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 cafe meetings at Esterhaz 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.