some sort of shape, then he sketched them on paper and went to lunch.  Later in the day he worked them out more fully, and proceeded to make a finished score.  His scores are as neat as Beethoven’s are disgracefully untidy.  Haydn’s way of composing at the piano—­and it was Mozart’s way, and Beethoven’s, not to mention Wagner’s—­has been condemned by many theorists and theoretical writers.  After seeing many of the compositions of these gentry, I wish they themselves would find and employ any other method than that they adopt at present.  Haydn’s cheerfulness has often been commented on, and it certainly pervades his music.  He was also given to joking, but the one or two jokes which have been pointed out to me in his music would nowadays be considered in bad taste if people knew what they were meant for.  Music has no sense of humour, and simply won’t countenance it.

I suppose nine hundred and ninety-nine listeners in a thousand find Haydn’s music a trifle tame.  Now, I myself—­in all humility let me say it—­would not stand being bored for ten minutes by any composer, not though he were ten times as great as the greatest man who has ever lived.  There is not a note of Haydn’s I would not wish to hear, but there is a very great deal I would refuse to listen to twice, and much that I would only listen to in small bits at a time.  Having willingly conceded this, let me warn anyone who takes up Haydn against expecting and wasting time in looking for the wrong thing, for qualities that are not in Haydn, and are not claimed for him.  Especially have we to discard the text-book rubbish about his “service to art,” the “tradition he established,” about the “form stereotyped by him.”  I have just said that in his Esterhazy time he was of great service to artists, but the music he then wrote was mainly second-rate, and I am now speaking of his best.  Here his form is clear enough, but one does not listen to music merely for that.  His form, indeed, became formalism and formality.  It was natural to a man who had spent his life in looking for a principle that he should to a degree mistake the accident for the essence.  Those first and second subjects with the half-closes between—­they became as dreadful in their unfailing regularity as the contrapuntal formalism they drove out of fashion.  In themselves they are a weariness to the flesh; if there were nothing but them to be found in Haydn, we should not go to Haydn.  But there was a great deal more.  There was a poetic content, a burden, if you like, a message, in his music, and it was different from anything that had been before or has been since.

There is nothing of the gorgeous architectural splendours of Bach, nothing of Bach’s depth nor high religious ecstasy.  His passion, joy and sorrow are all milder than Beethoven’s.  He has little of Beethoven’s grandeur nor feeling too deep for tears or words.  As for Mozart’s beauty and sadness—­that blend of deep pathos with a supernal beauty of expression that transcends all