Module 3
The Classical Period
a. The Democratization of Classical Music and the Rise of “For Profit” Concerts
Music was not exempt from the social changes sweeping eighteenth-century
Europe and America. In fact, the century witnessed something of a democratization of
classical music. The “audience base” for such music expanded greatly, extending now to
the newly affluent middle class. In an earlier day, when art music was performed in only
two venues (church and court), the average citizen heard very little of it. By midcentury,
however, the bookkeeper, physician, cloth merchant, and stock trader collectively had
enough disposable income to organize and patronize their own concerts. In Paris, then a
city of 450,000 residents, one could attend, as proclaimed, “the best concerts every day
with complete freedom.” The most successful Parisian concert series was the Concert
spirituel (founded in 1725), at which the West’s first noncourt orchestra played a regular
schedule of performances. The Concert spirituel advertised its performances by means of
flyers distributed in the streets. To make its offerings accessible to several strata of
society, it instituted a two-tiered price scheme for a subscription series (four livres for
boxes and two livres for the pit, roughly $200 and $100 in today’s money). Children
under fifteen were admitted for half price. Thus, we can trace to the middle of the
eighteenth century the monetizing of a shared musical experience. The “for profit”
concert as we know it today dates from this time.
Public concerts sprang up in London, in the Vauxhall Gardens, the eighteenth-
century equivalent of Disney World—which drew as many as 4,500 paying visitors daily.
Here, symphonies could be heard inside in the orchestra room or outside when the
weather was good. When Leopold Mozart took his young son Wolfgang to concerts there
in 1764, he was surprised to see that the audience was not segregated by class. Likewise,
in Vienna, the Burgtheater (City Theater) opened in 1759 to any and all paying
customers, as long as they were properly dressed and properly behaved. Although the
allure was music, the hall itself became a place for a leveling of social classes. As their
numbers increased, members of the middle class began to compete with the aristocracy
for control of high culture—to have a say in the kind of music to be heard.
Fashions change. At the beginning of the eighteenth century, sophisticated men
powdered their faces, painted on “beauty spots,” and wore elaborate wigs (portrait of
George Frideric Handel). By century’s end, a simpler, more natural style. So, too, did
musical style evolve during the eighteenth century. Compared with the relentless, ornate,
and often grandiose sound of the Baroque era, Classical music is lighter in tone and more
natural. If a single mood dominated a piece in Baroque style, rapid changes between
moods (calm to passionate, for example) is more typical of Classical style. This is
especially true in the genre of opera.
Social reform in the eighteenth century not only democratized the concert hall but
also affected those who went to the opera house and even the characters who populated
the stage. A new musical genre, comic opera, appeared and soon drove the established
opera seria to the wings. Baroque opera seria had celebrated the deeds of past kings and
heroes, glorifying the aristocracy and solidifying the status quo. By contrast, the new
comic opera, called opera buffa in Italy, championed middle-class values and promoted
social change. Comic opera made use of everyday characters and situations; it typically
employed spoken dialogue and simple songs in place of recitatives and lengthy arias; and
it was liberally spiced with sight gags, bawdy humor, and social satire.
Even a “high-end” composer like Mozart embraced the more natural, downto-
earth spirit of the comic style. Mozart was not always treated fairly by his noble
employers, and several of his operas are rife with antiaristocratic sentiment. In Don
Giovanni (1787), for example, the villain is a leading nobleman of the town. In Le nozze
di Figaro (The Marriage of Figaro, 1786), a barber outsmarts a count and exposes him to
public ridicule. So seriously did the king of France and the Holy Roman emperor take the
threat of such theatrical satire that they banned the play on which The Marriage of Figaro
was based. Comic theater and comic opera, it seemed, not only reflected social change
but could also provoke it.
To witness how a new musical style—and subversive social values—sprang from
the operatic stage, we could do no better than to examine Mozart’s The Marriage of
Figaro. Set within the traditional values of a European court, the opera inverts the
existing social order; namely, the barber Figaro and his fiancée, the maid Susanna, outwit
the morally bankrupt Count Almaviva. The opening scene reveals that the count intends
to exercise his droit du seigneur—an ancient law allowing the lord of the manor to claim
sexual favors from a servant’s fiancée. Outraged, Figaro responds with a short aria, “Se
vuol ballare” (see Listening Guide). Here, he calls the count by the diminutive “Contino,”
translated roughly as “Count, you little twerp,” and vows to outsmart his master.
The melody is simple and tuneful, almost like a folksong. Indeed, during the
Classical period, the influence of folk and popular music generally, and dance music in
particular, came to influence the melodic structure of art music. Notice the simple
arrangement of the musical phrases: four bars and then a matching four bars—a good
example of symmetry in classical form. Notice, too, that the texture is entirely
homophonic (chordal), another general characteristic of music in the Classical style.
Generally speaking, intense polyphony now begins to disappear from the concert hall and
stage. If the model of the Baroque period was the polyphonic fugue, that of the Classical
era was the symmetrical, tuneful aria sung here by Figaro.
Listening more broadly, we hear Figaro’s aria move through four sections: A, B,
C, and D, with a return to A at the end. Although the sections are connected by a measure
or two of purely instrumental music, the vocal units of this aria have the proportions 20 +
20 + 20 + 40 + 20—a balanced, “classical” arrangement indeed.
With such serene balance, where is the drama in this opera? Drama is what a great
composer like Mozart, in this case literally, brings to the dance. Mozart casts the aria, “Se
vuol ballare” (“If you want to dance”), within the context of a stately minuet, the
traditional dance of the aristocratic court. Figaro begins in calm, measured steps—all is
balance and grace. But the more he thinks about the count’s lechery and treachery, the
more anxious he becomes. Musically, we hear Figaro’s agitation grow through sections
B, C, and D, each gaining in intensity. Only at the end does the valet regain his
composure, as signaled by the return of the stately minuet (A). Here, dance serves as a
metaphor for a shuffling of the social order—if the count wants to “dance” (fool around),
Figaro, the servant, will call the tune.
Finally, the newly affluent middle class was not content merely to attend concerts
and operatic performances; they also wished to make their own music at home. Most of
this domestic music making centered around an instrument that first entered public
consciousness in the Classical period: the piano. Invented in Italy about 1700, the piano
gradually replaced the harpsichord as the keyboard instrument of choice—and with good
reason, for the piano could play at more than one dynamic level (hence, the original name
pianoforte, meaning “soft-loud”). Compared with the harpsichord, the piano could
produce gradual dynamic changes, more subtle, yet rapid, contrasts, and—ultimately—
more power.
Those who played this new domestic instrument were mostly amateurs, and the
great majority of these were women. A smattering of French, an eye for needlepoint, and
some skill at the piano—these were signs of status and gentility that rendered a young
woman suitable for marriage. For the nonprofessional woman to play in the home,
however, a simpler, more homophonic style of keyboard music was needed, which would
not tax the presumed technical limitations of the performer. The spirit of democracy may
have been in the air, but this was still very much a sexist age. It was assumed that ladies
would not wish, as one publication said, “to bother their pretty little heads with
counterpoint and harmony” but would be content with a tuneful melody and a few
rudimentary chords to flesh it out. Collections such as Keyboard Pieces for Ladies (1768)
were directed at these new musical consumers.
Typical of the piano music Mozart created for his amateur students is a work he
wrote in 1788, titled “Short Keyboard Sonata for Beginners”. It is likely that you’ve
heard this piece. It begins with two balanced phrases, each two measures in length. The
texture is homophonic: melody plus accompanying chords. Shows his final product, with
the pitches of the chords spread out to provide a continual stream of sound. Such a bass
line is called an Alberti bass, named after the minor Italian keyboard composer Domenico
Alberti (1710–1740). The texture is still light and airy, but the gentle flow of the
accompaniment allows the music to sound less clunky.
The Alberti bass serves essentially the same function as the modern
“boogiewoogie” bass. It creates an illusion of harmonic activity for those moments when,
in fact, the harmony is not changing. In Classical style, the harmony is sometimes even
simpler than it seems.
b. The Dynamic Quality of Classical Style
Balance, symmetry, simplicity, light and airy—these are a few of the terms
usually associated with Classical style. And “traveling light” has an advantage: The
music can change mood or direction with lightning speed. Recall that, in earlier times, a
work by Vivaldi or Bach would establish one “affect,” or mood, to be rigidly maintained
from beginning to end—the rhythm, melody, and harmony all progressing in a
continuous, uninterrupted flow. Such a uniform approach to expression is part of the
single-mindedness of Baroque art. Now, with Haydn, Mozart, and the young Beethoven,
an energetic theme in rapid notes might be followed by a second one that is slow, lyrical,
and tender. What had been a walking bass might now alternate between a plodding and a
sprinting one, or no bass at all. Similarly, textures might change quickly from light and
open to dense and more contrapuntal, thereby adding tension and excitement.
For the first time, composers began to specify crescendos and diminuendos,
gradual increases or decreases of the dynamic level, so that the volume of sound might
continually fluctuate. When skilled orchestras made use of this technique, audiences were
fascinated and rose to their feet. Keyboard players, too, now took up the crescendo and
diminuendo, assuming that the new, multidynamic piano was at hand in place of the
older, less flexible harpsichord. These rapid changes in mood, texture, color, and
dynamics give to Classical music a new sense of urgency and drama. The listener feels a
constant flux and flow, not unlike the natural swings of mood that we all experience.
c. Vienna: Home to Classical Composers
New Orleans jazz, Hollywood film music, and the Broadway musical of New
York— all suggest that a particular city gave rise to a distinctive kind of music. So, too,
with the Viennese Classical style. The careers of Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, and the
young Franz Schubert all unfolded in Vienna, and from Vienna radiated their powerful
musical influence. For that reason, we often refer to them collectively as the Viennese
School and say that their music epitomizes the “Viennese Classical style.
Vienna was then the capital of the old Holy Roman Empire, a huge expanse
covering much of Western and Central Europe. In 1790, the heyday of Haydn and
Mozart, Vienna had a population of 215,000, which made it the fourthlargest city in
Europe, after London, Paris, and Naples. Surrounded by vast farmlands ruled by an
aristocratic gentry, it served as a cultural mecca, especially during the winter months
when there was little agricultural work to be supervised. Vienna boasted a greater
percentage of noblemen among its population than did London or Paris, and here the
aristocratic hold on high culture loosened only gradually— but loosen it did. Haydn was
a court employee, but Mozart and Beethoven became independent operators. And, while
Viennese nobles still patronized music, they often enjoyed it with middle-class citizens at
public concerts. There were theaters for German and Italian opera, concerts in the streets
on fine summer nights, and ballroom dances where as many as 2,000 couples might sway
to a minuet or a waltz by Mozart or Beethoven.
With money to be earned and much to be learned, Vienna attracted musicians
from throughout Europe. Haydn moved there from Lower Austria; Mozart, from Upper
Austria; his rival, Antonio Salieri, from Italy; and Beethoven, from Bonn, Germany.
Later, in the nineteenth century, in addition to native-born Franz Schubert, outsiders such
Johannes Brahms and Gustav Mahler would spend their most productive years there.
Even today, tourists wandering the streets of Vienna are besieged by hawkers dressed as
Haydn or Mozart, selling tickets to a variety of classical concerts that night.
Joseph Haydn was the first of the great Classical composers to move to Vienna,
and his life offers something of a “rags-to-riches” story. Haydn was born in 1732 in a
farmhouse in Rohrau, Austria, about twenty-five miles east of Vienna. His father, a
wheelwright, played the harp but could not read music. When the choir director of St.
Stephen’s Cathedral in Vienna happened to be scouting for talent in the provinces, he
heard the boy soprano Haydn sing and brought him back to the capital. Here, Haydn
remained as a choirboy, studying the rudiments of composition and learning to play the
violin and keyboard. After nearly ten years of service, his voice broke and he was
abruptly dismissed. For most of the 1750s, Haydn eked out a “wretched existence,” as he
called it, much like a freelance musician or aspiring actress might in New York City
today. But, in 1761, Haydn’s years of struggle ended when he was engaged as director of
music for the court of Prince Nikolaus Esterházy (1714–1790).
The Esterházy family were wealthy aristocrats who wintered in Vienna and
summered on their extensive landholdings to the southeast. At the family’s magnificent
court at Esterháza, Prince Nikolaus ruled much like a benevolent dictator. But the prince
was an autocrat with a fondness for music, maintaining an orchestra, a chapel for singing
religious works, and a theater for opera. As was typical of the period, the musician Haydn
was considered a servant of his prince and even wore the garb of the domestic help, as
can be seen in his portrait. As a condition of his appointment in 1761, Haydn signed a
contract stipulating that all the music that he composed belonged not to him but to his
aristocratic master.
For a period of nearly thirty years, Haydn served Nikolaus Esterházy at his remote
court on what is today the border of Austria and Hungary. In 1790, Prince Nikolaus died,
leaving Haydn a pension for life and freedom to travel. Heeding the call of an
enterprising impresario, Johann Solomon—and the promise of a substantial fee—Haydn
journeyed to London in 1791. For performances in this city, then the largest and richest in
Europe, Haydn wrote his last twelve symphonies, called the London Symphonies. He
himself conducted the premiere of each symphony in a series of concerts at the Hanover
Square Rooms, a new public concert hall that catered to the growing middle-class
demand for classical music. By the time he returned to Vienna in 1795, Haydn had
earned a total of 24,000 Austrian gulden, the equivalent of about $2.1 million today—not
bad for the son of a wheelwright. Haydn died on May 31, 1809, at the age of seventy-
seven, the most respected composer in Europe.
Haydn’s long life, commitment to duty, and unflagging industry resulted in an
impressive number of musical compositions: 106 symphonies, about 70 string quartets,
nearly a dozen operas, 52 piano sonatas, 14 Masses, and 2 oratorios. He began composing
before the death of Bach (1750) and did not put down his pen until about the time
Beethoven set to work on his Symphony No. 5 (1808). Thus, Haydn not only witnessed
but also, more than any other composer, helped to create the mature Classical style. Yet,
although keenly aware of his own musical gifts, he was quick to recognize talent in
others, especially Mozart: “Friends often flatter me that I have some genius, but he
[Mozart] stood far above me.”
Indeed who, except possibly Bach, could match Mozart’s diversity, breadth of
expression, and perfect formal control? Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was born in 1756 in
the mountain town of Salzburg, Austria, then a city of about 20,000 residents. His father,
Leopold Mozart, was a violinist in the orchestra of the ruling archbishop of Salzburg and
the author of a best-selling introduction to playing the violin. Leopold was quick to
recognize the musical gifts of his son, who by the age of six was playing the piano,
violin, and organ, as well as composing. In 1762, the Mozart family embarked on a
nearly four-yearlong tour of Europe that included extended stops in Vienna, Munich,
Brussels, Paris, and London. In Vienna, Wolfgang played for Empress Maria Theresa, in
Paris for King Louis XV, and in London for King George III—the boy wonder was
indeed the marvel of the age. Eventually, the Mozarts made their way back to Salzburg.
In 1769, father and son were off on a grand tour of Italy, including Rome, where, on July
8, 1770, Pope Clement XIV dubbed Wolfgang a Knight of the Order of the Golden Spur.
Although the aim of all this globe-trotting was to acquire fame and fortune, the
result was that Mozart, unlike Haydn, was exposed at an early age to a wealth of musical
styles: French Baroque, English choral, German polyphonic, and Italian vocal. His
extraordinarily keen ear absorbed them all, and his creative mind synthesized them into a
new, international style. Today, Mozart is still widely recognized as “the most universal
composer in the history of Western music.”
A period of relative stability followed Mozart’s youthful travels: For much of the
1770s, he resided in Salzburg, where he served as violinist and composer to the reigning
archbishop, Colloredo. The archbishop was a stern, frugal man who had little sympathy
for Mozart, genius or not (the composer referred to him as the “Archboobie”). Mozart
was paid modestly and, like the servant-musicians at the court of Esterházy, ate with the
cooks and valets. For a Knight of the Golden Spur who had hobnobbed with kings and
queens across Europe, this was humble fare indeed, and Mozart chafed under this system
of aristocratic patronage. But he couldn’t just quit—servants of the court had to obtain a
release from their employer before they could move on. So, in the spring of 1781, Mozart
precipitated several unpleasant scenes, forcing the archbishop to fire him. Establishing
himself in Vienna, twentyfive-year-old Mozart then did something that no musician
before him had accomplished: make his fortune as a freelance artist.
Mozart chose Vienna because the city had a vibrant musical life and a passion for
the two things he did best: compose and play the keyboard. In a letter to his sister in the
spring of 1782, Mozart spells out how he juggled his time between composition,
teaching, and performing. The years 1784–1787 witnessed the peak of Mozart’s success
in Vienna and the creation of many of his greatest works. He had a full complement of
pupils, played several concerts a week, and enjoyed lucrative commissions as a
composer. Piano concertos, string quartets, symphonies, and operas flowed from his
enormously active pen. During his best years, Mozart made a great deal of money, about
$325,000 annually by one estimate. But money flew out the door as fast as it came in—he
lived well and loved fine clothes, in particular. When a war with the Turkish (Ottoman)
Empire broke out in 1788 and a Europe-wide recession ensued, Mozart’s income
plummeted. For a time, he was reduced to begging discreetly from well-to-do friends.
Eventually, by 1791, the economy and Mozart’s prospects revived. He received
handsome commissions for a new opera for the emperor and for a Requiem Mass.
Such good fortune, however, was to be tragically short-lived. Indeed, the
Requiem Mass became Mozart’s own requiem when he died unexpectedly on December
5, 1791, at the age of thirty-five. The precise reason for his death has never been
determined, though rheumatic fever and kidney failure, made worse by needless
bloodletting, are the most likely causes. No single event in the history of music is more
regrettable than the premature loss of Mozart. He produced as much as the long-lived
Handel and Haydn, but in about half the time!
d. Ternary Form
In ternary (ABA) form, the idea of statement–contrast–repetition is obvious.
Think of this design as a kind of musical “home–away–home” if you wish. To
demonstrate the point in the simplest possible terms, consider again the French folksong
known to us as “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart came to
know the melody when he toured France as a youth, and he composed a setting for
keyboard that begins.
Notice that both units (A and BA) are repeated (see repeat sign in musical
example). Observe also that A is in the tonic, B hints at a contrasting key (here, the
dominant), and the returning A is again in the tonic (these harmonies are indicated by the
roman numerals I and V). If a piece in ternary form is in major, often B will be in minor,
and vice versa. Frequently, the switch is to what is called the relative minor (or relative
major, going minor to major). Of course, most pieces in ternary form are more complex
than “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Most have more contrast of melody, key, and/or
mood between the B section and the surrounding units of A.
A more complex example of ternary form can be heard in the famous slow
(second) movement of Mozart’s Piano Concerto in C major (1786; see Listening Guide).
Known popularly as the “Elvira Madigan” Concerto (it was the theme for the 1967 film
of that name), these Mozartian sounds still drift through coffeehouses, airports, and
shopping malls today, an unseen monument to the staying power of a Classical classic.
Let’s start with the melody. Generally speaking, melodies in the Classical style
are simple and short, with balanced phrases organized into antecedent– consequent or
“question–answer” pairs. Antecedent phrases and consequent phrases are musical units
that operate together: One opens, and the other closes. The melody that opens section A
of the Piano Concerto in C major consists of an antecedent–consequent unit, each phrase
of which is three bars long. Notice, too, the pulsing triplets (groups of three notes with
the number 3 above them) that animate and enrich the accompaniment.
As Mozart progresses, he unfolds three additional themes in a similar manner,
which together form section A. As is typical of a concerto in Classical style, the A
material is presented twice: once by the orchestra and then again by a soloist, here the
pianist. Mozart, having an ever-creative mind, never met a repetition that he didn’t try to
vary. Thus, in the pianist’s repeat of A (at 1:36), the composer inserts a momentary
diversion to the relative minor key (2:28). The B section (at 3:40), too, is in minor, again
favoring the relative minor. And the repeat of A (at 4:50) holds a surprise as well. The
themes return in a major key but not the tonic key, sliding back to that tonic only at the
end. Once there, just to make sure we know we’re really home, Mozart adds a few
concluding chords as a short coda (Italian for “tail”)—a section added to the end of a
composition to wrap things up. That’s all we need to know about this movement in
ternary form.
Actually, nothing could be further from the truth. Analysis, like that above,
provides only an introduction to the listening experience. Far more important is
emotional engagement with the music. Who, for example, could not be moved by the
hauntingly beautiful melody (theme 1)? It tugs at the heart because, below it, the
accompaniment sounds exactly like that—a gently pulsing heart. Who could not be
agitated by the rising melodic sequence and deep dives of the next melody (theme 2)?
Who could not feel a sense of both release and relief in the sublimely falling sequence
(theme 3)? Have we reached the final tonic yet? No; a deceptive cadence (theme 4)
frustrates our arrival, but a full cadence soon brings ultimate satisfaction and closure. By
using analysis to unlock feeling, we come to understand the why of our emotions. Having
now mastered ternary form (ABA), let’s proceed to a far greater challenge: hearing
sonata–allegro form.
e. Sonata–Allegro Form
Most stories, plays, and films have a stereotypical form: setup, complication,
resolution. So, too, with sonata–allegro form, which, like a great play, has the potential
for dramatic presentation (A), conflict (B), and resolution (A). Sonata–allegro form is the
most complex of all musical stories, and it tends to result in the longest pieces. Yet, it is
also the most important: In the Classical era, more movements of symphonies, quartets,
and the like were written in this form than in any other, and its popularity endured
throughout the nineteenth century as well.
First, however, an important distinction: the difference between the genre called
sonata and the form called sonata–allegro. A sonata is a genre of music usually involving
a solo instrument; sonata–allegro form, however, is a form giving structure to a single
movement within any one of several genres: a sonata, string quartet, serenade, symphony,
even a one-movement overture.
To see how this works, consider the movements in two different works in two
different genres, Mozart’s serenade, Eine kleine Nachtmusik, and Haydn’s Symphony
No. 94. Each work is comprised of four movements, and each movement has its own
form. We get the term sonata–allegro form from the fact that most sonatas employ this
form in the first movement, and the first movement almost always goes fast, or “allegro.
Let’s say that you’ve just arrived at a concert hall, and the orchestra is about to
play the first movement of a symphony. How will things unfold? It’s likely that the music
will proceed along the lines suggested. Not every sonata–allegro movement follows this
model in all particulars, but having this roadmap for listening will add to your enjoyment.
It will allow you to understand where you have been and anticipate what to expect next.
In its broad outline, sonata–allegro form looks much like ternary form. It consists
of an ABA plan, with the B section providing contrast in mood, key, and thematic
treatment. Again, think of a play or film with its setup, complication, and resolution. The
initial A in sonata–allegro form is called the exposition; the B, the development; and the
return to A, the recapitulation. Let’s examine each of these sections in turn and see what
we are likely to experience.
In the exposition, the composer presents the main themes (or musical
personalities) of the movement. It begins with the first theme or theme group, which is
always in the tonic key. Next comes the transition, or bridge, as it is sometimes called,
which carries the music from the tonic to a new key, usually the dominant, and prepares
for the arrival of the second theme. The second theme typically contrasts in character
with the first; if the first theme is rapid and assertive, the second theme may be more
languid and lyrical. The exposition usually concludes with a closing theme, often simply
oscillating between dominant and tonic chords— not much is happening harmonically, so
we must be near the end. After the final cadence, the exposition is repeated in full.
If sonata–allegro is a dramatic musical form, most of the drama comes in the
development. As the name indicates, a further working out, or “developing,” of the
thematic material occurs here. The themes can be extended and varied, or wholly
transformed; a character we thought we knew can turn out to have a completely different
personality. Dramatic confrontation can occur, as when several themes sound together,
fighting for our attention. Not only are developments dramatic; they are also unstable and
unsettling, the harmony typically modulating quickly from one key to the next. Only
toward the end of the development, in the passage called the retransition, is tonal order
restored, often by means of a stabilizing pedal point on the dominant note. When the
dominant chord (V) finally gives way to the tonic (I), the recapitulation begins.
After the turmoil of the development, the listener greets the recapitulation with a
double sense of relief: The first theme returns, and so does the tonic key. Though the
recapitulation is not an exact, note-for-note repetition of the exposition, it nonetheless
presents the same musical events in the same order. The only change that regularly
occurs in this restatement is the rewriting of the transition, or bridge. This bridge,
however, is the “bridge to nowhere”: Because the movement must end in the tonic, the
bridge does not modulate to a different key as before but stays at home in the tonic. Thus,
the recapitulation imparts to the listener not only a feeling of return to familiar
surroundings but also an increased sense of harmonic stability. We’ve gone on a great
musical (and emotional) journey and are now back home safe and sound.
As we have seen, a coda is used to wrap things up. Like their Italian namesake,
“tails,” codas can be long or short. Haydn and Mozart wrote relatively short codas.
Beethoven, however, was inclined to compose lengthy codas, sometimes introducing new
themes even at the end of the movement. But, no matter how long the coda, most will end
with a final cadence in which the harmonic motion slows down to just two chords,
dominant and tonic, played over and over, as if to say, “the end, the end, the end, THE
END.” The more these repeat, the greater the feeling of conclusion.
Why all this attention to sonata–allegro form? First, it is absolutely central to the
core repertoire of Classical music and beyond. Haydn, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert,
Tchaikovsky, Brahms, Mahler, Stravinsky, and Shostakovich all used it. Second, sonata–
allegro form is the most complex and difficult of the classical forms to follow. A sonata–
allegro movement tends to be long, lasting anywhere from four minutes in a simple
composition from the Classical period to twenty minutes or more in a full-blown
movement of the Romantic era.
How does the listener meet this musical challenge? First, be sure to memorize the
diagram of sonata–allegro form given. Equally important, think carefully about the four
distinctive musical styles found in sonata–allegro form: thematic, transitional,
developmental, and cadential (ending). Each has a distinctive sound. A thematic passage
has a clearly recognizable melody, often a singable tune. The transition is full of motion,
with melodic sequences and rapid chord changes. The development sounds active,
perhaps confusing; the harmonies shift quickly, and the themes, while recognizable, often
pile one atop the other in a dense, contrapuntal texture. Finally, a cadential passage,
coming at the end of a section or at the end of the piece, sounds repetitive because the
same chords are heard again and again in a harmony that seems to have stopped moving
forward. Each of these four styles has a specific function within sonata–allegro form: to
state, to move, to develop, or to conclude. The ultimate aim of this process is to sway our
emotions, but to do so in a way that is under control—formal control.
To test your ability to follow a movement composed in sonata–allegro form, turn
to the first movement of Mozart’s Eine kleine Nachtmusik. As the translated title, “A
Little Night Music,” suggests, this is a serenade, a light, multimovement piece for strings
alone or a small orchestra, intended for an evening’s entertainment and often performed
outdoors. Although we do not know the precise occasion for which Mozart composed it,
we might well imagine Eine kleine Nachtmusik providing the musical backdrop for a
torch-lit party in a formal Viennese garden.
Would Mozart’s listeners have paid attention to the music or merely chatted and
wandered about? Would Mozart have cared? Indeed, yes! Contemporary documents
show that he demanded attentive listening to his music. Look at the highly detailed
Listening Guide that follows. The cursory reader might engage only the essential section
headings. But the true Mozart fan will read every word and follow along with the music
—read-listen, read-listen, and so on. It is likely that this movement, one of the favorites
in the Classical repertoire, will seem like an old friend. You’ve heard its elegant sounds
in countless TV and online commercials where the ad intends to suggest that a particular
product is “high end”—sophisticated music for you, the sophisticated consumer.
But if sonata–allegro form applies only to instrumental genres such as the
symphony and serenade, how can it appear in an opera? It can, in fact, work its way into
an opera within the instrumental overtures that open Classical operas. A case in point is
Mozart’s overture to Don Giovanni (1787; see Listening Guide). Mozart begins this
dramatic overture with a slow introduction in a minor key that incorporates some of the
musical motives that we hear later in the opera. This slow, almost frightening beginning
soon changes to a fast tempo, major key, and lighter mood at the start of the exposition—
another lightning-quick transition in Classical music.
f. Theme and Variations
In the film Amadeus, Mozart is shown composing variations on a theme of
another composer (Salieri), tossing them off effortlessly like a magician pulling
handkerchiefs from his sleeve. The compulsion to endlessly reimagine a song, an object,
or a grammatical phrase is called the “transformational imperative,” an urge expressed by
the great minds of Mozart, Leonardo da Vinci, and Shakespeare, among others. In music,
the object of variation is neither an image nor words, but usually a melody. Theme and
variations form occurs when a melody is altered, decorated, or adorned in some way by
changing pitch, rhythm, harmony, or even mode (major or minor).
For theme and variations to work, the theme must be well known or easy to
remember. Composers have traditionally chosen to vary folksongs and, especially,
patriotic songs, such as “God Save the King” (Beethoven) or “America” (Ives). Such
tunes are popular, in part because they are simple, and this, too, is an advantage for the
composer. Melodies that are spare and uncluttered can more easily be dressed in new
musical clothing.
Broadly speaking, a musical variation can be effected in either of two ways: (1)
by changing the theme itself or (2) by changing the context around that theme (the
accompaniment). Sometimes, these two techniques are used simultaneously. The two
examples that follow—one by Mozart and one by Haydn—illustrate a number of
techniques for varying a melody and its context. In a set of variations, whether in the fine
arts or music, the farther one moves from the initial theme, the more obscure it becomes.
For the listener, the primary task is to keep track of the tune as it is altered in increasingly
complex ways.
In the Classical period, it was common for a composer/pianist to improvise in
concert a set of variations on a well-known tune, perhaps one that was requested
spontaneously by the audience. Contemporary reports tell us that Mozart was especially
skilled in this type of improvisation. In the early 1780s, Mozart wrote down a set of such
improvised variations built on the French folksong, “Ah, vous dirai-je, Maman,” the
melody of which we know today as “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” (see Listening
Guide). With such a well-known tune as this, it is easy to follow the melody, even as it
becomes increasingly ornamented and its accompaniment altered in the course of twelve
variations.
Mozart composed his set of variations on “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” as a
freestanding, independent piece. Joseph Haydn (1732–1809) was the first composer to
take theme and variations form and use it for a movement within a symphony. To be sure,
Haydn was an innovative artist—he could “surprise” or “shock” as no other composer of
the Classical period. In his “Surprise” Symphony, the shock comes in the form of a
sudden fortissimo chord inserted, as we shall see, into the second movement in the
middle of an otherwise serene theme. When Haydn’s Symphony No. 94 was first heard in
London in 1792, the audience cheered this second movement and demanded its
immediate repetition. Ever since, this surprising movement has been Haydn’s most
celebrated composition.
The famous opening melody of the second movement (Andante) is written in
binary form, a simple AB arrangement. Here, A is an eight-bar antecedent (opening)
phrase, and B is an eight-bar consequent (closing) phrase—a prime example of Classical
balance. Notice how the beginning of the theme (see Listening Guide) is shaped by laying
out in succession the notes of a tonic triad (I) and then a dominant chord (V). The triadic
nature of the tune accounts for its folksong-like quality and makes it easy to remember
during the variations that follow. These first eight bars (A) are stated and then repeated
quietly. And just when all is ending peacefully, the full orchestra, including a thunderous
timpani, comes crashing in with a fortissimo chord (see asterisk in Listening Guide), as if
to shock the drowsy listener back to attention. What better way to show off the latent
dynamic power of the larger Classical orchestra? The surprise fortissimo chord leads into
the B section of the theme, which also is repeated. With the simple yet highly attractive
binary theme now in place, Haydn proceeds to compose four variations on it, adding a
superb coda at the end. In his memoirs, dictated in 1809, Haydn explains that he included
the surprise blast as something of a publicity stunt, “to make a début in a brilliant
manner,” and thereby call further attention to his concerts in London.
. Each block (variation) is marked by some new treatment of the theme or the
accompaniment. In the Classical period, all the units are usually the same size—that is,
they have the same number of measures. The variations become progressively more
complicated as more ornamentation and transformation are applied, but each unit remains
the same length. The addition of a coda after the last variation gives extra weight to the
end, so the listener feels that the set of variations has reached an appropriate conclusion.
If such extra bars were not appended, the audience would be left hanging, expecting yet
another variation to begin.
g. Rondo Form
Of all musical forms, the rondo is perhaps the easiest to hear, because a single,
unvaried theme (the refrain) returns again and again. The rondo is also one of the oldest
musical forms, having originated in the Middle Ages. The Baroque era made frequent use
of rondo principles, and even contemporary pop songs occasionally employ this form. A
true Classical rondo must have at least three statements of the refrain (A) and at least two
contrasting sections (at least B and C). Often the placement of the refrain creates
symmetrical patterns, such as ABACA, ABACABA, or even ABACADA. When Haydn
and Mozart set about writing a rondo, they incorporated some of the same musical
processes that they used when writing in sonata–allegro form, specifically transitional
and developmental writing. They thereby created a more elastic, flexible rondo in which
the refrain (A) and the contrasting sections (B, C, or D) might develop and expand
dramatically.
The rondo is typically light, quick, and jovial in nature. Classical composers most
often chose the rondo form for the last movement, the finale (Italian for “end”) of a
sonata, quartet, or symphony. The carefree tune and the easily grasped digressions lend to
the rondo finale an “upbeat” feeling, the musical equivalent of a happy ending.
Listening to Haydn’s Trumpet Concerto in E♭ major (see Listening Guide) makes
us think about the construction of the trumpet—and the French horn as well— around the
turn of the nineteenth century. Before 1800, both the trumpet and the horn were natural
instruments, without valves. On them musicians could play successive intervals of an
octave and fifth, and even those of a triad, by “overblowing” (as you can overblow an
octave on a recorder, for example). But even great virtuosos had difficulty playing all the
notes of a scale perfectly in tune. Moreover, because overblowing produces only higher
pitches, not lower ones, the trumpet could play very few low notes.
To remedy these deficiencies, a Viennese trumpeter and friend of Haydn, Anton
Weidinger (1767–1852), came up with a new design for his instrument. He had the brass
of the trumpet pierced with holes that could be covered with movable keypads,
anticipating the approach used on woodwinds today. In 1796, Haydn wrote a concerto for
Weidinger and his new trumpet. Judging from the reviews of the first performance, the
sound of Weidinger’s instrument was muffled and unpleasant. In fact, this “covering
keypad” approach was soon abandoned; the trumpet thereafter remained “natural” until
around 1830, when a wholly new valve-type mechanism was invented for it—and the
French horn as well. Yet, because his concerto exploits the full range of our modern
instrument, Haydn must have intuited that Weidinger was headed in the right direction
and that technology would catch up with his innovative idea.
Not only has the trumpet changed since Haydn’s day, so, too, have trumpeters.
Yes, the jaunty, irrepressible rondo theme dominates the movement, and its placement
creates an ABABACABA form (see Listening Guide). But notice toward the end of the
movement how the driving orchestra reaches a point of arrival and then holds a chord (at
4:08). Haydn surely intended this sustained chord to be a platform from which the soloist
would launch into a flashy cadenza (a brilliant technical display by the soloist alone), as
was the custom of the day. However, Haydn left no music for the cadenza. He assumed
that any good performer could, and would want to, improvise his own. Today, such
improvisation by classical performers is a lost art, and the soloist in the Listening Guide,
Wynton Marsalis, simply leaves a few seconds of silence. If you are so inclined, when
you get to that spot, hum a few bars to fill in—Haydn’s spirit would applaud your
creativity!
h. Form, Mood, and the Listener’s Expectations
In many ways, going to a concert of classical music is like going to an art
museum— except that the musical exhibition is given only at a particular day and time.
Today, when we attend a concert to hear an overture by Mozart, a symphony by Haydn,
or a concerto by Beethoven, we revisit music that the orchestra has played in that hall
many times over the years. These favorite overtures, symphonies, and concertos belong
to the canon (standard repertoire, or “chestnuts”) of Western classical music.
When concertgoers stepped into a hall in the late eighteenth century, however,
they expected all of the music to be new and up to date—why would anyone want to hear
old music? But, while the late-eighteenth-century audience didn’t know the pieces in
advance, listeners did come with certain expectations, not only about the musical form,
but also about the mood of the music.
As we shall see, Ludwig van Beethoven (1770–1827) and later composers of the
Romantic era (1820–1900) modified somewhat this conventional format. Yet, the
Classical model of what was good and worthy of repeated performance— the Classical
canon—continued to gain force among music listeners. Succeeding generations not only
wanted to hear “new” music but also increasingly demanded a return to certain tried-and-
true works of Haydn, Mozart, and their later contemporary, Beethoven. Oddly, a similar
sort of canon has developed for pop music today. At pop concerts, the audience gets most
revved up hearing, not the featured artist’s new songs, but rather the artist’s beloved
signature tunes. When the canon sounds at either venue, classical or popular, the crowd
feels a collective sense of excitement: This is part of history. This has lasting value. This
is what we came for!
i. The Symphony and the Symphony Orchestra
A symphony is a multimovement composition for orchestra, lasting from about
twenty-five minutes in the Classical period to nearly an hour in the Romantic era. The
origins of the symphony go back to the late-seventeenth-century Italian opera house,
where an opera began with an instrumental sinfonia (literally, “a harmonious sounding
together”). Around 1700, the typical Italian sinfonia was a one-movement instrumental
work in three sections: fast–slow–fast. Soon, Italian musicians and foreigners alike took
the sinfonia out of the opera house and expanded it into three separate and distinct
movements. A fourth movement, the minuet, was inserted by composers north of the
Alps beginning in the 1740s. Thus, by midcentury, the symphony had assumed its now-
familiar four-movement format: fast–slow–minuet–fast. While the movements of a
symphony are usually independent with regard to musical themes, all are written in a
single key (or set of closely related keys).
As public concerts became more common during the Classical period, the
symphony increased in popularity. The larger public halls accommodated more people,
and the bigger audiences enjoyed the more robust, colorful sound of the Classical
orchestra. The four-movement symphony was the best format in which to convey that
sound. The fact that Haydn composed so many (106), and Mozart (given his short life) an
even more astonishing number (41), shows that by the end of the eighteenth century, the
symphony had become the foremost instrumental genre, the showpiece of the concert
hall. All but a few of Haydn’s last twenty symphonies were composed for public
performance in Paris and London, and Mozart’s last four symphonies were intended for
public concerts that he himself produced. His famous G minor symphony (1788), for
example, was apparently first performed in a casino in central Vienna —that’s where the
people were, and that’s where the money was. So dominant did the genre of the
“symphony” become that it gave its name to the concert “hall” and the performing
“orchestra,” thus creating our terms symphony hall and symphony orchestra.
As the symphony orchestra moved from private court to public auditorium, the
ensemble increased in size to satisfy the demands of its new performance space— and
expanding audience. During the 1760s and 1770s, the ensemble at the court of Haydn’s
patron, Prince Nikolaus Esterházy, was never larger than twenty-five musicians, and the
audience at this court was often only the prince and his staff. But, when Haydn went to
London in 1791, his concert promoters provided him with an orchestra of nearly sixty
players in the Hanover Square Rooms. Although this hall normally accommodated 800 to
900 persons, for one concert in the spring of 1792 nearly 1,500 eager listeners crowded in
to hear Haydn’s latest works.
Mozart’s experience in Vienna was similar. For the public concerts that he
mounted in the casino in the mid-1780s, he engaged an orchestra of about thirty-five
players. But, in a letter from 1781, he mentions an orchestra of eighty instrumentalists,
including forty violins, ten violas, eight cellos, and ten double basses. Although this was
an exceptional ensemble, brought together for a special charity benefit concert, it shows
that at times a very large group could be assembled. It also reveals that a large number of
string players could be assigned to play just one string part—as many as twenty might
“double” each other on the first violin line, for example.
To balance the growth in the string section and to increase the variety of color in
the orchestra, more winds were added. By the 1790s, a typical symphony orchestra in a
large European city might include the instrumentalists listed below. Compared to the
Baroque orchestra, this ensemble of up to forty players was larger, more colorful, and
more flexible. Moreover, within the Classical orchestra, each instrumental family had a
specific assignment: The strings presented the bulk of the musical material; the
woodwinds added richness and colorful counterpoint; the French horns sustained a
sonorous background; and the trumpets and percussion provided brilliance when a
magnificent sound was needed.
In his short lifetime, Mozart wrote 41 symphonies and more than 650
compositions in all. To help us keep track of this enormous amount of music, a
nineteenth-century musicologist, Ludwig von Köchel, published a list of Mozart’s works
in approximately chronological order, assigning each a Köchel (K) number. The need for
such a numbering system is obvious because Mozart actually wrote two symphonies in G
minor: a short, early one (which accompanies the opening of the film Amadeus), K. 183,
and a longer, later symphony in G minor, K. 550, to which we now turn.
Mozart’s celebrated Symphony in G minor requires all the full instrumental sound
and disciplined playing that the late-eighteenth-century orchestra could muster. This is
not a festive composition (hence, no trumpets and drums) but, rather, an intensely
brooding work that suggests tragedy and despair. Though we might be tempted to
associate the minor key and despondent mood with a specific event in Mozart’s life,
apparently no such causal relationship exists. This was one of three symphonies that
Mozart produced in the short span of six weeks during the summer of 1788, and the other
two are sunny, optimistic works. Rather than responding to a particular disappointment, it
is more likely that Mozart invoked the tragic muse in this G minor symphony by drawing
on a lifetime of disappointments and a premonition—as his letters attest—of an early
death.
Mozart begins his G minor symphony with a textbook example of Classical
phrase structure. Yet, an unusual sense of urgency is created immediately by a throbbing
accompaniment and the repeating, insistent eighth-note figure in the melody. This
melodic motive, the most memorable aspect in the movement, is a falling half step (here
E♭ to D), a tight interval used throughout the history of music to denote pain and
suffering
Less immediately audible but still contributing equally to the sense of urgency is
the accelerating rate of harmonic change. At the outset of the movement, chords are set
beneath the melody at an interval of one chord every four measures, then one every two
bars, then one every measure, then two chords per measure, and finally four. Thus, the
“harmonic rhythm” is moving sixteen times faster at the end of this section than at the
beginning! This is how Mozart creates the sense of drive and urgency that we all feel yet
may be unable to explain.
After this quickening start, the first theme begins once again but soon veers off
course, initiating the transition. Transitions take us somewhere, usually by means of
running scales, and this one is no exception. But a new motive is inserted, one so
distinctive that we might call it a “transition theme” (see the example in the following
Listening Guide). As if to reciprocate for an extra theme here, Mozart dispenses with one
toward the end of the exposition, at the point where we would expect a closing theme to
appear. To end, Mozart simply alludes to the feverish motive of the first theme to round
off the exposition. Then comes the question: “To repeat or not repeat”—although Mozart
wished his performers do so, today the decision to repeat the exposition is left to the
conductor.
Developments develop, and this one is no exception. Here, Mozart subjects the
first theme—and only the first theme—to a variety of musical alterations. First, he pushes
it through several distantly related keys, then shapes it into the subject of a brief fugue,
then sets it as a descending melodic sequence, and finally turns the motive on its head —
what went down now goes up! The retransition (journey back to the main theme and tonic
key) is suddenly interrupted by sforzandi (loud attacks). But soon a dominant pedal point
sounds in the bassoons, and above it the flute and clarinets descend, cascading gradually
like a waterfall back to the tonic pitch. This use of colorful, solo woodwinds in the
retransition is a hallmark of Mozart’s symphonic style.
As expected, the recapitulation offers the themes in the same order in which they
appeared in the exposition. But there are changes in the recapitulation: The transition is
greatly extended, becoming something akin to a second development, and the sweet
second theme returns (as it should) in tonic minor but now sounds somber, even
depressive. Because the repeating motive of the first theme rounds off the recapitulation
by way of a closing theme, only the briefest coda is needed to end this passionate,
haunting movement.
After the feverish excitement of the opening movement, the slow, lyrical Andante
comes as a welcome change of pace. What makes this movement exceptionally beautiful
is the extraordinary interplay between the light and dark colors of the woodwinds against
the constant tone of the strings. If no thematic contrast and confrontation can be found
here, there is, nonetheless, heartfelt expression brought about by Mozart’s masterful use
of orchestral color
We expect the aristocratic minuet to provide elegant, graceful dance music. But
much to our surprise, Mozart returns to the intense, somber mood of the opening
movement. This he does, in part, by choosing to write in the tonic minor key—a rare
minuet in minor. This again demonstrates how the minuet had changed from “dance
music” to “listening music.”
The finale starts with an ascending “rocket” that explodes in a rapid, forte flourish
— and only carefully rehearsed string playing can pull off the brilliant effect of this
opening gesture. As the movement proceeds, compression takes hold: There is no
retransition, only a pregnant pause before the recapitulation; the return dispenses with the
repeats built into the first theme; and a coda is omitted. This musical foreshortening
produces the same psychological effect experienced at the very beginning of the
symphony—a feeling of urgency and acceleration to the very end.
j. The String Quartet
The symphony is the ideal genre for the public concert hall, for it aims to please a
large number of listeners by employing a large musical ensemble. The string quartet, on
the other hand, typifies chamber music—music for the small concert hall, for the private
chamber, or just for the enjoyment of the performers themselves. Like the symphony, the
string quartet normally has four movements, all unified by a common key. But, unlike the
symphony, which might have a dozen violinists joining on the first violin line, the string
quartet features only one player per part: first violinist, second violinist, violist, and
cellist. Such an intimate ensemble has no need for a conductor; all performers function
equally and communicate directly among themselves. No wonder the German poet
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749–1832) compared the string quartet to a conversation
among four rational people.
Joseph Haydn is rightly called “the father of the string quartet.” In the 1760s and
1770s, he began to compose music for four string instruments requiring a new, more agile
kind of interaction. From the old Baroque model, Haydn removed the heavy basso
continuo, replacing it with a more melodically active bass played by a nimble cello alone.
He also enriched the middle of the texture by adding a viola, playing immediately above
the cello. If Baroque music had a “top- and bottom-heavy” texture, the newer, Classical
string quartet style showed a texture covered evenly by four agile instruments, each of
which participated more or less equally in a give-and-take of theme and motive—musical
democracy at its best.
The chance to play string quartets together gave rise to a lasting friendship
between Haydn and Mozart. During 1784 and 1785, the two men met in Vienna,
sometimes at the home of an aristocrat and at other times in Mozart’s own apartment. In
their quartet, Haydn played first violin, and Mozart played viola. As a result of this
experience, Mozart was inspired to dedicate a set of his best works in this genre to the
older master, which he published in 178. Yet, in this convivial, domestic music-making,
Haydn and Mozart merely joined in the fashion of the day. For whether in Vienna, Paris,
or London, aristocrats and members of the well-to-do middle class were encouraged to
play quartets with friends, as well as to engage professional musicians to entertain their
guests.
Haydn’s “Emperor” Quartet, written in Vienna during the summer of 1797,
numbers among the best works of the string quartet genre. Known as the “Emperor,” it
makes liberal use of “The Emperor’s Hymn,” a melody that Haydn composed in response
to the military and political events of his day.
In 1796, the armies of Napoleon invaded the Austrian Empire, which ignited a
firestorm of patriotism in Vienna, the Austrian capital. But the Austrians were at a
musical disadvantage: The French had their “Marseillaise,” and the English their “God
Save the King,” but the Austrians had no national anthem. To this end, the ministers of
state approached Haydn, who quickly fashioned one to the text, “Gott erhalte Franz den
Kaiser”, in honor of the reigning Austrian Emperor Franz II. Called “The Emperor’s
Hymn,” it was first sung in theaters throughout the Austrian realm on the emperor’s
birthday, February 12, 1797. Later that year, Haydn took the tune and worked it into a
string quartet.
In truth, when Haydn fashioned quartet Opus 76, No. 3, he made use of his
imperial hymn, not in all four movements, but only in the slow second movement (see
Listening Guide). Here, it serves as the basis of a theme and variations set. The noble
theme is first presented by the first violin and is harmonized in simple chords. Thereafter,
four variations ensue, and each instrument has its turn at presenting the melody. In
successive variation, the accompaniment (context) changes, but the theme remains
unaltered. Presumably, one did not tinker with the musical personification of the
emperor.
The popularity of “The Emperor’s Hymn” did not end with the defeat of
Napoleon in 1815 or the death of Emperor Franz II in 1835. So alluring is Haydn’s
melody that with altered text it became a Protestant hymn (“Glorious Things of Thee Are
Spoken”) as well as the national anthem of Austria (1853) and Germany (1922).
"The Emperor's Hymn," also known as the "Deutschlandlied" or "Gott erhalte
Franz den Kaiser," holds a special place not only in the annals of music history but also
in the personal life of its composer, Joseph Haydn. This stirring anthem, composed in
1797 to celebrate the birthday of Emperor Francis II of the Holy Roman Empire, quickly
became one of Haydn's most beloved works, cherished for its majestic melody and
profound patriotic sentiment.
Haydn's affection for "The Emperor's Hymn" extended beyond its significance as
a national anthem; it was, in fact, his own favorite piece of music. Legend has it that
Haydn would often retreat to his study in the evenings, where he would play a piano
arrangement of the hymn before retiring for the night. This nightly ritual not only served
as a source of personal enjoyment for the composer but also as a testament to his
enduring admiration for the music he had created.
Perhaps most poignantly, "The Emperor's Hymn" played a poignant role in the
final moments of Haydn's life. As the composer lay on his deathbed in the early hours of
May 31, 1809, surrounded by loved ones and admirers, he requested that the hymn be
played one last time. With the strains of the familiar melody filling the room, Haydn
passed away peacefully, his spirit undoubtedly buoyed by the uplifting strains of his
beloved composition.
The significance of this moment cannot be overstated, as it serves as a poignant
reminder of the profound connection between music and the human spirit. For Haydn,
"The Emperor's Hymn" was more than just a piece of music; it was a reflection of his
deep-seated patriotism, his unwavering devotion to his craft, and his enduring legacy as
one of the greatest composers of all time.
In the centuries since its composition, "The Emperor's Hymn" has continued to
captivate audiences with its timeless beauty and stirring melody. Its status as a national
anthem may have evolved over time, but its place in the hearts of music lovers around the
world remains unshakable. As we reflect on Haydn's life and legacy, let us also remember
the power of music to uplift, inspire, and unite us in times of joy and sorrow alike.
