I love Haydn. If I had to be left with only one composer in my life, it would be he — not because he is the greatest, although he is great, but because of the measured quality of humanity in his music. He is the most companionable composer. Haydn’s is not the preternatural world of Mozart, nor is it the one of ever-present yearning for the prelapsarian that is Schubert’s. There is a steadiness in Haydn’s music, a sense of normalcy. At the same time, it is filled with wonder at what is—at its goodness. In other words, there is something regular about Haydn that makes his music accessible in an almost daily way, without overwhelming us. It is easier to live with than, say, Beethoven, who so often storms the heavens. The whole panoply of life is there but in scale, humanely so, without grotesque exaggeration— which is exactly what was lost with Romanticism.

While listening to Haydn, I feel gratitude, which is hardly strange, as it is gratitude that his work expresses. In the April 2009 Gramophone, Geraint Lewis wrote, “When he was berated late in life for the cheerful tone of his religious music, Haydn simply said that every time he thought of God his heart leapt for joy.” My heart leaps for joy when I hear him. Joy begets joy. As a result, I never tire of his music. I am always refreshed by it.

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