Symphony No.102 in B flat major

Haydn clearly had great faith in the public for which he wrote his last twelve symphonies. While he would offer the occasional melody in a popular style, or decorate his textures with seductive orchestral colours, or divert the ear with his teasing wit, he made no concessions in terms of structural ambition or harmonic enterprise. Indeed, he would much rather challenge his listeners’ powers of comprehension than patronise them. It is a tribute to those to whom these new works were first presented - in the Hanover Square Rooms or the King’s Theatre, Haymarket - that Haydn’s two visits to London in the early 1790s were so rewarding for composer and audience alike.

Symphony No.102 in B flat must have been a particularly difficult to come to terms with on its first performance in the King’s Theatre on 2nd February 1795. Quite apart from having to cope with the distraction of a chandelier crashing into an empty space just behind them - it is No.102 rather than No.96 that should really have the “Miracle” nickname attached to it - the audience on that occasion also had to come to terms with a dramatic dimension such as they had rarely if ever encountered in a symphony before.

The slow introduction with its wayward harmonies they might, after their experience of Haydn’s earlier London symphonies, have expected. The first theme of the Vivace, which begins with a prominent phrase from the introduction, would have seemed harmless enough at first. But, except when the flute briefly takes it up, that theme is pressed forward at an unremitting forte (or fortissimo) which is not only sustained through most of the exposition but also intensified by jagged rhythmic stresses. The first quiet phrase is produced by violins in ironic response to loud chords on wind and strings on the entry of the second subject. The same dynamic contrast invades the development section until even the quiet violin phrase is thrust into an emphatic forte version. A polite suggestion from the flute that the main theme might be gently recalled gets a gruff answer and so the drama goes on, motivated by tireless nervous energy, until the end of the movement.

The Adagio adopts a more relaxed attitude. That much is clear from the ornately melodious main theme introduced by violins in the opening bars and the engaging solo cello obbligato that goes with it. But, as the slightly sinister colouring added by muffled timpani and muted trumpets suggests, it is not an entirely easy situation. Every time the main theme appears in its original F major it is met by contradictory minor harmonies and by the dynamic pressures already familiar from the first movement. Even the brisk and purposeful Menuet finds itself subjected to that kind of treatment, which is one reason why the uncomplicated lyricism of the trio section, featuring solo oboe and bassoon, is so welcome in its context.

It is not until the Presto Finale - which is based on one, innocently impulsive main theme - that the air clears. As well as provoking giggles from the woodwind and surges of exhilaration from the whole orchestra, the irrepressible violin tune that opens the movement also runs into harmonic obstacles and contrapuntal complications. But it takes them all in its nimble stride and nothing, not even a late attempt to slow it down minor harmonies, can divert it from its cheerful course.