noteworthy that the last time he directed his own music in public, in 1807, it was The Seven Words, and not The Creation nor The Seasons, that was rendered.

This long chapter of Haydn's life, so uneventful outwardly, was now about to close. Negotiations had been opened before by Cramer with a view of inducing him to come to London, but nothing came of them. In 1787 Salomon, an enterprising fiddler, got Bland, a music publisher, to try what could be done. Bland was unsuccessful, but he got a quartet from Haydn in this wise. Contrary to his custom of receiving no one until he was completely dressed, wig and all, in the ceremonious eighteenth-century fashion, Haydn was trying to shave when Bland was shown in. He was also, it would seem, using the Rohrau equivalent for very bad language, for the razor was taking away his serenity of mind and bits of his skin. "I would give my last quartet for a decent razor!" he exclaimed wrathfully. Bland ran out and brought back a razor, and it seemed to be a good one, for history, which never lies, says he got the quartet. In 1790 Salomon made another attempt, this time in person, and was repulsed. He had got as far as Cologne on his way back to England, when he heard news that sent him flying again to Vienna as fast as wheels and horses' legs could carry him.

The Esterhazy chapter of Haydn's life had closed with something of a snap. On September 28 Prince Nicolaus died. He had started by being Haydn's patron and master, but long before the end he had become his friend. Haydn never dreamed of leaving, never even of going to England on a short visit, without his permission and full approval. He was put in his grave, and his magnificence would be all unremembered to-day but for his connexion with a great composer. Haydn had been in the service of him and his predecessor, Prince Anton, just on thirty years. Haydn himself was now close on sixty years old. He might have retired now, as a good Kapellmeister should, and lived in obscure comfort for the rest of his days. The next Prince, another Anton, dismissed the band and singers, but to the annuity of 1,000 florins which Nicolaus had left Haydn he added 400 florins.

The story of these thirty years is soon told. What a fantastic mode of life it seems, how farcical, grotesque, in its dull routine, for a genius who was at work steadily building up new art-forms. Haydn, we are told, rose every morning at six, carefully shaved and dressed, drank a cup of black coffee, and worked till noon. Then he ate, and in the afternoon he worked again, and ate and worked until it was time to go to bed. He was a little man, very dark of skin, and deeply pock-marked, and he had a large and ugly nose. His lower jaw and under lip projected, and he had very kindly eyes. He was far from being vain about his personal appearance, but he took an immense amount of pains with it, for all that. Ladies ran much after him, too. But he cannot have spared them much of his time. All who knew him were agreed about his methodical habits, and we have only to look at a catalogue of his achievements, and to consider that on every day of the week he had both rehearsals and concerts, to realize that his entire time must have been eaten up by the writing of music and the preparation and direction of musical performances. Undoubtedly he wearied of it at times, though he said that on the whole it had been good for him, and that by being so much thrown upon his own resources he had been forced to become original. As to this, I beg leave to be sceptical; and at any rate his finest work was done when he was free of his bondage, and actively engaged in the busy world. There is a note of regret for the irremediable in that remark of his. It is as if he had said: "True, it was dull, insufferably tedious, but, after all, it had its compensations." How his band and singers tolerated the life I cannot tell. They lived together in a sort of family, but their café meetings at Esterház were a poor substitute for the distractions of the capital. One might assume that they took their holidays in turns—for many had wives and children whom they were obliged to leave behind—but a well-authenticated story destroys that fond belief. It is the story of the Farewell Symphony. The artists, wearying of so long a sojourn so far away from home, asked Haydn to intercede for them with the Prince. Haydn and his folk were always on the very best of terms, and he did intercede for them, in his own canny way. He composed a symphony in which, towards the end, player after player finishes his part, blows out his candle, packs up his instrument, and leaves the room, until at last one solitary violin is left industriously playing on. The Prince took the hint. "Since they are all gone," he remarked, "we might as well go too." And he gave orders for the return to Vienna, which he detested.

The eighteenth century lies behind us like a fruitful land, with the touch of the old-world distinction on it, the old-world aroma clinging to it. On paper, on canvas, on wooden panels, it is very picturesque in its queer stately way, if very artificial. The sunlight seems always to bask on it. It reminds one of a perpetual summer Sunday afternoon in a small provincial town. But its voice speaks in its music, often bitterly sad and sweetly regretful, and there is little hint of sunshine or careless merrymaking there. Bach is steeped in cloister gloom, with frequent moments of religious ecstasy. Haydn is generally cheerful in a humdrum sort of way, but when his real feelings begin to speak, not even Mozart is sadder. They were human beings with greedy, desiring souls in them, these men and women of the dead eighteenth century, not delicate painted figures on screens and panels, and none but actors would be consoled by their undoubted picturesqueness when they are being tortured or ennuied. They saw their youth slipping away uneventfully, and dark old age coming steadily upon them. The gay bustle and hurry-skurry of arriving and departing parties, the great dames and languid gentlemen lounging on the terraces, the feasts and dignified dances—these are very pleasant for us to look back on, but what did they seem to the human beings, the players, actors and singers, who watched the show go on? The great ones were in their element: at Esterház or elsewhere their world and mode of life were the same—but the poor artists?... The single café was a poor compensation for a rollicking life of change. The exile from Paris—the avocat, or notaire, or docteur in the provinces—how he hankers after the electrically lit boulevards, and wonders whether he dare run up for a day or two, and what will happen, there and here, if he does. And Haydn—we can fancy him, after brilliant evenings at Esterház standing, looking Viennawards on still nights, the starry immensity above him and the quiet black woods and waters around him—the gay lights of Vienna must have danced before his inner vision, and his soul must have risen in revolt, full of angry desire to be once again in the midst of the happy chattering tide of life in the great town. No other great composer could have stuck to his task as he did. Mozart would have forgotten his duties; Beethoven would purposely have neglected them. But Haydn's Prince willed the thing to be done, and Haydn acquiesced. The patient blood of generations of industrious, persevering, plodding peasant labourers was in him; and perhaps his early training under Frankh and Reutter counted for something. He went on unflinchingly, outwardly calm—calm even in the eyes of languid eighteenth-century people—inwardly living strenuously as he battled with and conquered his art-problems.

CHAPTER V

MUSIC OF THE MIDDLE PERIOD

This must have occurred to every one whilst reading the biographies of great artists: After all, is it the function of high genius to discover means of expression only that they may be used afterwards by numberless mediocrities who have