Franz Joseph Haydn Symphony No. 102 in B-flat Major

Program Notes: Jennifer Carpenter
Audio & Video: Michael Lascuola

Franz Joseph Haydn (b. Mar 31, 1732 in Rohrau, Austria; d. May 31, 1809 in Vienna, Austria)
For a composer, there’s no greater stability than long-term institutional employment. Prince Nicholas Esterházy, an ardent supporter of the arts and employer of Franz Joseph Haydn for nearly three decades, died in 1790. He was succeeded by his son Paul Anton who did not possess his father’s love of music. He granted Haydn a pension of a thousand floris a year, nominally kept Haydn on staff, but released him from his duties. Ultimately, this arrangement was a blessing in disguise. For the first time in decades, Haydn was free to explore new opportunities, providing him new circumstances that allowed him to compose his final dozen symphonies.
The English impresario Johann Peter Salomon secured Haydn two residencies in London - the first in 1791 and the second in 1794-95. While in London, Haydn agreed to write a group of twelve symphonies (nos. 93 - 104), which now are dubbed the “London” or “Salomon” symphonies. As a whole, these final symphonies represent the apex of Haydn’s symphonic achievement with those that he wrote during his second London residency surpassing in sublimity those from the earlier tour.
On February 2, 1795, Haydn led the premiere of his Symphony No. 102 from the pianoforte (performance practice of the time called for keyboard continuo). It was a marathon of a concert, dear to late-18th-century audiences, but one that would surely fatigue our modern sitzfleisch - literally “sit-flesh,” a wonderful German term that appropriately describes the necessary endurance to sit for long periods of time, and the opposite of “ants-in-your-pants.” It was an occasion with a story. In the words of early Haydn biographer Albert Christoph Dies:
When Haydn appeared in the orchestra and sat down at the pianoforte to conduct a symphony himself, the curious audience in the parterre left their seats and crowded toward the orchestra, the better to see the famous Haydn quite close. The seats in the middle of the floor were thus empty, and hardly were they empty when the great chandelier crashed down and broke into bits, throwing the numerous gathering into great consternation. As soon as the first moment of fright was over and those who had pressed forward could think of the danger they had luckily escaped and find words to express it, several persons uttered the state of their feelings with loud cries of “Miracle! Miracle!” Haydn himself was deeply moved and thanked the merciful Providence that had allowed him in a certain way to be the cause of or the means of saving the lives of at least thirty people. Only a couple of persons received insignificant bruises.
Somewhere along the way, this story and the symphony’s nickname “The Miracle” became attached to Haydn’s Symphony No. 96. Nonetheless, a report in the Morning Chronicle the day after the premiere of No. 102 attests that “the last movement was encored: and notwithstanding an interruption by the accidental fall of one of the chandeliers, it was performed with no less effect.”
Had the nickname “The Miracle” remained associated with No. 102, perhaps it would be every bit as well known as the other nicknamed London symphonies (“The Surprise,” “The Military,” “The Clock,” and “The Drumroll”). Many writers consider No. 102 to be the most powerful, brilliant, and interesting of Haydn’s late symphonies. Haydn navigates a broad emotional range from witty Mozartian grace to sober Beethovenian profundity. The latter comes immediately to mind in the first movement’s dignified yet mysterious introduction (Largo-Vivace). He quickly dispels the seriousness with the introduction of the boisterous and brilliant Vivace. Haydn’s mischief appears through startling fortissimo chords, sudden silences, abundant rhythmic syncopations, widely contrasting dynamics, and some well-placed dissonances.
The contrasting second-movement Adagio is filled with heartfelt poignancy with its slow, sustained melodic lines over a gently flowing sextuplet accompaniment. Haydn was particularly fond of this movement, using it again in his great Piano Trio in F-sharp minor (Hob.XV:26). Following a foot-stomping, folksy Menuetto, the symphony concludes with one of Haydn’s many “joke finales” - a movement that continually teases its listeners with unexpected returns and false starts of the main theme and sudden changes of character. Haydn adapts a Croatian folk song for use as the principle subject of Finale. The “joke” appears at the end with the first violins who can’t quite articulate the theme correctly. He lets the stuttering continue for a while before energetically reintroducing the rest of the orchestra who steers them back on track and toward the spirited conclusion. Haydn scholar H.C. Robbins Landon likens No. 102 to a kaleidoscope, comparing the symphony’s abounding temperaments to the composer’s “lightning-swift facial changes.”