Reprintable only with permission from the author.

Haydn Quartet opus 54 no. 2

By the time Joseph Haydn composed his opus 54 string quartets, he had been the house composer at the rural Hungarian estate of Esterhazy for more than 25 years.Living miles from Vienna and other cultural centers, it was rare for him to cross paths with a fellow creative artist, and he was largely on his own for inspiration; as he wrote, “I was cut off from the world; there was no one to confuse and torment me, and I was forced to become original.”

Become original he certainly did, and the string quartet among other genres owes him abundant thanks.In his hands the quartet evolved from a light, harmless divertimento into a compelling art form full of color, drama and pathos; he not only channeled his natural musical imagination into the quartet, but also plumbed the textural, orchestrational and coloristic potential of four stringed instruments playing together in totally new ways.After composing several dozen quartet works, he could be said to have evolved a template of his own.The connoisseur of Haydn quartets, even as he would find fresh new surprises and beauties in each work to delight him, might claim to have certain expectations: a substantial, varied first movement, a lovely slow movement, a charming Minuet and a lively Finale.It is not only a sign but a defining feature of his genius that Haydn easily threw large parts of this expected design into the trashcan when he pleased; and in his Quartet opus 54 no. 2, he so pleased.

Not right away: the first movement is genial, sunny, brilliant Haydn at his usual best.The gates fly open with the first forte burst, a pirouetting melody which forges confidently forward — and runs almost immediately into a silence.Trying again, equally confidently, the melody answers itself and is halted yet again by a second silence.These rhetorical pauses are among Haydn’s favorite devices, the blithely confident melody halted by a moment of doubt that calls everything into question, a higher intelligence teasing the presumptions of ordinary mortals.Although the music ultimately is able to find its way forward, the deal is clear: the listener is on guard, delightfully ready/unready for the next interruption. The music in this movement owes its elastic, dynamic motion to an almost uninterrupted flow of rapid notes, often virtuosically present in the first violin but passed also among the four voices; equally important is a two-note leaping idea, always athletically off the main beat, which appears in many guises and lifts the music upwards and forwards.When the beginning music returns, instead of the silences, the music mimics itself an octave higher: some rascal, offstage, is thumbing his nose, having fun at the main character’s expense.

With the second movement we encounter an entirely different world.In 18th and 19th-century Europe, particularly within the Austro-Hungarian empire of the time, music in the “German tradition” existed side by side with Romani, or “gypsy” music, and no musician could fail to be aware of the soulful, darkly powerful energy of that other style.It is fascinating to observe how each tradition bore the marks of the other, and despite enormous differences, what an overlap there is in expressive devices, tropes and instrumental conventions.Haydn would often infuse his music with a fiery character and rhythm that are recognizably Romani-inspired.In this movement he goes farther and evokes the Romani style much more explicitly.The music starts with a mournful, shadowy, nearly choral idea which describes a grave, regular arc.Then the same music is restated, but now the first violin lays a free, improvised, florid line on top of it - the lead fiddle player riffing crazily and expressively on the sorrowful mood.The music progresses; always the violin line goes harmonically against the grain, locating dissonant notes and dwelling on them, seeming to lean into the pain that they cause. The improvisatory idea is a child born out of the chorale, but a rebellious one, protesting and fighting back against that music’s inexorable sureness, even as it shares its grief.Finally, exhausted, the music comes to rest on an inconclusive, questioning chord.

This chord is answered by a genial Minuet, pulling us instantly back into the courtly sphere.This is nearly the Haydn of the first movement — nimble, teasing with occasional silences and irregular phrase lengths — so that we seem to have returned entirely from the alien, compelling world of the slow movement.However, a forbidding Trio section in minor intervenes, announcing itself with a stern unison arpeggio; this is answered by groaning, strangely accentuated harmonies, obsessively repeated; although the music remains in the tempo and swing of a Minuet, the dance is tortured, oppressed.Then the skies clear, as the form requires, and the sunnier main section returns as if from a bad dream.

After an eventful three movements, the Haydn connoisseur will be ready for a brilliant and humorous Finale.Instead, Haydn offers a spacious and extraordinary slow movement as his conclusion to this unorthodox quartet.The composer’s mind must have been still full of his Seven Last Words of Christ on the Cross, composed only a year or two earlier, transcendental music of reflection which he adapted for string quartet and whose spirit seems to sing in these opening bars as well.The main body of the movement is a whispered, murmured confession in the first violin, which is lifted heavenwards by slow, ascending figures in the cello.The effect of this music, coming in the wake of the outward-directed activity and restlessness of the earlier movements, is transformative: we are shifted to a stiller plane, invited to breathe, reflect and contemplate in private.The horizon is distant, the pace of thought is patient, nearly trance-like.Just as we feel fully immersed in this state, it is interrupted utterly by a rambunctious Presto that scampers around mischievously.Kids at play outside the house of worship?A glimpse of the true Finale, a palimpsest that has mostly been covered over and hidden from us?Perhaps it is just a depiction of the human condition, where those nearby often have no inkling of one’s innermost thoughts.The lines from W. H. Auden’s Musée des Beaux Arts come to mind: “How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting / For the miraculous birth, there must always be / Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating / On a pond at the edge of a wood…” The Presto frolics, runs its course, dissolves; we are returned to the quiet reflection of the opening, and the music comes to a tender close.

Note by Misha Amory