Haydn!

Franz Joseph, that is. Sometimes known as the Father of the String Quartet (much as Gillaume Duchenne is sometimes considered the Father of the Application of Electricity, or Pietro Aretino is sometimes called the Father of Pornography), Haydn is perhaps the best-known 18th-century composer after a certain Wolfgang Amadeus. He's also the composer who was badly scarred by smallpox and who suffered so badly from acute nasal polyps that he couldn't fathom (according to his biographer) how it had happened that in his life he had been loved by several beautiful woman. "They couldn't have been led to love," said the very modest Haydn, "by my beauty."

So what was it about him, then, that appealed? In an effort to find out, your intrepid blogger has been playing several of Haydn's string quartets for more than a week. There are 68 of them in all - or more, if you include several generally thought to be spuriously attributed to him. And they're very well regarded; the critic Bernard Holland, in fact, claimed that Haydn was a greater master of the form than Mozart, Beethoven, or Bartok, whose quartets are widely celebrated. In fact, both Mozart and Beethoven dedicated six of their own quartets to Haydn. Not bad: it's like Augustus paying his tributes at the tomb of Alexander the great.

But, again, what appealed so much? The critic Anthony Tommasini once claimed that Haydn's quartets delight in part because of a number of unexpected turns and changes in rhythm, and several simply virtuosic passages. And, as a good Neoclassicist, Haydn's pieces are highly ordered and logical: initial themes evolve into lush patterns which are nevertheless always related to their modest beginnings.

Okay: after a dozen listenings I can see some of that. But perhaps only some. In fact, I still have real trouble seeing beyond what Tommasini referred to as "a jocular, genial surface quality to the music that is often mistaken by listeners today, and even some performers, as being all there is." That's what strikes my ears, accustomed as they are to the considerably stormier quartets of Beethoven (and the acoustic shifts of, say, Radiohead), when I listen to Haydn. Haydn's quartets recall, to me, the entirely pleasant but ultimately unremarkable experience of driving along a slightly contoured interstate with the window rolled down. Like our highways, his works are smooth, nicely built, and bright. They're even well signed: as they roll by, you don't worry about getting lost. Or, rather, when you do get lost, it's because you realize you'd simply begun to think about something else entirely. Like an interstate, the quartets are constantly becoming the mere ground for more interesting thoughts.

Doubtless, that's too harsh, and there's no real need to push the point: I envy Holland his deep pleasure. But think about the context, too. Although composers had occasionally written string quartets before Haydn, they were mostly written for mere household entertainment. He was the first, then, to elevate the form into something broadly respectable, something canonical. That in itself is worth applauding - but let's also remember Dante's observation that "Cimabue thought that he held, but now everyone cries for Giotto, obscuring Cimabue's fame." Crowds are fickle, sure. But they're also onto something: innovations are often followed by further developments. None of this diminishes the importance of the innovation, but it does change our relation to it.

Two weeks ago we cheered when Cleo, while on her tummy, held her head up off the mat at all. Today she confidently lifted it up to a 90-degree angle, looked around the room, and seemed to think little of it. Haydn has his place, but it's a place that's worth much in part because of what he made possible.