Basel anatomy professor Caspar Bauhin (in his Historia, 1588), about a Sauschneider who performed a caesarean section on his own wife: Maritus uxorem mensae imponit, abdomini vulnus non secus quam porco infligit (“The husband laid his wife on a table and cut her abdomen not differently than [he would do with] a pig”); he then stitched the wound veterinario more (“veterinary style”) and ended up saving both mother and child. Wirnsperger and Gappmayer (1989), 15. 34. Ibid., 80–81. 35. In version 1 the climax (sarcastic in a different way) is the “cashing in,” which is executed by only “one.” The cue for translating einstreichen as “raking up money in one’s pouch or bag” comes from Adelung (1808), vol. 1, 1752. 36. This is not to imply that servants weren’t allowed to wear one. They did, but instead of an eagle’s downy feather, their hats featured a tail feather from a mallard duck. Ibid., 184. 37. See, for instance, Goebels (1982), preface. 38. “Die Sauschneider müssen lustige Leute gewesen sein.” Ibid. 39. Gartori (1811), 115–16. Gartori was the imperial government secretary of Lower Austria, of which Vienna was the capital until 1986. 40. Not familiar with its particular contents, many authors (including those writing on Haydn’s capriccio) have referred to this privilege as proof of the high esteem in which the profession of Sauschneider was held. It is to Wirnsperger and Gappmayer’s credit (1989, 102–11), “after a long search,” to have found the document in the Steiermärkischen Landesarchiv and to have reproduced it; the quote is from p. 105. 41. Vieh (cattle) is used is the general sense of “tamed animals that man keeps around him for consumption,” so the term includes pigs. See Adelung (1808), vol. 4, 1194–95. The imperial decree prefers the more elevated term Viehschneider to the dialect Sauschneider. Also Adelung directs the reader from Sauschneider to the nondialect Schweinschneider. 42. Wirnsperger and Gappmayer (1989), 109. 43. Klier (1932), 102.

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Notes to Pages 99–101

44. Wirnsperger and Gappmayer (1989), 75. 45. Apart from Haydn’s manuscript, one other extant handwritten copy, by Theophilus Rader, kept the indication “Acht Sauschneider müssen seyn”; the copyist, rather interestingly, changed “Capriccio” to “Fuga.” Gerlach (2006), 129. 46. Klier (1932), 88, and H. C. R. Landon (1980), 551, who speaks of “the autograph’s rediscovery c. 1932.” Previously in the collection of Gisella Selden Goth (until 1973–74), it is now in different, unknown private hands. I am working from a photograph in the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. On the date of 1927 for the establishment of a Meisterarchiv of photographed autographs at the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, see Ziffer (1967), ix–xi. 47. Also Wirnsperger and Gappmayer (1989, 75) present their version in a section entitled Joseph Haydn und die ‘Sauschneider.’ 48. See Winkler (2005, 40): “Much informs the assumption that we have to do here not with a ‘classical’ folk tune at all, but with an exponent of the disdained démi-monde of the early ‘Gassenhauer’ with an origin in contemporary theater.” He then makes a connection with Hanswurst. 49. A Sauschneider would normally take the animal in bond, offering to replace it if it were to die during the operation. 50. Rommel (1952), 160. 51. Thus Joseph von Sonnenfels (1768–69/1884, 313), who was a stark critic of Hanswurst: “Because the Austrian vernacular would not have yielded the coarse language [körnichte Ausdrücke] necessary for this new role, it was wisely conceived [by Stranitzky], so as not to weaken the grotesquerie, buffoonery, or ribaldry, to borrow the language of his neighbors, thus leaving the purity of the Austrian dialect intact. Hanswurst thus spoke in the vernacular of a Salzburger, or a Bavarian, if you will, and this decision turned out entirely successful: the Austrian peasants found the vernacular of a Salzburg or Bavarian peasant ridiculous” [emphasis mine]. Stressing Hanswurst’s success with “Austrian peasants” (lower even than the “low class” of Vienna who would flock to the theater), Sonnenfels certainly distances himself from his fellow noblemen, famously alluded to by Leopold Mozart, during his trip to Vienna, visiting from (of all places) Salzburg: “A gentleman, even a nobleman with decorations, will clap his hands and laugh so much over some ribald or naive joke of Hanswurst as to get short of breath.” Letter to Lorenz Hagenauer (January 1768), quoted in E. Badura-Skoda (1973–74), 196. 52. Müller-Kampel (2003), 103. The quote (Payer 1908, 279) is from Alfonsus, a Stranitzky play from 1724. 53. For this distinction, see Rommel (1952), 156–57. 54. Sonnenfels (1768–69/1884), 313. 55. “His hat, his coat, and his slapstick demeanor were a sign in themselves for the audience to start laughing.” Ibid. For more detail on Hanswurst’s costume, see Rommel (1952, 217). 56. A. P. Brown (1986), Somfai (1995), Winkler (2005), and Wheelock (2008). 57. No study has so far committed to this number “eight,” though Somfai (1995, 348 n. 3) does speculate more broadly that “the text was probably partly responsible for

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Haydn’s choice of a form with many ritornellos” and Wheelock (2008, 336) acknowledges, also in her musical analysis, “the acute problem of disappearing Sauschneider.” 58. We find examples in Gottlieb Muffat’s Ciaccona with thirty-eight variations (Denkmäler der Tonkunst in Österreich III/3/7), Mozart’s K. 455 (“Unser dummer Pöbel meint”), and Reutter’s Capriccio in C Major (reproduced in Leisinger 1994, 149–52). 59. Carpani ([1812] 1823/1969), 87–88. 60. Griesinger (1810/1954), 14. 61. After writing out my worst-case scenario, I interviewed Hans Versteden (TieltBrabant, Belgium), a farmer and philosopher with thirty years’ experience in cattle. To my pleasant surprise, he was able to confirm many of the details. 62. I’m taking the dramaturgical liberty of changing “two to cut” from version No. 4 to “two to hold,” keeping the “cutting” for the end, where it belongs. 63. Mattheson (1739/1995), 117. 64. It was described as the “old” temperament in a tuning manual printed in Vienna as late as 1805 by Gall, who contrasts it with the “new” (equal) temperament. About the “new” (equal) temperament, he writes: “All major thirds are exaggerated and necessarily offend the ear. This is why many do not entirely like the new system: they find it too hard and less harmonious than the old system.” His description of the “old” system (including the identification of a Wolfsquinte) matches quarter-comma mean-tone. Gall (1805/1988), 62–63. 65. Noteworthy is that the physical sensation of the b phrase is here exactly the same as in the opening theme, in spite of playing in minor rather than major: in the left hand, cut key-part E is identical to cut key-part D, and the respective right hand’s topographies (with a sharp key on the second beat) happen to coincide as well. 66. To put this in the perspective of Haydn’s oeuvre: these sixths, played by one hand, are his first. We will find them again in the Sonatas Hob. XVI:46 (first movement, mm. 63–64) and 20 (first movement, m. 2). Celestini (2004), 162–63. 67. “The so-called devil’s mill [die so genannte Teufelsmühle] consisting of the characteristic and enharmonic seventh chord and four-six chord, with the bass always rising by half a step. It can be played backward as well.” Förster (1805), 88. The principle is related to Vogler’s (1776/1970, 86) runder Tonkreis, where “maximum one note in the harmony moves while the others always stay the same.” His illustration is a closed circle or “mill” through which one may progress in either direction. It contains a three-octave span of continuous half steps, featuring dominant seventh, diminished seventh, and minor six-four chords. See also Winkler (2005), 41. 68. In his German dictionary Adelung (1808), vol. 3, 1291, quotes this exact line (Die Teufel fuhren in die Säue, Matt. 8:32) to illustrate the plural of Sau. 69. Such as Reutter’s Capriccio in C, which Leisinger (1994, 149–52) offers as a model for Haydn’s. It has the same “celebratory” sixteenth-note figures at the end, makes use of the short octave for a major tenth (m. 31), and is eighty-nine measures long. 70. It is not known whether the keyboard divertimento pre- or postdates the baryton divertimento, but is assumed that they are from the same period, 1765–67. (Compare n. 15.) Gerlach (2006), xviii–xix.

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Notes to Pages 124–129

71. “Caprice / pour le Clavecin ou Piano-Forte / par / Ioseph Haydn / Oeuvre 43 / Vienne chez Artaria Comp.” Microfilm, Haydn-Institut, Cologne. 72. Eschstruth (1785), 195. A complete video performance of Haydn’s piece (see website), featuring Gili Loftus and me respectively as pupil and master (mutatis mutandis our own reality at the time of recording), may entertain rather than bore the listener. 73. If the “Sauschneider” humor may be considered risqué, then performing in the presence of the fair sex or assigning as a lesson piece to a lady Clementi’s Twenty-one Variations on “The Black Joke,” WO2 (1775), a bawdy tale of a man visiting a prostitute, must have been an outright faux pas. Claiming distance (at least rhetorically), the twenty-three-year-old composer disguised his name on the title page (“Sigr: M: C:”). Revising the piece around 1824, Clementi erased its trace and renamed it “The Sprig of Shillelah, with Variations, and a Coda for the Piano Forte.” Helyard (2012), 9–11. 74. Letter of March 29, 1789. Bartha (1965), 202. 75. On the textual connection with “D’ Bäurin hat d’Katz verlor’n” (The Farmer’s Wife Lost the Cat), see Koller (1975), 81–89. The full text, a rather absurd affair about a farmer who’s angry with his wife, who’s trying to find her cat, who’s catching a mouse, is reproduced in A. P. Brown (1986), 35. 76. For an interesting terminological study of “capriccio” and “fantasy,” including Haydn’s two capriccios, see Wheelock (2008). On the Artaria-Haydn exchange, 328–29. Wheelock observes an “implicit hierarchy of value,” with Fantasy clearly on top and affecting us even today: “On balance, the 18th-century Capriccio has received little scholarly attention, thought the Fantasy has occasioned several extended and excellent studies” (329). 77. Carpani ([1812] 1823/1969), 87–88. Chapter 4

1. Bartha (1965), 236. 2. Ibid., 241. 3. “I was shocked not a little to read the unpleasant news about the sonata. By God! I would rather have lost 25 ducats than to hear about this robbery. No one else but my own copyist could have done it. But I hope to God to make up for this loss. . . . Your Grace must, therefore, be indulgent towards me until the end of July when I myself will have the pleasure to give you the sonata, as well as the promised symphony.” Ibid., 280. 4. Compare Somfai (1995), 179, n. 38, as well as Raab’s introduction (2008, viii–x) to the manuscript facsimile edition. Haydn, ever the rhetorical man, exploited opportunities to connect with yet other people. One handwritten copy is said to be “written and composed for” Mrs. Ployer, though this dedication seems to have been made in jest (ibid., ix). The eventual publication, with Artaria in 1799, was for Josefine von Braun, wife of Baron Peter von Braun, an important figure in Vienna’s cultural life. See also chapter 1, n. 35. 5. Falke (1882), 240–44. 6. Schneider (1985), 92. 7. A. P. Brown (1986), 27. German sources both use “Lichtenstein” and “Liechtenstein.” We have adopted the latter. The current custom, as pointed out by Martin (1976, 15), is to reserve “Liechtenstein” for the princes, and “Lichtenstein” for the others.

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8. Somfai (1995), 77, 178–79. 9. A. P. Brown (1986), 235. 10. I come to Somfai’s defense specifically for the “Marie Esterházy” Sonatas. The C Major Sonata, Hob. XVI:48 (published in 1789 by Breitkopf in Leipzig, without dedication), strikes me as an attempt to write a “learned” version of a two-movement sonata—i.e., to be played by a lady, but to be judged first and foremost by a German male connoisseur, such as Herr Breitkopf himself. 11. A. P. Brown (1986), 26. 12. C. F. Gellert makes this point in his “Gedanken von einem guten deutschen Briefe” (Thoughts on a Good German Letter) of 1742. Witte (1989), 102–3. 13. La Bruyère (1684/1998), 143. 14. They were first published in 1725, twenty-nine years after her death. Harvey and Heseltine (1959), under “Sévigné.” 15. An arrangement for string trio, issued and in all likelihood produced by the Viennese publisher Hoffmeister ca. 1788, confirms the attraction of this music for dilettantes. Playing through each trio twice during a single afternoon or evening would have left the three men plenty of time for socializing. On this score, see A. P. Brown (2001). 16. Goodman (2002), 217. 17. Bartha (1965), 92. 18. Ibid., 96. 19. Raab, Siegert, and Steinbeck (2010), 463. 20. Feder (1966), vii; Somfai (1995), 169; Finscher (2000), 428; and many others. 21. Freudenthal (1931), 60–62. My thanks also to art historian Louise Rice. 22. Pohl (1882), 198. 23. Diary entry of Lady Frances (September 16, 1816), Edgcumbe (1912), 291; letter of Martha Wilmot (“Mrs. Bradford”; May 4, 1820), H. C. R. Landon (1977a), 45; Lord Fitzharris’s witness account (September 7, 1800); Pohl and Botstiber (1927), 164; and H. C. R. Landon (1977a), 560. 24. De la Garde (1843), vol. 1, 281. 25. A suggestion offered by Heartz (2009, 399), though no evidence exists. 26. Edgcumbe (1912), 290. We find confirmation of the prince’s leaving in Wolf (1875, 185): “The young prince left on travels immediately after his wedding.” A 1784 visitor to Eszterháza indeed found the young Nicolaus absent: see below. 27. Lukowski (2003), 70–71. The tradition of visiting Italy persists in European humanistic education to this day, now in the form of a school trip in one’s last year of high school. 28. This typical list of subjects has been adjusted from Hardach-Pinke (1996), 412. 29. Rousseau (1762/1979), book V, especially 448–49. 30. Whether or not Haydn or his music would have been part of the festivities is an interesting question. (The Liechtensteins themselves were at the center of Viennese musical activity: Marie’s brother Aloys employed his own first-rate wind band.) Leopold Nowak speculates that the D Major Cello Concerto, Hob. VIIb:2 (for and with Anton Kraft), was composed for (and presumably performed at) the occasion. Nowak (1959), 279.

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31. 4 f Liechtenstein Nr. 14, Hessisches Staatsarchiv, Marburg. Copy in HaydnInstitut, Cologne. 32. Wiener Zeitung No. 76, front. 33. Pfarre Schotten, Vienna, Trauungsbuch Tom. 35, fol. 198v. My thanks to Rita Steblin for visiting the archive and to Dr. Arthur Stoegmann, archivist of the Vienna Liechtenstein Museum, for leading me to this information. 34. Wolf (1875), 185. Martin (1976, 93) changes Wolf ’s “ailing” to “deathbed,” obviously by mistake, since Marie’s mother died only in 1809. 35. Falke (1882), 244. 36. Wiener Zeitung No. 93 (November 19, 1783), front. At the age of twenty-four, Prince Aloys married much earlier than his younger brother, Johann Joseph (who was thirty-two in 1792). Still, the premature death of his two elder brothers (they both died around the age of two) and of his father (at fifty-three) created the exceptional situation of an elder son and heir marrying as only the third in line (his eldest sister, Leopoldine Adelgunde, had married long before, in 1771, at age sixteen, and his youngest sister Marie had married shortly before his own wedding). Compare with Oberhammer (1990), 185. 37. Lukowski (2003), 176. Of the thirty-seven women of the reigning house of Liechtenstein in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries (Evelin Oberhammer’s period of study), only four, including our Stiftsdame (canoness) Maria Antonia, never married; the three others lived among family as spinsters. Oberhammer (1990), 186. 38. Marie’s eldest sister was Maria Leopoldina Adelgundis (b. January 30, 1754), whom Das Wienerische Diarium of October 19, 1765 (no. 84), reports as having performed “at the Brothers of Mercy [Barmherzige Brüder] . . . a concerto on the organ, and for the first time, to the admiration of all present. She is still very young. Her playing does no little credit to her teacher, Herr Christoph Stephan [Steffan].” H. C. R. Landon (1980), 422 n. 39. Two more brothers had died in infancy. For the marital statuses of the siblings, see Falke (1882), 243–44. 40. Liechtensteinisches Hausarchiv Vaduz, Karton 637, kindly provided by archivist Evelin Oberhammer. With thanks to Rita Steblin for helping me decipher the handwritten document. 41. As per a codicil to his testament, dated one day before his death on August 18, 1781. Falke (1882), 243. Franz Joseph von Liechtenstein died in Metz on his way from the baths in Spa, Belgium, to Paris. Writing to his brother Leopold, Emperor Joseph II called the prince’s death “a real loss for Vienna and a terrible one for his wife” (une perte réelle pour Vienne et affreuse pour son épouse). 42. Trans. from Oberhammer (1990), 192. 43. [Traunpaur] (1784/1978), 13; facsimile in H. C. R. Landon (1978), 115. 44. Samples of her poetry may be found in H. C. R. Landon (1977a), 47. 45. Magyar Országos Leveltár, P 135 (Liechtenstein Mária), 1. csomó. Visiting Marie Esterházy in September 1816, Lady Shelley (Edgcumbe 1912, 291) tells us: “The late Empress was her great friend, and she talks of her with affection, while tears spring to her

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eyes.” H. C. R. Landon (1977a, 43–45) confused Maria Ludovica (who died a short time before, on April 7, 1816) with the emperor’s second wife, Marie Therese (1772–1807), an oversight that has unfortunately been copied in the Haydn literature. 46. In this and the following quotes from Marie Esterházy’s letters I use a virgule (/) to reveal her habit of using a change of line in place of a punctuation mark. 47. De la Garde (1843), vol. 2, 412–13. 48. Si vous voulez que les autres se souviennent de vos titres, c’est à vous de les oublier. Quoted in Grassi (1994), 167. De La Madelaine’s popular Modèles de lettres sur différents sujets was first published in 1761, then republished in 1804 and reprinted some twenty times until 1871. 49. The demand for demoiselles françaises was very high in the circles of the German-speaking nobility, “French” relaxed to include “French-Swiss” only by Protestant families. Hardach-Pinke (1996), 410. 50. Letter of December 7, 1812. 51. The knowledge of Latin, in eighteenth-century education, was considered a necessary gateway to proper spelling and grammar also in one’s vernacular. Goodman (2002), 195. 52. The traditional parts of a letter are salutatio, captatio benevolentiae, narratio, petitio, and conclusio. Compare chapter 1, n. 38. 53. Bartha (1965), 228–29. 54. For instance, Bartha (1965, 229), as the editor of the letters: “This famous and much-quoted letter that is full of dark humor [voller grimmigen Humors] gives unique testimony to Haydn’s mood at this time [Haydns damaliger Stimmung], when he had to leave Vienna again to resume his despised position [seinen verhaßten Posten] in Eszterháza.” 55. This observation applies not only to the non-German literature. 56. Compare Gates-Coon (1994, 183): “While Haydn’s dissatisfaction is unmistakable in such letters, it should be remembered that in writing to his good friend the composer’s primary concern was to describe how much he missed her and her family’s company.” Also Green (2005) has questioned the traditional author-oriented reading of this letter. 57. Qualis in sermone et epistolis. Quintilian IX, iv, 19. 58. Feder (1966), 33. 59. Lausberg (1998), 412. 60. Schubart (1784–85/1806), 380. For the date of 1784–85 (given by his son, Ludwig, as the posthumous editor), ibid., iv. See also Steblin (1996), 121–26. 61. The consensus is that this sonata, published in a Beardmore & Birchall London edition in 1783, was also composed around that time. Another well-known E minor movement marked andante ma innocentemente is the second of C. P. E. Bach’s Sonata Wq. 63/1, the first of the six Probestücke. 62. The term “point of furthest remove” is from Ratner (1980), 226. 63. See Nicola Porpora’s Elementi di canto, reproduced in Irmen (2009), 312–13. This essential leaflet contains preliminary exercises in messa di voce, portamento, agility (agilità), scales (both diatonic and chromatic), and ornamentation.

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Notes to Pages 160–174

64. Not long before writing this sonata, Haydn may in fact have fathered a son with her: Aloysius Antonius Nicolaus was born on April 22, 1783. See Botstiber (1932), 210. 65. “L.” in Cramer (1784), 535. 66. Ibid. 67. For Sonata No. 42, see Beghin (1997). 68. Cramer (1785), 535. 69. Edgcumbe (1912), 290–91. 70. Razumovsky tried, but his young bride refused. In her published diary (writing on January 29, 1816), Lulu Thürheim (sister of Constantine) discusses the “danger” that Princess Marie Esterházy posed to her sister’s marriage. Thürheim (1913), 161–62. 71. Edgcumbe (1912), 291. 72. Wolf (1875), 185. Eleonore Liechtenstein’s opinion about Paul Anton’s son Nicolaus is surprisingly nuanced: “The young Prince Niclas was in all respects thriftless and as far as fidelity goes not reliable, but nobody could ‘represent’ [repräsentiren, i.e., at formal occasions] as well as he did and, in spite of all his adventures, he remained a truly great master [Herr].” Ibid. 73. Esterházy Archives (Budapest), quoted in H. C. R. Landon (1977a), 47. 74. Chevalier d’Ophanie ([Traunpaur] 1784/1978, 9) tells us that, during that period, the reigning grandmother, Comtesse de Weissenwolf, resided in Eisenstadt, unlike her two sons, who resided with Marie in Eszterháza. Marie’s prospective stepmother-in-law, Maria Anna Comtesse de Hohenfeld, who married Anton Esterházy on August 9, 1785, was barely one year older than Marie. 75. See, among others, Dies (1810/1962), 52–53, 145, 164. 76. Radant (1968), 37, 57. 77. Pohl and Botstiber (1927), 109. Chapter 5

1. Tolley (2001b), 95–96. 2. Webster and Feder (2002), 22. 3. The Collection de 50 vues de la ville de Vienne, originally conceived as a series of thirty-six. 4. Wiener Zeitung 30, April 12, 1780, Anhang. 5. Haydn will use these attributes again in connection with his Fantasy (“Capriccio”) in C Major, Hob. XVII:4, calling it in his offer to Artaria “somewhat long but not at all too difficult” (etwas lang, aber nicht gar zu schwer). Haydn certainly meant “somewhat long as far as single pieces go, but with a score image that is simple enough to engrave.” Admitting that his requested price of twenty-four ducats is “somewhat high,” Haydn is clearly trying to downplay the production costs on Artaria’s end. Letter of March 29, 1789; Bartha (1965), 202. 6. Only in 1785 did Artaria & Company establish its own engraving facility. Raab, Siegert, and Steinbeck (2010), 56. 7. Cf. Haydn’s use in Letter 3 of Idee and Ausführung (the German equivalent of elocutio). In a 1776 essay, “On Musical Repetition,” C. G. Neefe defends the repetition of

Notes to Pages 175–181

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certain musical ideas “with respect to execution.” On this essay as a possible incentive for Haydn’s writing his avertissement, see Sisman (1993), 16–17. 8. Stück was the normal term used by Haydn for “movement” (his letter to Frau von Genzinger regarding her symphony, quoted in chapter 2, was another example). But the point still holds, especially given a performing culture in which one frequently interspersed “pieces” (i.e., single movements) throughout a longer program of music. 9. Translated from Somfai (1980), 102. 10. Sisman (2008), 90; Sisman (2007), 301. 11. Kennedy (1980), 4–6; Sisman (2007), 300. 12. Sisman (2007), 303. 13. Tolley (2001b). “Light and shade” was a common metaphor among musicians, mainly in reference to contrasting dynamic shades. In this particular context, Haydn uses “shade and light” in application to the content (Inhalt) of his songs, contrasting “sad” (traurig) or “tender texts” (zärtliche Texte) with those “of humorous expression” (von ein. lustigen ausdruck). Bartha (1965), 104. 14. This is the aesthetic world of his own Sonatas in B 𝅗𝅥 Major, Hob. XVI:18, and G Minor, Hob. XVI:44, both dated “early 1770s” by association with this C Minor Sonata, the autograph fragment of which carries the date of 1771. 15. An identical moment of rest may be found in the compositional process of his Op. 33 quartets. On October 18, 1781, he writes to Artaria that of the “new quartets . . . four are finished already.” Bartha (1965), 105. 16. Marx and Haas (2001), 40. 17. Bartha (1965), 77. 18. Sisman (1993), 24–25. The intended publication was Das gelehrte Österreich, ed. Ignaz de Luca, 2 vols. (1776–78). 19. Hiller had condemned Haydn for combining “often side by side in one and the same piece, an odd mixture of styles, of the serious and the comic, of the lofty and the vulgar.” Wheelock (1992), 43. 20. Hiller (1766), 99–100. 21. Bauer and Deutsch (1962), vol. 1, 486, and Deutsch (1961), 130. The Mozarts had been invited to lunch (Mittagessen). 22. Nicolai (1784), 554. In the same chapter Nicolai blames Haydn for “pleasing his audience” by “adopting a taste of ordinary folk music” (526), such as minuets and other light-footed dances. 23. Lehmann (1865), 39. Three other siblings all died very young. 24. Sisman (2008, 92), for example, uses Mozart’s assessment to assume “unequal talents of the sisters.” Gruber (2005, 52), going the other direction, wants Mozart to be mistaken about Marianna: “Even if he speaks of ‘the elder,’ one would like to assume that he actually meant Marianna.” 25. Cramer (1783), 928. Marx and Haas (2001, 41–42) assume that Salieri is also the poet of the ode, but perhaps too hastily: by printing a period on the title page, Artaria makes a distinction between the “friend and admirer” and the “setting to music” by Salieri, a separation confirmed in Cramer’s review.

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Notes to Pages 182–190

26. The dedication is to “Nancy,” the English diminutive for “Anna” and equivalent of the Austrian “Nanette.” Biba (2004), 189. Clementi’s set is dedicated to three women, one per sonata. For Marianna he selected the passionate minor-key Sonata No. 1 in G Minor. Helyard (2011), 270. 27. Lehmann (1865), 39. 28. Lehmann (1865), 40. 29. Schönfeld (1796/1976), 73. Katharina seems to have passed on her skill of singing lieder and canzonettas to her daughter, whom Reichardt (1808–9/1915, 24–25) raves about. 30. Quoted in Pohl (1882), 172. 31. Marx and Haas (2001), 42. 32. Lehman (1865), 39. 33. Translated from the imperial document reproduced in Clar (1867), 13. His Inventum Novum was published in 1761, but international recognition for Auenbrugger’s chest percussion method came only after Corvisart’s French translation of the work in 1808. See also Camac (1909, 117–19), [S.N. 2] (1936, 127–80), and many encyclopedia entries. 34. Clar (1867), 12. 35. Auenbrugger’s claim to fame in music is his writing the libretto for Antonio Salieri’s 1781 opera The Chimney Sweep (Der Rauchfangkehrer). 36. Bartha (1965), 106. 37. For a razor-sharp critique of the reception history of Haydn’s Op. 33 quartets, see Webster (1991), 335–47. 38. Bartha (1965), 107. 39. On Haydn and Lavater, see also Tolley (2001b), 194–96. 40. Klingenstein, Faber, and Trampus (2009), vol. 1, 167. 41. Klingenstein, Faber, and Trampus (2009), vol. 2, 79, 183, 249, 253. 42. Stemmler (1993), 151. 43. Lavater (1775). 44. Lavater (1776), 28; trans., Lavater (1826), 52. 45. Melton (2001), 217–18. 46. Kritsch and Sichrovsky (1976), 210. 47. She also encouraged her in-house guest and salon secretarius Leopold Haschka (also a poet and her rumored lover) to start corresponding with Lavater. 48. The quote is from Joseph Freiherr von Hormayr: “[Greiner’s] house at the neuen Markt auf der Mehlgrube was a temple of music, the gathering place of good tone and all that is excellent from inland and abroad, from equal and higher rank. No prominent foreigner who would not have found here the noblest hospitality, the most gracious and uplifting of circles [die anmuthigsten und lehrreichsten Zirkel].” Translated from Strommer (1976), 99. 49. On December 25, 1781, Haydn’s new Op. 33 quartets were performed in similar conditions at the apartments of Countess von Norden, alias Maria Feodorovna, who was taking piano lessons from Haydn; Haydn was present but left the performance in the expert hands of four professionals—all masters and composers of string quartets themselves and closely associated with Haydn. H. C. R. Landon (1978), 456.

Notes to Pages 190–201

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50. The full sentence from the letter to Artaria of July 20, 1781, reads: “Through his presence and true delivery a master must see to his rights[;] they’re just songs [Lieder], but not Hofmann-style Gassenlieder, where there’s no idea [Idee] nor expression [Ausdruck] and still less any singing [Gesang].” Bartha (1965), 101. 51. On the topic of polite conversation and the salon, see especially Goodman (1994), 90–135. For a brilliant enactment in musicological discourse, see Le Guin (2007). The following prose is inspired, furthermore, by Gräffer (1845/1922). 52. Zinzendorf ’s own words, penned on March 25, 1781. Klingenstein, Faber, and Trampus (2009), vol. 3, 842. 53. “Physiognomy . . . science of the signs of the powers [Kräfte]. Pathognomy . . . science of the signs of the passions [Leidenschaften]. The former shows character at rest [den stehenden]—the latter character in motion [den bewegten Character] . . . the former what man is überhaupt; the latter what he is at the actual moment.” Lavater (1778), 39. 54. As Messerschmidt related to Nicolai (see below), his work revolved around physiognomic self-study. But he must have used other models as well, including his brother Johann Adam. Krapf (2002), 87. 55. The titles for Messerschmidt’s character heads, now in wide use, are from an early exhibition guide ([Anonymous 1], 1794). 56. Lavater (1775), vol. 1, 158; trans., Lavater (1826), 12. 57. A multimedia presentation of all elements combined may be found on the website. 58. Nicolai (1785), 415–16. In Messerschmidt scholarship, Nicolai’s twenty-page report, from the same trip in 1781 during which he saw the Auenbrugger sisters and criticized Haydn, still counts as the single most important witness account. 59. Lavater (1778), 255. 60. [Anonymous 1] (1794), 63. 61. I concur with Somfai that a sixteenth-note appoggiatura at the start of a fournote group in Haydn is generally what C. P. E. Bach calls “variable.” Bach himself preferred these appoggiaturas to be performed as “invariable short” ones. Somfai (1995), 47; Bach (1753/1949), 91. 62. This is the only bust that is not part of the character-head series but an actual portrait of someone other than the artist himself. 63. Bauer and Deutsch (1962), vol. 1, 486. 64. Though marginalized by Kris (1932) and Pötzl-Malikova (1982), the thesis of influence between the sculptor-professor and the hypnotist-healer has found a strong defender again in Krapf (2002), 61–63. 65. Szasz (1988), 44. 66. Krapf (2002), 186. 67. Ince (1940), 85–88. 68. The similarity was pointed out by E. Badura-Skoda (1986), 375. Haydn’s authorship of Die Feuersbrunst (The Conflagration, ca. 1775–78), though published as part of JHW, remains “doubtful.” 69. Chew (1974), 106. Other examples include the “Distratto” Symphony, Hob. I:60, just before the end (“time to go home”), and a canon on Hagedorn’s sentence “Langwei-

298

Notes to Pages 201–218

liger Besuch macht Zeit und Zimmer enger,” Hob. XXVIIb/43, the melody emphasizing boredom and time slipping away. 70. Ibid., 114, 119. 71. A remarkably similar da capo pair of pieces in C ♯ major and minor (reversed order) are C. P. E. Bach’s “La Xenophon” (Allegretto I) and “La Sybille” (Allegretto II), first published in Musikalisches Allerley von verschiedenen Tonkünstlern, vol. 3 (Berlin, 1760). For a fascinating study of Bach’s character pieces, including similar affinities with Lavater’s physiognomy, see Richards (2011). 72. Diderot (1830/1995), 73; and Bach (1753/1994), 122. 73. Lavater (1776), 90–93. On a silhouette drawing machine as a tool for the physiognomist, see Stafford (1991), 96–100. 74. Silverstolpe (1841), 17–18; trans. Stellan Mörner (1969), 25, and Webster and Feder (2002), 45. 75. No longer showing static representations of characters or tonalities, this example takes into consideration secondary key areas or other significant modulations within movements. 76. We here revert to the empirical terminology of “pleasant” and “unpleasant” of Forkel (see chapter 4). 77. Marianna died on August 25, 1782; Leopold signed the preface of his book on September 30. 78. Auenbrugger (1783), 16, 18–20. 79. Auenbrugger (1783), 13. 80. Two comparable examples are the finale of the B Minor Sonata, Hob. XVI: 32 (where I understand the emotion as representative more of an outside force, as if being spoken to rather than speaking oneself ) and the final page of the F Minor Variations, Hob. XVII:6 (an outburst of mournful despair over the death of someone else, ending with self-reflection and resolve). 81. A. P. Brown (1986), 299. 82. That is to say, it is a triad (in first inversion) rather than a seventh chord (also first inversion, but with an added A 𝅗𝅥). 83. All modern editions add the tie. 84. Auenbrugger (1783), 18–19. 85. Le Guin (2006), 185. 86. Mm. 111ff in the first movement and mm. 53ff in the third. 87. Auenbrugger (1783), 12. 88. Forkel (1783/1974), 35. 89. Auenbrugger (1783), 14. 90. Sisman (1994b) has explored this question for the single Beethoven “Pathétique” Sonata, Op. 13, also in C minor. An intriguing model for the association of a C minor piece for solo keyboard with the idea of suicide is Bach’s Fantasy in C Minor, the final movement of Wq. 63/6. In 1768 the poet Heinrich Wilhelm von Gerstenberg famously mapped Hamlet’s soliloquy “To be or not to be” onto Bach’s fantasia and repeated the effort with a monologue by the death-accepting Socrates. In 1787 C. F. Cramer published the music and text of both versions in his collection Flora, with compositions for

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keyboard and voice. (For detailed analysis and context, see Plebuch 2006.) Intriguingly too, Bach’s fantasia is the last of an opus: his Achtzehn Probestücke in Sechs Sonaten (Eighteen Demonstration Pieces in Six Sonatas, published as an appendix to the 1753 Versuch). This “opus” may be much less unified than Haydn’s (for several reasons), but its chiaroscuro planning is remarkable: the “eighteen pieces” consistently alternate major (“light”) and minor (“dark”) keys, from an initial C major (No. 1) to a final C minor (No. 18). Chapter 6

1. Rosenthal (1996), 77–78. Rebecca Schoeter, Haydn’s intimate London friend and dedicatee of the trios Hob. XV:24–26 (Longman & Broderip, 1795), had signed the contract in London as a witness. 2. H. C. R. Landon (1977b), 383. 3. Hughes (1975), 157. The ca. 1795 Longman & Broderip grand piano acquired in Vienna by H. C. Robbins Landon, presently in the Cobbe Collection (Hatchlands Park, England), might be Haydn’s, although this may be established on “statistical probability” only (as Alec Cobbe put it in a private communication on June 11, 2011). 4. A. P. Brown (1986), 127–28. 5. The transition from “Longman & Broderip” (which declared bankruptcy on May 23, 1795) to “Longman, Clementi, & Company” (November 1, 1798, the latter partnership involving John Longman, not to be confused with the bankrupt James Longman) and eventually “Clementi & Company” (from 1800 on) features stories of financial hardship, business intrigue, court battles, and on-and-off incarcerations in Fleet Prison. For a lively picture, see Bozarth and Debenham (2009) and Debenham (2011). For a good synopsis, see Rowland (2010), lvi–lix. 6. This was on November 9, 1796. A. P. Brown (1986), 129. 7. Jones (1983 and 1996); Mace (1996). 8. The term “grand” as a designation on a title page seems to have transferred itself from the piano concerto to the piano sonata, implying a connotation of “public,” whether in training (as in practicing a sonata to attain a level that would allow you to play a concerto) or for real (as in actually performing such a sonata in more or less public circumstances). Clementi used “grand” for the revised editions of his sonatas Op. 2 Nos. 2 and 4, republished as Op. 30 and Op. 31 in 1794, after which the title became a true fashion in London, with grand sonatas by Bertini, Dussek, Cramer, Maria Parke, Steibelt, and others. Salwey (2001), 135–38. 9. The first volume contains, in this order: Sonatas Nos. 52 (E 𝅗𝅥 Major), 34 (E Minor), 49 (E 𝅗𝅥 Major), 44 (G Minor), 45 (E 𝅗𝅥 Major), 46 (A 𝅗𝅥 Major), 19 (D Major), and 18 (B 𝅗𝅥 Major)—or no fewer than three E 𝅗𝅥 major pieces. The second volume (released later in 1800) is devoted to the six “Auenbrugger” Sonatas (in the order of the 1780 Artaria print), followed by five single pieces (Hob. XVII:6, 4, 1, 5, and 3). 10. For the (modern) term “London Pianoforte School,” see Temperley (1984–87), vol. 1, viiff, and Ringer (1970). 11. Reichardt (1808–9/1915), vol. 2, 8. 12. On November 8, 1798, to be exact. Bozarth and Debenham (2009), 64.

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Notes to Pages 222–229

13. Clementi had been in Vienna in 1781–82, in 1802 (“only a short while”), and again on and off since 1806. Rowland (2010), liv–lxv. 14. The term is from Parakilas and Wheelock (1999, 77), placing Clementi at the helm of a “piano revolution in the age of revolutions.” 15. Letter of March 2, 1792. Bartha (1965), 280. 16. Morrow (1989), 13–33. 17. Radant (1968), 69. 18. Morrow (1989), 28, 480. By “Steuebel” is almost certainly meant the pianist and composer Daniel Steibelt. Around the same time, at the home of Count Fries, he engaged in a disastrous competition with Beethoven, reported in Wegeler and Ries (1838/1972), 81–82. “After supper,” Zinzendorf continues, “Mme Steubel played a children’s game [jeu d’enfant] with a kind of tambourin, which must have hurt her fingers badly.” Mrs. Steibelt was known to play the tambourine, often along with her husband. 19. AmZ 1/33 (May 15, 1799), 520. 20. Letters of Mozart to his father of January 16, 1782, and June 7, 1783; Bauer and Deutsch (1962), vol. 3, Nos. 659 and 747. For a deconstruction of “charlatan,” see Helyard (2011), 20–35. 21. From various journals between 1782 and 1792: “These quartets [Op. 54] will make you marvel at the original humor, musical wit, and the inexhaustible richness of the composer’s ideas”; on the string quartets Op. 33: “an inexhaustible genius who appears to exceed himself in each new work that he publishes”; and on Pleyel: “one misses [Haydn’s] delicacy and inexhaustible humor”; “in each one [of the Minuets Hob. IX:9a] you see the creative spirit and the inexhaustible genius of a Haydn.” Morrow (1997), 61, 111–13, 187 n. 73, 212 nn. 42 and 46, 213 n. 55. 22. In analogy with the masculine Violinspieler von Profession (violin player by profession), which occurs in the same AmZ issue a few pages later (526). 23. AmZ 1/33 (May 15, 1799), 524. 24. The fifth pianist is Hummel, but he’s mentioned only in terms of the lack of a chance to hear him either publicly or privately: “He dedicates himself fully to composition.” AmZ 1/33 (May 15, 1799), 525–26. When the reviewer did get a chance to hear Hummel a few days later at the Augarten, his mind seemed no longer to be on the playing; rather, he proclaimed that the fantasies (sic: plural) that Hummel performed between his own symphony and melodrama were “composed very handsomely” (emphasis in original). AmZ 1/34 (May 22, 1799), 542. 25. Schönfeld (1796/1976), 38–39. 26. Quoted in H. C. R. Landon (1976), 139. 27. Critical notes by Feder; typescript consulted in the Joseph Haydn-Institut, Cologne. 28. For the London terminus post quem I am going by the Longman, Clementi, & Company advertisement in the Times of 1799, which ends with the announcement: “In a few Days will be published, a new Sonata for the Piano Forte, by Dr. Haydn.” Actual listings of “Haydn’s Sonatas” [sic; but the price of four shillings suggests a single sonata] and “Haydn’s Sonata” (at the same price) may be found in the same newspaper respectively on

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January 7 and February 28, 1800. An earlier listing of the same ad, however, had already appeared in the Morning Chronicle on December 27, 1799. In Vienna we find an announcement of the Artaria edition in the Wiener Zeitung on December 5, 1798. Hoboken (1957), 779. 29. Strunk (1934), 198. 30. C. Landon (1964), vol. 3, xx. 31. C. Landon, Leisinger, Levin, and Jonas (2010), 152. 32. The striking point is the place where the hammer hits the string. English makers tended to homogenize the overall “strike line” across the keyboard, aiming for a unified ratio of, say, one-ninth of the string. As a result, different registers or different sounds within one register combined better with one another. Viennese builders, on the other hand, continued to let their ear decide and actually preferred to enhance the individuality of different registers on the keyboard. For a milestone study, both technological and musical, see Winter (1988). On English striking points, see Cole (1998), 138. 33. Komlós (1995), 76–77. 34. Ibid. 35. Ratner (1980), 412; Allanbrook (2002), 208. 36. On the first point, see Salwey (2001), 51, 203–4; on the second, see Tolley (2001b), 53. 37. H. C. R. Landon (1976), 106–7. 38. Dies (1810/1962), 136. 39. The gift was of a handsomely bound copy of Burney’s History and an accompanying poem from his hand. H. C. R. Landon (1976), 45; emphasis in original. 40. Tolley (2001b, 54–55) makes a circumstantial case for Haydn’s actually seeing the painting shortly after it was first revealed to the public. 41. May (1844), 191. 42. Browne (1810), vol. 1, 315, 318. Lord Byron recalls C. J. Fox saying that this was “the best speech he ever heard upon that subject.” Jennings (1881), 185. 43. Lausberg (1998), 341. 44. Browne (1810), vol. 1, 318–19. 45. I here react to Ratner (1980, 413–14) and Allanbrook (2002, 205) who recognize stile legato and “singing style” in this passage. 46. Schenker (1922), 116. 47. The “music box” topic is inspired by Sisman (2007), 294. 48. For an insightful essay on the multifaceted meaning of a slur in classical music, see Pay (1996). 49. Clementi (1800/1974), 9. 50. A similar case of an adjusted text is Haydn’s F Major Adagio, written and published in Vienna but recycled as the slow movement of the Sonata Hob. XVI:50. JHW here does recognize the variants, and WUE goes so far as to print both. Each of Haydn’s changes may be explained in terms of the acoustic and technical differences between instruments in Vienna and London. 51. Fétis (1840), 75; trans. Hunter (2005), 358.

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Notes to Pages 244–251

52. The full advertisement is quoted in Clark (2012), 26. The assumption of another record of her playing a Haydn sonata at the Anacreontic Society in December of 1786 (by Salwey 2001, 118) is incorrect. The Gazetteer and New Daily Advertiser of January 5, 1787, makes clear that the “very young pupil of Clementi” was “[Louis] Jansen, the son of a dancing master of that name.” Ibid., 14. 53. This was the order of the advertisement of May 26, 1806, two days before the concert. In the program announced on the actual day, the duet came first. 54. [Anonymous 2] (1839), 4. 55. Salwey (2004, 280) calls Jansen the “one notable exception” of a female pianist who makes “a living solely from teaching the piano,” drawing on item 6 of Appendix B as evidence. Only dancing is mentioned, however. 56. University of Michigan Library (WCC 1613). My thanks to Katelyn Clark for sharing the score. 57. A. P. Brown (1979, 646 n. 7) thought to recognize Theresa Jansen as the “Capital Performer” whose deportment at the piano offends the eye, in a sarcastic pamphlet about “Celerio” alias Clementi. But the advice of the anonymous author (Hüllmandel?) is exactly to send her to “the skilful and accomplished J–N,” which technically could refer to all three Jansens (senior, Theresa, and Louis)—in 1790–92 (when the pamphlet was written) most probably to the father. In any case, it is unlikely that Theresa, a dancing mistress in her own right, would have developed bad posture at her instrument. 58. Graue (1981); van Oort (2000). 59. A January 5, 1787, review in the Gazetteer and New Daily Advertiser has Louis as “very young pupil of Clementi’s” making “his first essay in a sonata of Haydn’s, which he executed with firmness and with a degree of expression and taste, that does equal honours to his own and to the abilities of his master.” We find him, age thirty-eight, at a concert in Vienna still performing on both the piano and the violin (AmZ, May 27, 1812). 60. Both have a conservative range of five and a half octaves, which might suggest an earlier date or reflect her desire to play it safe when faced with pianos in venues outside of London. 61. Dussek wrote three concertos in B 𝅗𝅥: Craw 1 (no opus number, 1779, lost), Craw 97 (op. 22, 1793), and Craw 153 (op. 40, 1798), nicknamed “The Military.” Kurzböck almost certainly played the latter. 62. Appendix B reproduces the 1817 William Gardiner translation of Stendhal’s adaptation of Carpani’s Letters; Carpani’s original Italian may be found on the website. 63. See n. 5. 64. Reichardt (1808–9/1915), vol. 2, 97. 65. Presumably his Piano Quartet Op. 6 (1806). 66. [Anonymous 2] (1839), 57. 67. Hoboken (1957), 777. The Adagio eventually made it into the Oeuvres complettes as part of its last volume in 1806, well after the Caulfield edition of the complete sonata (ca. 1800). 68. Clark (2012), 22. 69. See n. 56.

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70. Ratner (1980), 437. 71. Oeuvres complettes de Joseph Haydn. Cahier I (Leipzig: Breitkopf & Härtel, 1800). The preface is dated December 20, 1799, ten days short of the new century. 72. A. P. Brown (1986), 58. Epilogue

1. Hughes (1975), 157.



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INDEX OF NAMES



The letter f following a page number denotes a figure, and the letter t denotes a table. Adelung, Johann Christoph, 287n30, 287n35, 287n41, 289n68 Agricola, Johann Friedrich, 61, 282n37 Allanbrook, Wye J., 235 Artaria (firm), 7, 14, 52, 73–74, 124–25, 129, 134–36, 169, 171–74, 176, 178, 181, 183–85, 189–90, 200–201, 208, 216, 220–23, 229–34, 242, 250–51, 277n55, 281n22, 290n4, 294nn5–6, 295n15, 297n50, 300n28 Auenbrugger, Katharina von, 73–74, 134–36, 172–73t, 178, 179–85, 187, 189–92, 199, 208, 218, 225, 243, 296n29, 297n58 Auenbrugger, Leopold von, 73, 178, 180, 182, 184–85, 190, 199,

211–12, 215, 217–18, 296n33, 296n35, 298n77 Auenbrugger, Marianna von, xxix, 73–74, 134–36, 172–73t, 178, 179–85, 189–90, 199, 208, 211, 218, 225, 243, 245, 295n24, 296n26, 297n58, 298n77 Auernhammer, Josepha Barbara, 225 Auersperg, Prince Adam, 183 Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel, xxvi, 12, 28, 60–63, 81, 160, 191, 208, 212, 224, 274n1, 275n18, 276n32, 277n49, 280n13, 282nn40–41, 283nn42–43, 283n45, 283nn48–50, 283n52, 283n54, 285n7, 297n61

321

322

Index of Names

Bartolozzi, Gaetano, 7, 244–45 Bartolozzi, Theresa. See Jansen, Theresa Batthyány, Cardinal Joseph, 141–42 Bauhin, Caspar, 287n33 Beatrix, Empress Maria Ludovica, 143–44, 146, 147–50, 153, 164–65, 292n45 Beethoven, Ludwig van, 6, 220, 226, 241, 250, 300n18 Bergopzoomer, Johann, 93 Bernardon, 77, 81–82, 93, 103–4, 121, 124–25, 256, 285n13, 287n29 Blum, Mathias, 83 Bonds, Mark Evan, xxvii Bonnet, Charles, 187 Bossler, Heinrich Philipp, 137, 153, 155 Bradford-Wilmot, Martha, 139 Brahms, Johannes, 6 Braun, Baroness Josefine von, 222, 290n4 Braun, Baron Peter von, 290n4 Breitkopf & Härtel (firm), 220–21, 229, 250, 253–54, 291n10 Broadwood (firm), 2, 235, 254 Brothers Mansfeld, 183–84 Brown, A. Peter, 28, 81, 98–100, 132, 212 Burney, Charles, 61, 237, 283n43 Carpani, Giuseppe, 103, 125, 247–48, 302n62 Catiline (Lucius Sergius Catilina), 52 Cicero (Marcus Tullius Cicero), 43–44, 48, 52–53, 71–72, 74, 175, 280n10, 281n19, 282n43 Clark, Katelyn, 244 Clementi, Muzio, xxiv, 4, 7, 16, 182, 220–22, 224, 228, 238, 242, 244–45, 248–51, 276n34, 281n15, 290n73, 296n26, 299n8, 300nn13–14, 302n57, 302n59 Cluentius (Aulus Cluentius Habitus), 44 Cramer, Carl Friedrich, 64, 160–61, 181, 283n54, 295n25, 298n90

Cramer, Johann (John) Baptist, 244, 250, 299n8 de Carro, Jean, 247 de la Garde, Count, 140, 146 Demosthenes, 43, 61, 67–68 Diderot, Denis, xxvii, xxviii, 208, 273n7 Dies, Albert Christoph, 82, 285n7 Dolinszky, Miklós, 230 Dussek, Jan Ladislav, 4, 7, 221, 235, 245, 247, 250, 274n4, 274n8, 299n8, 302n61 Eberl, Anton, 247 Edelstein, Joseph Freiherr Zois von, 182 Elssler, Johann, 229 Engel, Johann Jacob, 58–60, 281n32, 283n42 Ertmann, Baroness Dorothea von, 249–50 Eschstruth, H. A. F. von, 124 Esterházy (née Li[e]chtenstein), Princess Maria Josepha Hermenegilde, chap. 4, 256 Esterházy (née Thurn und Taxis), Princess Maria Theresia, 144–46, 166 Esterházy, Prince Nicolaus, I, 12, 15–16, 18–19, 21–24, 53, 123, 129, 130f, 134–36, 143, 166, 177, 276n36, 277n44, 281n25 Esterházy, Prince Nicolaus, II, 129, 130f, 140–43, 146, 148, 164–66, 254, 290n26, 294n72 Esterházy, Prince Paul Anton, I, 129, 130f, 141, 143, 165–166, 294n74 Feder, Georg, 228–30 Fétis, François-Joseph, 243 Field, John, 244, 250 Fitzharris, Lord, 139 Flood, Henry, 237–38 Forkel, Johann Nikolaus, 64, 132, 138, 177, 217, 280n13, 281n30, 283n54, 298n76

Index of Names

Förster, Emmanuel Aloys, 289n67 Franklin, Benjamin, 199 Fux, Johann Joseph, 85–86 Gall, 289n64 Gappmayer, Wernfried, 98–99 Garrick, David, 208 Gartori, Franz, 97, 287n39 Genzinger, Josepha von (“Fräulein Peperl”), 33, 152 Genzinger, Marianne von, xxiii, 18, 19–22, 26–27, 28, 33–34, 39–40, 42, 52, 54, 71–72, 124, 127–29, 150–53, 157, 222, 243, 276n36, 277n40, 278n58, 279nn73–74, 280n10, 290n3, 293n56 Genzinger, Peter von, 33, 152–53 Gerlach, Sonja, 82 Gerlischek, Maria Anna von (“Mademoiselle Nanette”), 33, 153, 276n36 Gerstenberg, Heinrich Wilhelm von, 298n90 Goebels, Franzpeter, 98–100 Goldberg, Sander, xxvii Gottsched, Johann Christoph, 61, 281n30, 282n37 Greiner (née Hieronymus), Charlotte (Karoline) von, 72, 178, 188–91, 223, 284n68 Greiner, Councilor Franz Sales von, 178, 189–91, 284n68, 296n48 Grétry, André-Ernest-Modeste, 49, 74–75 Griesinger, Georg August, 82, 103 Haas, Gerlinde, 244 Handel, George Frideric, xxiv Hanswurst (the character), 77–80, 81–82, 100–102, 104, 121, 125, 200, 288n48, 288n51, 288n55 Haschka, Leopold, 296n47 Haydn, Joseph and correspondence (complete transcriptions/translations of ), 18–19,

323

20–21, 24, 151–53, 172–73, 185–87 and keyboard types, 27–42, 29–32t, 82–90, 124–25, 227–28, 232–34, 240, 253, 301n32, 301n50; harpsichord vs. fortepiano, 34–36; “short octave,” 87–93, 101–25 and oratory, xxvii–xxviii, xxix, 4–5, 8–15, chap. 2, 153–59, 161–64, 167, 177, 237–40 Haydn, Michael, 75 Heartz, Daniel, 27–28 Heinrich, Lausberg, 155 Hickel, Karl Anton, 237 Hiller, Johann Adam, 180, 295n19 Hoboken, Anthony van, 123 Hofmann, Ferdinand, 279n67 Hofmann, Leopold, 297n50 Hohenfeld, Countess Maria Anna, 130f, 166 Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus), 208 Hormayr, Joseph Freiherr von, 296n48 Huber, Alfons, 83 Hummel, Johann Nepomuk, 300n24 Hyde, Frederick Augustus, 219–20 Jansen, Louis, 244–45, 250, 302n52, 302n57, 302n59 Jansen, Theresa, xxiv, xxvii, xxix, 4, 6–7, 15–16, 74, 220–23, 228, 230, 235, 238, 242–46, 250–51, 254, 255, 261–65, 274n7, 276n33, 276n35, 302n52, 302n55, 302n57 Joseph II, Emperor, 142, 184–85, 292n41 Kennedy, George, 175 Kivy, Peter, xxvi Klier, Karl, 93–95, 98–99 Kober, Ignaz, 36–37, 278n62, 279n65 Koch, Heinrich Christoph, 280n13 Komlós, Katalin, 235 Kozeluch, Leopold, 48

324

Index of Names

Kraft, Anton, 291n30 Kurz, Johann Joseph. See Bernardon Kurzböck, Joseph Edler (Josef Lorenz) von, 12, 24, 134–36, 245 Kurzböck, Magdalena von, 7, 9, 12, 220–28, 242–44, 245–48, 250–51, 254, 265–71, 302n61 La Bruyère, Jean de, 132–33 Landon, Christa, 230 Lanham, Richard A., 1 Latcham, Michael, 36 Lavater, Johann Caspar, 178, 185–92, 193, 256, 257–60, 296n47, 297n53, 298n71 Le Brun, Charles, 190 Le Guin, Elisabeth, xxix, 215 Lehmann, Ernst von, 182 Leisinger, Ulrich, 80–81, 230 Leydecker, Johann, 88, 90 Li(e)chtenstein, Eleonore, 165, 294n72 Li(e)chtenstein, Maria Leopoldina Adelgundis, 292n36, 292n38 Li(e)chtenstein, Prince Franz Joseph, 129, 141–42, 292n41 Li(e)chtenstein (née von Sternberg), Princess Maria Leopoldine, 129, 141–42, 164, 166, 292n34 [Longinus], 67–68, 284n59 Longman & Broderip, 2, 219–21, 248, 254, 255, 299n1, 299n3, 299n5 (Longman,) Clementi, & Company, xxiii– xxv, 7, 220–21, 223, 229, 231–33, 248, 251, 254, 255, 299n5, 300n28 Madeleine, Louis Philipon de la, 149, 293n48 Maene, Chris, 36–37, 255–56 Mallek, Gottfried, 279n67 Maria Theresa, Empress, 13, 97–98 Martines (Marintez), Marianna (Marianne), 13, 72, 180, 284n68

Mattheson, Johann, 105, 280n14 Maunder, Richard, 83 May, Thomas Erskine, 237 Mee, John Henry, xxiv Mesmer, Dr. Franz Anton, 199–201 Messerschmidt, Franz Xaver, 169, 178, 190–99, 201, 297n54, 297n58 Metastasio, 284n68 Mitchell, William, 61 Moscheles, Ignaz, 276n34 Morzin, Countess, 13 Moyse, Johann, 286n18 Mozart, Leopold, 83–84, 180, 182, 199, 274n2, 288n51 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 6, 28, 36–37, 48, 82, 83–84, 97, 180, 222, 224, 244, 247, 250, 278n61, 279n68, 284n68, 286n21 Muffat, Gottlieb, 41, 85 Neefe, Christian Gottlob, 294n7 Neiner, Johann Valentin, 285n1 Nickelsberg, Carl Nickl von (“Herr von Nickl”), 39–40 Nickelsberg, Heinrich von, 40 Nickelsberg, Magdalena von, 40 Nicolai, Friedrich, 169, 180, 182, 192, 295n22, 297n54, 297n58 Novello, Vincent, 219–20, 255 Öttingen-Wallerstein, Prince Kraft Ernst zu, 186–87 Pantzner, Johann Christoph, 286n16 Paradies, Maria Theresa, 199 Parakilas, James, 248 Park, Maria Hester, 74, 276n35 Parke, Maria, 274n5, 299n8 Pitt, William, 175, 237 Ployer, Antonia von, 276n35, 290n4 Ployer, Barbara von, 276n35 Pohl, Carl Ferdinand, 139

Index of Names

Polzelli, Luigia, 160 Porpora, Nicola, 160, 293n63 Prehauser, Gottfried, 77, 81 Pühringer, Martin, 88, 90 Quantz, Johann Joachim, 10, 12, 61, 63, 274n1, 275n19, 282n39 Quintilian (Marcus Fabius Quintilianus), 5, 43–44, 56, 61, 70, 280n3, 280n10, 282n41, 284n64, 284n70, 286n23 Rader, Theophilus, 288n45 Ratner, Leonard, 235, 251–53 Razumovsky, Prince Andrey, 148, 165, 294n70 Reichardt, Johann Friedrich, 221, 244, 246, 248–50, 296n29 Rettensteiner, Werigand, 53, 75 Reutter, Johann Georg, 41 Righini, Vincenzo, 183 Rockobauer, Mathias, 19 Rommel, Otto, 100 Rosenbaum, Carl, 223 Rousseau, Jean-Jacques, 133, 140 Salieri, Antonio, 73, 181, 295n25 Schanz, Johann, 279nn68–69 Schanz (or Schantz), Wenzel, 2, 33–34, 36, 39–40, 222, 277n55, 278n56, 279nn68–69 Schenker, Heinrich, 219, 239, 251–53 Schönfeld, Johann Ferdinand von, 40, 182, 227–28, 247, 279nn68–69 Schroeder, David, xxvii Schroeter, Rebecca, 254, 276n35, 299n1 Schubart, Christian Friedrich Daniel, 157 Schulz, Johann Abraham Peter, 64 Schütz, Carl, 171, 190 Sévigné, Madame de, 133 Shakespeare, William, 67 Shelley, Lady Frances, 139–40, 165

325

Silverstolpe, Fredrik Samuel, 52, 209 Sisman, Elaine, xxvii, 175, 177–78, 179 Small, Christopher, xxvii Somfai, László, 50, 81, 132, 175 Sonnenfels, Joseph von, 77, 288n51 Stadler, Abbot Maximilian, 220, 255 Steffan, Joseph Anton, 28, 40, 48, 292n38 Steibelt, Daniel, 221, 223, 247, 250, 299n8, 300n18 Stein, Johann Andreas, 39, 83–84, 279n68 Stranitzky, Joseph, 77, 81, 100–101, 104, 285n1, 288n51 Streicher, Johann, 250 Stroh, Wilfried, 71 Strunk, Oliver, 230, 244 Sulzer, Johann Georg, 64, 283n54 Swieten, Baron von, 52 Taruskin, Richard, xxvi, 6 Thun, Countess Maria Christine, 13 Thürheim, Countess Constantine, 165, 294n70 Tolley, Thomas, 176 Tomaschek, Václav, 274n8 Tosi, Pier Francesco, 282n37 Tost, Johann, 276n36 Tournon de la Chapelle, Alexandre, 127, 133 Tovey, Donald, 251–53 Türk, Daniel Gottlob, 14, 60–61, 62, 275n23, 277n50, 281n32, 282nn35–36, 283n42 Vieheyser, 277n55 Vogler, Georg Joseph, 289n67 Voltaire, 133 Wagenseil, Georg Christoph, 28, 81, 85–87, 123 Walter, Anton, 2, 34, 36–39, 223,

326

Walter, Anton (continued) 235, 278n59, 279n64, 279n67, 279nn69–70, 279n74 Walter, Horst, 28, 82 Webster, James, xxvii, 171 Wesley, Samuel, 228 Wirnsperger, Peter, 98–99 Wolf, Adam, 141–42 Wölfl, Joseph, 226, 244

Index of Names

Ziegler, Johann, 171 Zinzendorf, Count Karl von, 182–83, 188, 190, 223, 300n18 Žižek, Slavoj, xxvi Zois, Sigmund, 187 Zois Edelstein, Katharina Freifrau. See Auenbrugger, Katharina von



INDEX OF MUSICAL WORKS

Works by Haydn

Hob. I—Symphonies No. 47, 281n25 No. 60, 297n69 No. 93, 52 No. 98, 228 Hob. III—String Quartets Nos. 37–42, Op. 33, 185–87, 295n15, 296n49, 300n21 Nos. 57–59, Op. 54, 300n21 Hob. VII—Concertos b:2, 291n30 Hob. XI—Baryton Trios No. 35, 201, 203 No. 38, 123 Hob. XV—Keyboard Trios No. 5, 276n31 No. 9, 276n31 Nos. 11–13, 235, 277n55



No. 14, 235 No. 17, 235 Nos. 18–20, 220 Nos. 24–26, 220, 299n1 Nos. 27–29, 220, 245, 255, 274n7 No. 30, 220 No. 31, 254 Hob. XVI—Keyboard Sonatas No. 1, 15 No. 3, 113 No. 6, 10 No. 9, 235 No. 12, 88, 90 No. 13, 235 No. 14, 34–36 No. 18, 139, 295n14 No. 19, 10 Nos. 21–26 (“Nicolaus Esterházy” Sonatas), 15–16, 53, 71, 74,

327

328

Index of Musical Works

Hob. XVI—Keyboard Sonatas (continued ) 134–36, 177, 245, 275n22; No. 21, 22–25, 237; No. 22, 13, 65–70, 71; No. 23, 10–13, 69, 276n29; No. 24, 13, 275n24; No. 25, 177; No. 26, 53–54, 69, 127, 177, 281n25 Nos. 27–32 (“Anno 776” Sonatas), 13, 218, 276n35; No. 32, 298n80 No. 34, 138, 159, 276n35 Nos. 35–39, 20 (“Auenbrugger” Sonatas), xxix, 13, 73–74, 133, 134–36, 169–79, 189–92, 194–96, 199, 203–11, 217–18, 223, 249; No. 35, 174, 191–92, 197, 201–3, 217; No. 36, 138, 169–71, 174, 176, 192, 197–202; No. 37, 201, 217; No. 38, 138, 215–17, 239; No. 39, 13–15, 138, 169–71, 174, 176–77, 192, 198–99, 276n29; No. 20, 129, 174–75, 177, 212–15, 217–18, 289n66, 295n14 Nos. 40–42 (“Marie Esterházy” Sonatas), xxix, 53, 75, 129, 131–32, 134, 137–38, 153–54, 164, 275n16; No. 40, 45–48, 49–52, 138–39, 150, 153–59, 161–63; No. 41, 159–61, 235; No. 42, 50–51, 138, 161–64 No. 44, 139, 295n14 No. 46, 10, 88, 90, 239, 289n66 No. 47, 41–42, 82–83, 87, 285n15 No. 48, 34–36, 132, 138, 240, 276n35, 291n10 No. 49 (“Genzinger” Sonata), 18, 22, 25–27, 40, 54–60, 71–72, 128–29, 132, 222, 231, 276n36, 277nn47–48 No. 50, xxiv, 1–5, 6–7, 15–16, 74, 225, 250–51, 285n74, 301n50 No. 51, 74, 132, 276n35 No. 52, xxiv, xxix, 7–9, 12, 15–16, 74, chap. 6, 274n7, 285n74

Hob. XVII:D1, 138 Hob. XVII—Klavierstücke No. 1 (“Acht Sauschneider müssen sein”), xxix, 80–83, 90–100, 101–21, 124–25, 127, 285n15, 288n45, 288n57, 290n73 No. 2, 82–83, 87–90, 285n15, 286n26 No. 3, 222 No. 4, 81, 124–25, 294n5 No. 6, 129, 222, 276n35, 298n80 a:1 (“Il maestro e lo scolare”), xxix, 82–83, 121–24, 285n15 Hob. XXI—Oratorios No. 2 (The Creation), 52, 166, 247 Hob. XXVIa—Solo Songs with Keyboard No. 29 (Pleasing Pain), 284n73 No. 31 (Sailor’s Song), 284n73 No. 32 (The Wanderer), 284n73 Hob. XXVII—Canons b/43, 297n69 Hob. XXIXb—Dramatic No. 1b (Der [neue] krumme Teufel), 287n29 XXIXb:A, Die Feuersbrunst, 200, 297n68 Works by Other Composers

Auenbrugger, Marianna von Sonata per il clavicembalo o forte piano con Ode, 181 Bach, Carl Philipp Emanuel Sechs Sonaten mit veränderten Reprisen (Six Sonatas with Varied Reprises), Wq. 50, 62–63, 131 Six Sonates à l’usage des dames, Wq. 54, 132 Keyboard Sonata in F Minor, Wq. 57/6, 64 Keyboard Sonata in G Major, Wq. 58/2, 283n54 Achtzehn Probestücke in Sechs

Index of Musical Works

Sonaten (Eighteen Demonstration Pieces in Six Sonatas), Wq. 63, 293n61, 298n90 “La Xenophon” and “La Sybille,” Wq. 117/29, 298n71 Beethoven, Ludwig van Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat Major, Op. 19, 40 Sonata in C Major, Op. 2 No. 3, 247 Sonata in C Minor (“Pathétique”), Op. 13, 298n90 Sonata in B𝅘𝅥 Major, Op. 22, 241 Clementi, Muzio Op. 2, 222, 299n8 Op. 8, 182, 296n26 Op. 33, 221, 245, 247 Twenty-one Variations on “The Black Joke,” WO2, 290n73 Dussek, Jan Ladislav Op. 13, No. 3 in G Minor, 235–36 Fux, Johann Joseph Suite (“Parthie”) in G Minor, E. 117, 86, 88

329

Jansen, Theresa Grand Sonata in A Major, 245–46 Variations on a Minuet of Dussek, 244–45 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus Gallimathias musicum, K. 32, 97 Variations (“Unser dummer Pöbel meint”), K. 455, 289n58 Le Nozze di Figaro, K. 492, 151–52 Muffat, Gottlieb Ciaccona con 38 Variazioni in G Major, 289n58 Reutter, Johann Georg Capriccio in C Major, 289n58, 289n69 Righini, Vincenzo Armida, 183 Wagenseil, Georg Christoph Six Harpsichord Divertimentos; Op. 2, No. 2 in G Major (WV 53), 85–86; Op. 2, No. 6 in E Major (WV 33), 85–87, 123