HAYDN.

THE APPRENTICESHIP.

I.

In a small and insignificant dwelling in the village of Rohrau, on the borders of Hungary and Austria, lived, at the beginning of the last century, a young pair, faithful and industrious, plain and simple in their manners, yet esteemed by all their neighbors. The man, an honest wheelwright, was commonly called “merry Jobst,” on account of the jokes and gay stories with which he was always ready to entertain his friends and visitors, who, he well knew, relished such things. His wife was named Elizabeth, but no one in the village, and indeed many miles round it, ever called her any thing but “pretty Elschen.” Jobst and Elschen were indeed, to say truth, the handsomest couple in the country.

The Hungarians, like the Austrians and Bohemians, have great love for music. “Three fiddles and a dulcimer for two houses,” says the proverb; and it is a true one. It is not unusual, therefore, for some out of the poorer classes, when their regular business fails to bring them in sufficient for their wants, to take to the fiddle, the dulcimer, or the harp; playing on holidays on the highway or in the taverns. This employment is generally lucrative enough, if they are not spendthrifts, to enable them, not only to live, but to lay by something for future necessities.

“Merry Jobst” was already revolving in his own mind some means to be adopted for the bettering of his very humble fortunes, when Elschen one day said to him, “Jobst! it is time to think of making something more for our increasing family!” Jobst gave a leap of joy, embraced pretty Elschen, and answered, “Come then! I will string anew my fiddle and your harp; every holiday we will take our place on the road side before the tavern, and play and sing merrily: we will give good wishes to those that listen to and reward us, and let the surly traveller, who stops not to hear us, go on his way!”

The next Sunday afternoon merry Jobst and pretty Elschen sat by the highway before the village inn; Jobst fiddled, and Elschen played the harp and sang to it with her sweet clear voice. Not one passed by without noticing them; every traveller stopped to listen, well pleased, and on resuming his journey threw at least a silver twopence into the lap of the pretty young woman. Jobst and his wife, on returning home in the evening, found their day’s work a good one.—They practised it regularly with the like success.

After the lapse of a few years, as the old cantor of the neighboring town of Haimburg passed along the road one afternoon, he could not help stopping, admiring and amused at what he saw. In the same arbor, opposite the tavern, sat merry Jobst fiddling as before, and beside him pretty Elschen, playing the harp and singing; and between them, on the ground, sat a little chubby-faced boy about three years old, who had a small board, shaped like a violin, hung about his neck, on which he played with a willow twig as with a genuine fiddle-bow. The most comical and surprising thing of all was, that the little man kept perfect time, pausing when his father paused and his mother had solo, then falling in with him again, and demeaning himself exactly like his father. Often too, he would lift up his clear voice, and join distinctly in the refrain of the song. The song pretty Elschen sang, ran somewhat in this way:

“Is that your boy—fiddler?” asked the teacher, when the song was at an end. Jobst answered,

“Yes, sir, that is my little Seperl.”[3]

“The little fellow seems to have a taste for music.”

“Why not? if it depends on me, I will take him, as soon as I can do so, to one who understands it well, and can teach him. But it will be some time yet, as with all his taste and love for it, he is very little and awkward.”

“We will speak further of it,” said the teacher, and went his way. Jobst and Elschen began their song anew, and the little Joseph imitated his father on his fiddle, and joined his infant voice with theirs when they sounded the ‘Hallelujah!’

The cantor came from this time twice a week to the house of merry Jobst to talk with him about his little son, and the youngster himself was soon the best of friends with the good-natured old man. So matters went on for two years, at the end of which, the cantor said to Jobst, “It is now the right time, and if you will trust your boy with me, I will take him, and teach him what he must learn, to become a brave lad and a skilful musician.”

Jobst did not hesitate long, for he saw clearly how great an advantage the instruction of Master Wolferl would be to his son. And though it went harder with pretty Elschen to part with Seperl, who was her favorite and only child, yet she gave up at last, when her husband observed—“The boy is still our own, and if he is our only child, we are—Heaven be praised!—both young, and love each other!”

So he said to Wolferl, the next time he came—“Agreed! here is the boy! treat him well—and remember that he is the apple of our eye.”

“I will treat him as my own!” replied the teacher. Elschen accordingly packed up the boy’s scanty wardrobe in a bundle, gave him a slice of bread and salt, and a cup of milk—embraced and blessed him, and accompanied him to the door of the cottage, where she signed him with the cross three times, and then returned to her chamber. Jobst went with them half the way to Haimburg, and then also returned, while Wolferl and Joseph pursued their way till they reached Wolferl’s house, the end of their journey.

Wolferl was an old bachelor, but one of the good sort, whose heart, despite his grey hairs, was still youthful and warm. He loved all good men, and was patient and forbearing even with those who had faults, for he knew how weak and fickle too often is the heart of man. But the wholly depraved and wicked he hated, as he esteemed the good, and shunned all companionship with them; for it was his opinion “that he who is thoroughly corrupt, remains so in this world at least; and his conversation with the good tends not to his improvement, but on the contrary, to the destruction of both.”

Such lessons he repeated daily to the little Joseph, and taught him good principles, as well as how to sing, and play on the horn and kettledrum; and Joseph profited thereby, as well as by the instruction he received in music, and cherished and cultivated them as long as he lived.

In the following year, 1737, a second son was bestowed on the happy parents, whom they christened Michael.

Years passed, and Joseph was a well instructed boy; he had a voice as clear and fine as his mother’s, and played the violin as well as his father; besides that, he blew the horn, and beat the kettledrum, in the sacred music prepared by Wolferl for church festivals. Better than all, Joseph had a true and honest heart, had the fear of God continually before his eyes, and was ever contented, and wished well to all; for which everybody loved him in return, and Wolferl often said with tears of joy—“Mark what I tell you, God will show the world, by this boy Joseph, that not only the kingdom of heaven, but the kingdom of the science of music shall be given to those who are pure in heart!” The more Wolferl perceived the lad’s wonderful talent for art, the more earnestly he sought to find a patron, who might better forward the youthful aspirant towards the desired goal; for he felt that his own strength could reach little further, when he saw the zeal and ability with which his pupil devoted himself to his studies. Providence ordered it at length that Master von Reuter, chapel-master and music director in St. Stephen’s Church, Vienna, came to visit the Deacon at Haimburg. The Deacon told Master von Reuter of the extraordinary boy, the son of the wheelwright Jobst Haydn, the pupil of old Wolferl, and created in the chapel-master much desire to become acquainted with him.—The Deacon would have sent for him and his protector, but von Reuter prevented him with “No—no—most reverend Sir! I will not have the lad brought to me; I will seek him myself, and if possible, hear him when he is not conscious of my presence or my intentions; for if I find the boy what your reverence thinks him, I will do something, of course, to advance his interests.” The next morning, accordingly, von Reuter went to Wolferl’s house, which he entered quietly and unannounced. Joseph was sitting alone at the organ, playing a simple but sublime piece of sacred music from an old German master. Reuter, visibly moved, stood at the door and listened attentively. The boy was so deep in his music that he did not perceive the intruder till the piece was concluded, when accidentally turning round, he fixed upon the stranger his large dark eyes, expressive of astonishment indeed, but sparkling a friendly welcome.

“Very well, my son!” said von Reuter at last; “where is your foster-father?”

“In the garden,” said the boy; “shall I call him?”

“Call him, and say to him that the chapel-master, von Reuter, wishes to speak with him. Stop a moment! you are Joseph Haydn; are you not?”

“Yes, I am Seperl.”

“Well then, go.”

Joseph went and brought his old master, Wolferl, who with uncovered head and low obeisance welcomed the chapel-master and music director at Saint Stephen’s, to his humble abode. Von Reuter, on his part, praised the musical skill of his protegé, enquired particularly into the lad’s attainments, and examined him formally himself. Joseph passed the examination in such a manner that Reuter’s satisfaction increased with every answer. After this he spent some time in close conference with old Wolferl; and it was near noon before he took his departure. Joseph was invited to accompany him and spend the rest of the day at the Deacon’s.

Eight days after, old Wolferl, Jobst and pretty Elschen, the little Michael on her lap, sat very dejectedly together, and talked of the good Joseph, who had gone that morning with Master von Reuter to Vienna, to take his place as chorister in St. Stephen’s church.

II.

The clock struck eight, and all were awake in the Leopoldstadt. A busy multitude crowded the bridge—market women and mechanics’ boys, hucksters, pedlars, hackney coachmen and genteel horsemen, passing in and out of the city; and through the thickest of the throng might be seen winding his way quietly and inoffensively, the noted Wenzel Puderlein, hairdresser, burgher and house-proprietor in Leopoldstadt. Soon he passed over the space that divides Leopoldstadt from the city, and with rapid steps approached through streets and alleys, the place where resided his most distinguished customers, whom he came every morning to serve.

He stopped before one of the best looking houses; ascended the steps, rang the bell, and when the house-maid opened the door, stepped boldly, and with apparent consciousness of dignity through the hall to a side door. Here he paused, placed his feet in due position, took off his hat modestly, and knocked gently three times.

“Come in!” said a powerful voice. Wenzel, however, started, and hung back a moment, then taking courage, he lifted the latch, opened the door and entered the apartment. An elderly man, of stately figure, wrapped in a flowered dressing-gown, sat at a writing table; he arose as the door opened, and said,

“’Tis well you are come, Puderlein! Do what you have to do, but quickly, I counsel you! for the Empress has sent for me, and I must be with her in half an hour.” He then seated himself, and Wenzel began his hairdressing without uttering a word, (how contrary to his nature!) well knowing that a strict silence was enjoined on him in the presence of the first physician to Her Imperial Majesty.

Yet he was not doomed long to suffer this greatest of all torments to him, the necessity of silence. The door of the chamber opened, and a youth of about sixteen or seventeen years of age came in, approached the elderly man, kissed his hand reverently, and bade him good morning.

The old gentleman thanked him briefly, and said, “What was it you were going to ask me yesterday evening, when it struck eleven and I sent you off to bed?”

The youth, with a modest smile, replied, “I was going to beg leave, my father, if your time permitted, to present to you the young man I would like to have for my teacher on the piano.”

“Very well; after noon I shall be at liberty; but who has recommended him to you?”

“An admirable piece which I was yesterday so fortunate as to hear him play at the house of Mlle. de Martinez.”

“Ah! your honor means young Haydn,” cried Puderlein, unwittingly, and then became suddenly silent, expecting nothing less than that his temerity would draw down a thunderbolt on his head. But contrary to his expectation, the old gentleman merely looked at him a moment, as if in surprise, from head to foot, then said mildly, “You are acquainted with the young man then: what do you know of him?”

“I know him!” answered Puderlein; “Oh, very well, your honor; I know him well. What I know of him? Oh, much; for observe, your honor, I have had the honor to be hairdresser for many years to the chapel-master, von Reuter, in whose house Haydn has long been an inmate—it must now be ten or eleven years. I have known him, so to speak, from childhood. Besides I have heard him sing a hundred times at St. Stephen’s, where he was chorister, though it is now a couple of years since he was turned off.”

“Turned off? and wherefore?”

“Aye; observe, your honor, he had a fine clear voice, such as no female singer in the Opera; but getting a fright, and being seized with a fever—when he recovered, his fine soprano was gone! And because they had no more use for him at St. Stephen’s, they turned him off.”

“And what does young Haydn now?” asked the Baron.

“Ah, your honor, the poor fellow must find it hard to live by giving lessons, playing about, and picking up what he can; he also composes sometimes, or what do they call it? Well, what helps it him, that he torments himself? he lives in the house with Metastasio, not in the first story, like the court poet, but in the fifth; and when it is winter, he has to lie in bed and work, to keep himself from freezing; for, observe, he has indeed a fire-place in his chamber, but no money to buy wood to burn therein.”

“This must not be! this shall not be!” cried the Baron von Swieten, as he rose from his seat. “Am I ready?”

“A moment, your honor,—only the string around the hair-bag.”

“It is very good so; now begone about your business!” Puderlein vanished. “And you, help me on with my coat; give me my stick and hat, and bring me your young teacher this afternoon.” Therewith he departed, and young von Swieten, full of joy, went to the writing-table to indite an invitation to Haydn to come to his father’s house.

Meanwhile, Joseph Haydn sat, sorrowful, and almost despairing, in his chamber. He had passed the morning, contrary to his usual custom, in idle brooding over his condition; now it appeared quite hopeless, and his cheerfulness seemed about to take leave of him forever, like his only friend and protectress, Mlle. de Martinez. That amiable young lady had left the city a few hours before. Haydn had instructed her in singing, and in playing the harpsichord, and by way of recompense, he enjoyed the privilege of board and lodging in the fifth story, in the house of Metastasio. Both now ceased with the lady’s departure; and Joseph was poorer than before, for all that he had earned besides, he had sent conscientiously to his parents, only keeping so much as sufficed to furnish him with decent, though plain clothing.

Other patrons and friends he had none! Metastasio, who was nearest him, knew him only by his unassuming exterior, and was too indolent to enquire particularly into his circumstances, or to interest himself in his behalf. He had briefly observed to the poor youth, that since the Lady Martinez had left Vienna and his lessons were over, he could look about till the end of the month for other lodgings; and Joseph was too retiring, if not too proud, to answer anything else than that “he thanked the Signor for the privilege hitherto enjoyed, and would look out for another home.” But where? thought he now, and asked himself, sobbing aloud. “Where—without money?” Just then, without any previous knocking, the door of his chamber was opened, and with bold carriage, and sparkling eyes, entered Master Wenzel Puderlein.

“With me!” cried the friseur, while he stretched his curling irons like a sceptre towards Joseph, and pressed his powder-bag with an air of feeling to his heart, “With me, young orphan! I will be your father,—I will foster and protect you! for I have feeling for the grand and the sublime, and have discerned your genius—and what you can, with assistance, accomplish; I know, too, your inability to cope yet with the world,—for you have not my experience of men. I will lead you to Art—I myself; and if before long you be not in full chase, and have not captured her, why you must be a fool, and I will give you up!”

“Ah, worthy Master von Puderlein!” cried Haydn surprised; “You would receive me now, when I know not where to go, or what to do? Oh! I acknowledge your goodness! but how have I, poor knave! deserved it? and how shall I thank you?”

“That is nothing to you!” said Puderlein shortly; “all that will appear in due time! Now sit you down on the stool, and do not stir till I give you leave. I will show the world what a man of genius can make of an indifferent head!”

“Are you determined, then, to do me the honor of dressing my hair, Master von Puderlein?”

“Ask no questions, but sit still.”

Joseph obediently seated himself, and Wenzel began to dress his hair according to the latest mode. When he had done, he said with much self-congratulation, “Really, Haydn, when I look at you, and think what you were, before I set your head right, and what you are now, I may, without presumption, call you a being of my own creation. But I am not so conceited; and only remark to you, that so long as you have walked like a man on two legs, you have first been enabled through me to present the visage of a man! Now pay attention; you are to dress yourself as quickly as possible, or to express myself in better German, you are to put yourself prestissimo into your best trim—and collect your moveables together, that I can send to fetch them this evening. Then betake yourself to the Leopoldstadt, to my house on the Danube, No. 7; go up the steps, knock at the door, make my compliments to the young lady my daughter, and tell her you are so and so, and that Master von Puderlein sent you, and if you are hungry and thirsty call for something to eat and a glass of Ofener or Klosterneuburger; after which you may remain quiet till I come home, and tell you further what I design for you. Adieu!”

Therewith Master Wenzel Puderlein rolled himself out of the door, and Joseph stood awhile with his hair admirably well dressed, but a little disconcerted, in the middle of his chamber. When he collected his thoughts at length, he gave thanks with tears to God, who had inclined the heart of his generous protector towards him, and put an end to his bitter necessity; then he gathered, as Puderlein had told him, his few clothes and many notes together, dressed himself carefully in his best, shut up his chamber, and after he had taken leave, not without emotion, of the rich Metastasio, walked away cheerfully and confidently, his heart full of joy, and his head full of new melodies, towards the Leopoldstadt and the house of his patron.

III.

When young von Swieten came half an hour later to ask for the young composer, Signor Metastasio could not inform him where “Giuseppo” might have gone. How many hours of despondency did this forgetfulness of the wise man and renowned poet prepare for the poor, unknown, yet incomparably greater artist,—Haydn!

When Joseph after a long walk stood at length before Puderlein’s house, he experienced some novel sensations, which may have been naturally consequent upon the thought that he was to introduce himself to a young lady, and converse with her; an idea which, from his constitutional bashfulness, and his ignorance of the world, was rather formidable to him. But the step must nevertheless be taken. He summoned all his courage, and went and knocked at the door. It was opened, and a handsome damsel of eighteen or nineteen presented herself before the trembling Joseph.

The youth, in great embarrassment, faltered forth his compliments and his message from Master Wenzel. The pretty Nanny listened to him with an expression both of pleasure and sympathy—the last for the forlorn condition of her visitor. When he had ended, she took him, to his no small terror, by the hand, without the least embarrassment, and leading him into the parlor, said in insinuating tones, “Come in, then, Master Haydn, it is all right; I am sure my papa means well with you, for he concerns himself for every dunce he meets, and would take a poor wretch in, for having only good hair on his head! He has often spoken to me of you, and you may rely upon it, he will assist you; for he has very distinguished acquaintances. But you must give in to his humors a little, for he is sometimes a trifle peculiar.”

Joseph promised he would do his best, and Nanny went on, “you must also accommodate yourself to my whims, for, look you, I lead the regiment alone here in the house, and even papa must do as I will. Now, tell me, what will you have? Do not be bashful; it is a good while since noon, and you must be hungry from your long walk.”

Joseph could not deny that such was the case, and modestly asked for a piece of bread and a glass of water.

Pshaw! cried Nanny, laughing; and tripped out of the room. Ere long she returned, followed by an apprentice boy, whom she had loaded with cold meats, a flask of wine, and a pair of tumblers, till his arms were ready to sink under the burden, while yet he dared not make a face,—for he had been in the family long enough to be sufficiently convinced of Mademoiselle Nanny’s absolute dominion. Nanny busily arranged the table, filled Joseph’s glass, and invited him to help himself to the cold pastry or whatever else stood awaiting his choice. The youth fell to, at first timidly, then with more courage; till, after he had at Nanny’s persuasion emptied a couple of glasses, he took heart to attack the cold meats more vigorously than he had done in a long time before; making at the same time the observation mentally, that if Mademoiselle Nanny Puderlein was not quite so distingué and accomplished as his departed patroness, the honored Mlle. de Martinez, still, as far as youth, beauty, and polite manners were concerned, she would not suffer by a comparison with the most distinguished dames in Vienna.—In short, when Master Wenzel Puderlein came home an hour or so after, he found Joseph in high spirits, with sparkling eyes, and cheeks like the rose—already more than half in love with the pretty Nanny.

Joseph Haydn lived thus many months in the house of Wenzel Puderlein, burgher, house proprietor, and renowned friseur in the Leopoldstadt of Vienna, and not a man in the Imperial city knew where the poor, but talented and well educated artist and composer was gone. In vain he was sought for by his few friends; in vain by young von Swieten; in vain at last, by Metastasio himself; Joseph had disappeared from Vienna without leaving a trace. Wenzel Puderlein kept his abode carefully concealed, and wondered and lamented like the rest over his loss, when his aristocratic customers asked him, whom they believed to know everything, if he could give them no information as to what had become of Joseph. He thought he had good reasons, and undoubted right, to exercise now the hitherto unpractised virtue of silence; because, as he said to himself, he only aimed at making Joseph the happiest man in the world! But in this he would labor alone; he wanted none to help him; and even his protegé was not fully to know his designs, till he was actually in possession of his good fortune.

Joseph cheerfully resigned himself to the purposes of his friend, and was only too happy to be able undisturbed to study Sebastian Bach’s works, to try his skill in quartettos—to eat as much as he wished, and day after day to see and chat with the fair Nanny. It never occurred to him, under such circumstances, to notice that he lived in a manner as a prisoner in Puderlein’s house; that all day he was banished to the garden behind the house, or to his snug chamber, and only permitted to go out in the evening with Wenzel and his daughter. It never occurred to him to wish for other acquaintance than the domestics and their nearest neighbors, among whom he was known only as “Master Joseph;” and he cheerfully delivered every Saturday to Master Wenzel the stipulated number of minuets, waltzes, &c., which he was ordered to compose. Puderlein carried the pieces regularly to a dealer in such things in Leopoldstadt, who paid him two convention guilders for every full toned minuet—and for the others in proportion. This money the hairdresser conscientiously locked up in a chest, to use it, when the time should come, for Joseph’s advantage. With this view, he enquired earnestly about Joseph’s greater works, and whether he would not soon be prepared to produce something which would do him credit in the eyes of the more distinguished part of the public.

“Ah—yes—indeed!” replied Joseph; “this quartetto, when I shall have finished it, might be ventured before the public; for I hope to make something good of it! Yet what shall I do? No publisher will take it; it is returned on my hands, because I am no great lord, and because I have no patron to whom I could dedicate it!”

“That will all come in time,” said Puderlein, smiling; “do you get the thing ready, yet without neglecting the dances; I tell you a prudent man begins with little, and ends with great; so to work!”

And Joseph went to work; but he was every day deeper and deeper in love with the fair Nanny; and the damsel herself looked with very evident favor on the dark, though handsome youth.—Wenzel saw the progress of things with satisfaction; the lovers behaved with great propriety, and he suffered matters to go on in their own way, only interfering with a little assumed surliness, if Joseph at any time forgot his tasks in idle talk, or Nanny her housekeeping.

But not with such eyes saw Mosjo Ignatz, Puderlein’s journeyman and factotum hitherto; for he thought himself possessed of a prior claim to the love of Nanny. No one knows how much or how little reason he had to think so, for it might be reckoned among impossibilities for a young girl of Vienna, who has reached the age of fourteen, to determine the number of her lovers. The Viennese damsels are remarkable for their prudence in what concerns a love affair. However that may have been, it is certain that it was gall and wormwood to Ignatz to see Joseph and the fair Nanny together. He would often fain have interposed his powder-bag and curling irons between them, when he heard them singing tender duets; for it must be owned that Nanny had a charming voice, was very fond of music, and was Joseph’s zealous pupil in singing.

At length he could endure no longer the torments of jealousy; and one morning he sought out the master of the house, to discover to him the secret of the lovers. How great was his astonishment, when Master Wenzel, instead of falling into a violent passion, and turning Joseph out of doors without further ado, replied with a smile,

“What you tell me, Mosjo ’Natz, look you, I have long known, and am well pleased that it is so.”

“Nein!” cried Ignatz, after a long pause of speechless astonishment; “Nein, Master von Puderlein! you should not be pleased. You seem as if you knew not that I—I, for several years have been the suitor of your daughter.”

It was Wenzel’s turn to be astonished, and he angrily replied, “I knew no such thing; I know not, nor will I know any such thing. What—Natz! is he mad? the suitor of my daughter! What has come into the man? Go to! Mind your powder-bag and your curling irons, and serve your customers, and set aside thoughts too high for you; for neither my daughter nor myself will wink at such folly.”

“Oho, and have you not both promised? There was a time, Master von Puderlein, when you and mademoiselle your daughter—”

“Hold your tongue and pack yourself off.”

“Master von Puderlein, you are a man of honor; are you doing me justice for my long years of faithful service? I have always taken your part. When people said ‘von Puderlein is an old miser and a blockhead,’ I have always said, ‘that is not true;’ even if it has been often the truth that people said.”

“Have done, sir, will you?”

“Master von Puderlein, be generous; I humbly entreat you, give me your daughter to wife.”

“I will give you a box on the ear presently, if you do not come to reason.”

“What!” cried Ignatz, starting up in boiling indignation, “a box on the ear, to me—to me, a free spoken member of the society of periwig makers?”

“And if you were a king, and if you were an emperor, with a golden crown on your head, and a sceptre in your hand, here in my own house I am lord and sovereign, and I will give you a box most certainly, if you provoke me much further.”

“Good,” answered Ignatz, haughtily; “very good, Master von Puderlein; we are two, henceforth; this hour I quit this treacherous roof—and you and your periwig stock. But I will be revenged; of that you may be sure; and when the punishment comes upon you and your faithless daughter, and your callow bird of a harpsicord player, then you may think upon Natz Schuppenpelz.”

The journeyman then hastened to pack up his goods, demanded and received his wages, and left the house vowing revenge against its inmates. Von Puderlein was very much incensed; Nanny laughed, and Joseph sat in the garden, troubling himself about nothing but his quartetto, at which he was working.

Wenzel Puderlein saw the hour approaching, when the attention of the Imperial city, and of the world, should be directed to him, as the protector and benefactor of a great musical genius. The dances Joseph had composed for the music seller in the Leopoldstadt, were played again and again in the halls of the nobility; all praised the lightness, the sprightliness and grace that distinguished them; but all enquiries were vain at the music dealer’s, respecting the name of the composer. None knew him; and Joseph himself had no idea what a sensation the pieces he had thrown off so easily, created in the world. But Master Wenzel was well aware of it, and waited with impatience the completion of the first quartetto. At length the manuscript was ready; Puderlein took it, carried it to a music publisher, and had it sent to press immediately, which the sums he had from time to time laid by for Joseph, enabled him to do. Haydn, who was confident his protector would do everything for his advantage, committed all to his hands; he commenced a new quartetto, and the old one was soon nearly forgotten.

They were not forgotten, however, by Mosjo Ignatz Schuppenpelz, who was continually on the watch to play Master Puderlein some ill trick. The opportunity soon offered; his new principal sent him one morning to dress the hair of the Baron von Fürnberg. Young von Swieten chanced to be at the Baron’s house, and in the course of conversation mentioned the balls recently given by Prince Easterhazy, and the delightful new dances by the unknown composer. In the warmth of his description, the youth stepped up to the piano and began a piece, which caused Ignatz to prick up his ears, for he recognized it too well; it was Nanny’s favorite waltz, which Joseph had executed expressly for her.

“I would give fifty ducats,” cried the Baron, when von Swieten had ended, “to know the name of that composer.”

“Fifty ducats,” repeated Ignatz, “your honor, hold a moment; your honor—but I believe I can tell your honor the name of the musician.”

“If you can, and with certainty, the fifty ducats are yours;” answered Fürnberg and von Swieten.

“I can, your honor. It is Pepi Haydn.”

“How? Joseph Haydn? How do you know? Speak!” cried both gentlemen to the friseur, who proceeded to inform them of Haydn’s abode and seclusion in the house of Wenzel Puderlein; nor did the exjourneyman lose the opportunity of bepowdering his ancient master plentifully with abuse, as an old miser, a surly fool, and an arch tyrant.

“Horrible!” cried his auditors, when Ignatz had concluded his story. “Horrible! This old friseur makes the poor young man, hidden from all the world, labor to gratify his avarice, and keeps him prisoner! We must set him at liberty.”

Ignatz assured the gentlemen they would do a good deed by doing so: and informed them when it was likely Puderlein would be from home; so that they could find opportunity of speaking alone with young Haydn. Young von Swieten resolved to go that very morning, during the absence of Puderlein, to seek his favorite; and took Ignatz along with him. The hairdresser was not a little elated, to be sitting opposite the Baron, in a handsome coach, which drove rapidly towards Leopoldstadt. When they stopped before Puderlein’s house, Ignatz remained in the coach, while the Baron alighted, entered the house, and ran up stairs to the chamber before pointed out to him, where Joseph Haydn sat deep in the composition of a new quartetto.

Great was the youth’s astonishment, when he perceived his distinguished visitor. He did not utter a word, but kept bowing to the ground; von Swieten, however, hesitated not to accost him with all the ardor of youth, and described the affliction of his friends (who they were Joseph knew not) at his mysterious disappearance. Then he spoke of the applause his compositions had received, and of the public curiosity to know who the admirable composer was, and where he lived. “Your fortune is now made,” concluded he. “The Baron von Fürnberg, a connoisseur, my father, I myself—we all will receive you; we will present you to Prince Esterhazy; so make ready to quit this house, and to escape, the sooner the better, from the illegal and unworthy tyranny of an avaricious periwig maker.”

Joseph knew not what to reply, for with every word of von Swieten his astonishment increased. At length he faltered, blushing, “Your honor is much mistaken, if you think I am tyrannized over in this house; on the contrary, Master von Puderlein treats me as his own son, and his daughter loves me as a brother. He took me in when I was helpless and destitute, without the means of earning my bread.”

“Be that as it may,” interrupted young von Swieten, impatiently, “enough, this house is no longer your home; you must go into the great world, under very different auspices, worthy of your talents. Speak well or ill of your host, as you please, and as is most fitting; to-morrow the Baron and I come to fetch you away.”—Therewith he embraced young Haydn with cordiality, quitted the house and drove back to the city, while Joseph stood and rubbed his forehead, and hardly knew whether all was a dream or reality.

But the pretty Nanny, who listening in the kitchen had heard all, ran in grief and affright to meet her father when he came home, and told him everything. Puderlein was dismayed; but he soon collected himself, and commanded his daughter to follow him, and to put her handkerchief to her eyes.

Thus prepared, he went up to Haydn’s chamber; Joseph, as soon as he heard him coming, opened the door, and went to meet him, to inform him of the strange visit he had received.

But Puderlein pushed him back into the chamber, entered himself, followed by the weeping Nanny, and cried in a pathetic tone, “Hold, barbarian, whither are you going?”

“To you,” answered Joseph. “I was going to tell you—”

“It is not necessary,” interrupted Puderlein; “I know all; you have betrayed me, and are now going to leave me like a vagabond.”

“Ha, surely not, Master von Puderlein. But listen to me.”

“I will not listen; your treachery is clear; your falsehood to me and to my daughter. Oh, ingratitude, see here thine own image! I loved this boy as my own son; I received him when he was destitute, under my hospitable roof, clothed and fed him. I have dressed his hair with my own hands, and labored for his renown, and for my thanks, he has betrayed me and my innocent daughter. There, sir, does not your conscience reproach you for the tears you cause that girl to shed?”

“For Heaven’s sake, Master von Puderlein, listen to me. I will not leave you; I will not be ungrateful; on the contrary, I will thank you all the days of my life for what you have done for me, so far as it is in my power.”

“And marry that girl?”

“Marry her?” repeated Joseph, astonished, “marry her? I—your daughter?”

“Who else? have you not told her she was handsome? that you liked her? have you not behaved as though you wished her well, whenever you have spoken with her?”

“I have indeed, but—”

“No buts; you must marry her, or you are a shameless traitor! Think you, a virtuous damsel of Vienna lets every callowbird tell her she is handsome and agreeable? No! the golden age yet flourishes among our girls! Innocence and virtue are paramount with them! they glance not from one to another, throwing their net over this one and that one; they wait quiet and collected, till the one comes who suits them, who will marry them, and him they love faithfully to the end of their days; and therefore are the Viennese maidens famed throughout the world.—You told my innocent Nanny that she was handsome, and that you liked her; she thought you wished to marry her, and made up her mind honestly to have you. She loves you, and now will you desert and leave her to shame?”

Joseph stood in dejected silence. Puderlein continued, “And I, have I deserved such black ingratitude from you, eh? have I?” With these words, Master Wenzel drew forth a roll of paper, unfolded and held it up before the disconcerted Joseph, who uttered an exclamation of surprise as he read these words engraved on it, “Quartetto for two violins, bass viol, and violoncello, composed by Master Joseph Haydn, performer and composer in Vienna.—Vienna, 1751.” “Yes!” cried Puderlein, triumphantly, when he saw Haydn’s joyful surprise; “Yes! cry out and make your eyes as large as bullets; I did that; with the money I received in payment for your dances, I paid for paper and press work, that you might present the public with a great work. Still more! I have labored to such purpose among my customers of rank, that you have the appointment of organist to the Carmelites. Here is your appointment! and now, go, ingrate, and bring my daughter and me with sorrow to the grave.”

Joseph went not; with tears in his eyes he threw himself into Puderlein’s arms, who struggled and resisted vigorously, as if he would have repelled him. But Joseph held him fast, crying, “Master von Puderlein! listen to me! there is no treachery in me! Let me call you father; give me Nanny for my wife! I will marry her; the sooner the better. I will honor and love her all my days. Ah! I am indeed not base nor ungrateful.”

Master Wenzel was at last quiet; he sank exhausted on an arm chair, and cried to the young couple, “Come hither, my children, kneel before me, that I may give you my blessing. This evening shall be the betrothal, and a month hence we will have the wedding.”

Joseph and Nanny knelt down, and received the paternal benediction. All wept and exhibited much emotion. But all was festivity in No. 7, on the Danube, that evening, when the organist, Joseph Haydn, was solemnly betrothed to the fair Nanny, the daughter of Wenzel Puderlein, burgher and proprietor in the Leopoldstadt in Vienna.

The Baron of Fürnberg and young von Swieten were not a little astonished when they came the next morning to take Haydn from Puderlein’s house, to find him affianced to the pretty Nanny. They remonstrated with him earnestly in private, but Joseph remained immoveable, and kept his word pledged to Puderlein and his bride, like an honorable young man.

At a later period he had reason to acknowledge that the step he had taken was somewhat precipitate; but he never repented it; and consoled himself, when his earthly muse mingled a little discord with his tones, with the companionship of the immortal partner, ever lovely, ever young, who attends the skilful artist through life, and who proved herself so true to him, that the name of Joseph Haydn shall, after the lapse of centuries, be pronounced with joyful and sacred emotion, by our latest posterity.

FOOTNOTES:

TWO PERIODS IN AFTER LIFE.

I.

It was about noon of a day in the spring of 175-, that a man of low stature and pale and sallow complexion might have been seen entering a meanlooking house in one of the narrow streets of Vienna. Before he closed the door, the sound of a sharp female voice, speaking in shrill accents, was quite audible to the passers-by. As the person who entered ascended the stairs to his lodgings, he was greeted by a continuance of the same melody from the lips of a pretty but slovenly dressed young woman, who stood at the door of the only apartment that seemed furnished.

“A pretty mess is all this!” she exclaimed. “Here the printers have been running after you all the morning for the piece you promised to have ready for them, and I nothing to do but hear their complaints and send them away one after the other!”

“My good Nanny——”

“But, my good Joseph, is not my time as precious as yours, pray? What have you from this morning’s work?”

“Seventeen kreutzers,” sighed he.

“Ay, it is always so—and you spend all your time in such profitless doings. At eight, the singing desk of the brothers de la Merci; at ten, the Count de Haugwitz’s chapel; grand mass at eleven—and all this toil for a few kreutzers.”

“What can I do?”

“Do? What would I do in your place? Give up this foolish business of music, and take to something that will enable you to live as well as a peasant, at least. There is my father, a hairdresser, did not he give you shelter when you had nothing but your garret and skylight?—when you had to lie in bed and write for want of coals to warm you? Yes, in spite of your boasted genius and the praises you received, you were forced to come to him for bread!”

“He gave me more, Nanny,” said her husband, meaningly.

“Yes—his daughter, who had refused half the gallants in Vienna—for whom half-a-dozen peruke-maker’s apprentices went mad. Yes—and had he not a right to expect you would dress her as well as she had been used at home, and that she should have servants to wait upon her as in her father’s house? A fine realizing of his hopes and schemes for his favorite child—this miserable lodging, with but a few sous a day to keep us from starving!”

“You should not reproach me, Nanny. Have I not worked incessantly till my health has given way? And if fortune is still inexorable——”

“Ah, there it is, fortune!—as if fortune did not always wait, like a handmaid, upon industry in a proper calling! Your patrons may admire and applaud, but they will not pay; and yet you will drudge away your life in this ungrateful occupation. I tell you, Joseph, music is not the thing.”

“Alas!” sighed Haydn, “I once dreamed of fame.”

“Fame—pshaw! And what were that worth if you had it? Would fame clothe you or change these wretched walls to a palace? Believe me for once, and give up these idle fancies.”

Here a knock was heard at the door, and the wife, with exclamations of impatience, flounced away. The unfortunate artist threw himself on a seat, and leaned his head on a table covered with notes of music—works of his own, begun at various times, which want of health, energy or spirits, had prevented him from completing. So entirely had he yielded himself to despondency, that he did not move, even when the door opened, till the sound of a well known voice close at his side startled him from his melancholy reverie.

“How now, Haydn, what is the matter, my boy?”

The speaker was an old man, shabbily dressed, but with something striking and even commanding in his noble features. His large, dark, flashing eyes, his olive complexion and the contour of his face, bespoke him a native of a sunnier clime than that of Germany.

Haydn sprang up and welcomed him with a cordial embrace. “And when, my dear Porpora, did you return to Vienna?” he asked.

“This morning only; and my first care was to find you out. But how is this? I find you thin and pale, and gloomy. Where are your spirits?”

“Gone,” murmured the composer, and dropped his eyes on the floor. His visitor regarded him with a look of affectionate interest.

“There is something more in this than there ought to be,” said he, at length. “You are not rich, as I see; but that you were not when we last parted, nor when I first found—in the youthful, disinterested friend, the kind companion of a feeble old man—a genius such as Germany might be well proud of. Then you were buoyant, full of enthusiasm for art, and of hope for the future.”

“Alas!” replied Haydn, “I was too sanguine. I judged more favorably of myself——”

“Did I not say you were destined to something great?”

“Your friendship might deceive you.”

“And think you I had lost my judgment because I am old?—or am a fool, to be blinded by partiality?”

“Nay, dear Porpora——”

“Or that, because you were fain to serve me like a lacquey from pure love, I rewarded you with flattering lies, eh?”

“Caro, you mistake me. I know you clearsighted and candid—yet I feel that I shall never justify your kind encouragement. I have toiled till youth is passing away in vain. I have no heart to bear up against the crushing hand of poverty—I succumb.”

“You have lost, then, your love of our art?”

“Not so. What your valuable lessons, dear master, have opened to me, forms the only bright spot in my life. Oh that I could pursue—could grasp it!”

“Why can you not?”

“I am chained!” cried Haydn, bitterly—and giving way to the anguish of his heart, he burst into tears.

Porpora shook his head, and was silent for a few moments. At length he resumed—“I must, I see, give you a little of my experience; and you shall see what has been the life of a prosperous artist. I was, you know, the pupil of Scarlatti; and from the time I felt myself capable of profiting by the lessons of that great master, devoted myself to travel. I was more fortunate than you, for my works procured me, almost at once, a wide-spread fame. I was called for not only in Venice, but in Vienna and London.”

“Ah, yours was a brilliant lot!” cried the young composer, looking up with kindling eyes.

“The Saxon court,” continued Porpora, “which has always granted the most liberal protection to musical art, offered me the direction of the chapel and of the theatre at Dresden. Even the princesses received my lessons—in short, my success was so great, that I awakened the jealousy of Hasse himself.”

“That was a greater triumph still,” observed Haydn, smiling.

“So I thought; and still greater when I caused a pupil of mine, the young Italian Mengotti, to dispute the palm of song with the enchantress Faustina[4]—aye, to bear it away upon more than one occasion. All this you know, and how I returned to London upon the invitation of amateurs in Italian music.”

“Where you rivaled Händel!” said Haydn, enthusiastically.

“Ah, that was the turning point in my destiny. Farinelli, the famous singer, gloried in being my scholar. He turned all his splendid powers to the effort of assuring the triumph of my compositions. I could have borne that these should fail in commanding popularity; I could have borne the defeat by which Händel was elevated at my expense to an idol shrine among the English—but it grieved me to see that Farinelli’s style, so really perfect in its way, was unappreciated by the most distinguished connoisseurs. I did justice to the strength and grandeur of my rival; should he not have acknowledged the grace, finish and sweetness of Italian song? But he despised Farinelli, and his friends made caricatures of him.”

“Händel, with all his greatness, had no versatility,” observed Haydn.

“I wished to attempt another style, for this repulse had somewhat cooled my zeal for the theatre. I set myself to cultivate what was new—what was not born with me. I published my sonatas for the violin—the connoisseurs applauded, and I was encouraged to hope I could face my rival on his own ground. I composed sacred music——”

“And that,” interrupted his auditor, “will live—pardon me for saying so—when your theatrical compositions have ceased to enjoy unrivaled popularity.”

“When they are forgotten, say rather—for such, I feel, will be their fate. My sacred compositions may survive and carry my name to posterity—for taste in such things is less mutable than in the opera. After all, the monks may claim me,” and he smiled pensively.[5] “You see now, dear Haydn,” he resumed, after a pause, “for what I have lived and labored. I was once renowned and wealthy—what did prosperity bring me? Envy, discontent, rivalship, disappointment! And did art flourish more luxuriantly on such a soil? With me the heavenly plant languished, and would have died but that I had some energy within me to save it. I repine when I look back on those years.”

“You?” repeated Haydn, surprised.

“Would you know to what period I can look back with self-approbation, with thankfulness? To the toil of my early years; to the struggle after an ideal of greatness, goodness and beauty; to the self-forgetfulness that saw only the glorious goal far, far before me; to the undismayed resolve that sought only its attainment. Or to a time still later, when the visions of manhood’s impure and selfish ambition had faded away; when the soul had shaken off some of her fetters, and roused herself to a perception of the eternal, the perfect, the divine; when I became conscious of the delusive vanity of earthly hopes and earthly excellence, but at the same time awakened to the revelation of that which cannot die!

“You see me now, seventy-three years old, and too poor to command even a shelter for the few days that yet remain to me in this world. I have lost the splendid fame I once possessed; I have lost the riches that were mine; I have lost the power to win even a competence by my own labors—but I have not lost my passion for our glorious music, nor enjoyment of the reward, more precious than gold, she bestows on her votaries; nor my confidence in Heaven. And you, at twenty-seven, you—more greatly endowed—to whom the world is open—you despair! Are you worthy to succeed, O man of little faith?”

“My friend—my benefactor!” cried the young artist, clasping his hand with deep emotion.

“Cast away your bonds; cut and rend, if your very flesh is torn in the effort; and the ground once spurned, you are free. Come, I am pledged for your success—for if you do not rise, I am no prophet! What have you been doing?” and he turned over rapidly the musical notes that lay on the table. “Here, what is this—a symphony? Play for me, if you please.”

So saying, with a gentle force he led his young friend to the piano, and Haydn played from the piece he had nearly completed.

“So, this is excellent, admirable!” cried Porpora, when he rose from the instrument. “This suits me exactly. And you could despair while such power remained to you! When can you finish this? for I must have it at once.”

“To-morrow, if you like,” answered the composer, more cheerfully.

“To-morrow then—and you must work to-night. I see you are nervous and feverish; but seize the happy thought while it flies—once gone, you have no cord to draw it back. I will go and order you a physician;—not a word of remonstrance;—he will come to-morrow morning;—how madly your pulse throbs—and when your work is done, you may rest. Adieu for the present.” And pressing his young friend’s hands, the eccentric but benevolent old man departed—leaving Haydn full of new thoughts, his bosom fired with zeal to struggle against adverse fortune. In such moods does the spiritual champion wrestle with the powers of the abyss and mightily prevail.

When Haydn, late that night, threw himself on his bed, weary, ill and exhausted, his frame racked with the pains of fever, after having worked for hours in the midst of reproaches from her who ought to have lightened his task by her sympathy, he had accomplished the first of an order of works destined to endear his name to all succeeding time. Who that listened to its clear and beautiful melody, could have divined that such a production had been wrought out in the gloom of despondency, poverty and disease?

While the artist lay on a sick bed, attended only by the few friends whom compassion more than admiration of his genius called to his side, and forgotten by the great and gay to whose amusement so many years of his life had been devoted, a brilliant fête was given by Count Mortzin, an Austrian nobleman of immense wealth and influence, at which the most distinguished individuals in Vienna were present. The musical entertainments given by these luxurious patrons of the arts were, at that time and for some years after, the most splendid in Europe, for the most exalted genius was enlisted in their service—and talent, as in all ages, was often fain to do homage to riches and power.

When the concert was over, Prince Antoine Esterhazy expressed the pleasure he had received, and his obligations to the noble host. “Chief among your magnificent novelties,” said he, “is the new symphony, St. Maria. One does not hear every day such music. Who is the composer?”

The Count referred to one of his friends. The answer was—“Joseph Haydn.”

“I have heard his quartettos—he is no common artist. Is he in your service, count?”

“He has been employed by me.”

“With your good leave, he shall be transferred to ours; and I shall take care he has no reason to regret the change. Let him be presented to us.”

There was a murmur among the audience, and a movement, but the composer did not appear; and presently word was brought to his highness that the young man on whom he intended to confer so great an honor was detained at home by indisposition.

“So, let him be brought to me as soon as he recovers; he shall enter my service—I like his symphony vastly. Your pardon, count, for we will rob you of your best man.”

And the great prince, having decided the destiny of a greater than himself, turned to those who surrounded him to speak of other matters.

News of the change in his fortune was brought to Haydn by his friend Porpora; and so renovating was the effect of hope, that he was strong enough on the following day to pay his respects to his illustrious patron. Accompanied by a friend who offered to introduce him, Haydn drew near the dwelling of the prince, and was so fortunate as to find admittance. His highness was just preparing to ride, but would see the composer; and he was conducted through a splendid suite of rooms to the apartment where the proud head of the Esterhazys deigned to receive an almost nameless artist. What wonder that Haydn blushed and faltered as he approached this impersonation, as he felt it, of human grandeur?

The prince, in the splendid array suited to his rank, glanced somewhat carelessly at the low, slight figure that stood before him, and said, as he was presented—“Is this, then, the composer of the music I heard last night?”

“This is he—Joseph Haydn,” was the reply.

“So—a Moor, I should judge by his dark complexion.”[6]

The composer bowed in some embarrassment.

“And you write such music? You look not like it, by my faith! Haydn—I recollect the name; and I remember hearing, too, that you were not well paid for your labors, eh?”

“I have not been fortunate, your highness——”

“Why have you not applied to me before?”

“Your highness, I could not presume to think——”

“Eh? Well, you shall have no reason to complain in my service. My secretary shall fix your appointments; and name whatever else you desire. Understand me, for all of your profession find me liberal. Now then, sir Moor, you may go; and let it be your first care to provide yourself with a new coat, a wig and buckles, and heels to your shoes. I will have you respectable in appearance as well as in talents; so let me have no more of shabby professors. And do your best, my little duskey, to recruit in flesh—’twill add to the stature; and to relieve your olive with a shade of the ruddy. Such spindle masters would be a walking discredit to our larder, which is truly a spendthrift one.”

So saying, with a laugh, the haughty nobleman dismissed his new dependent. The artist chafed not at the imperious tone of patronage, for he felt not yet the superiority of his own vocation. It was the bondage-time of genius; the wings were not yet grown which were to bear his spirit up, when it brooded over a new world.

The life which Haydn led in the service of Prince Esterhazy, to which service he was permanently attached by Nicolas, the successor of Antoine, in the quality of chapel-master, was one so easy, that, says his biographer, it might have proved fatal to an artist more inclined to luxury and pleasure, or less devoted to his art and the love of glory. Now, for the first time relieved from care for the future, he was enabled to yield to the impulse of his genius, and create works worthy of the name—works not only pleasing to himself and his patron, but which gradually extended his fame over all the countries of Europe.

II

On the evening of a day in the beginning of April, 1809, all the lovers of art in Vienna were assembled in the theatre to witness the performance of the oratorio of the “Creation.” The entertainment had been given in honor of the composer of that noble work, the illustrious Haydn, by his numerous friends and admirers. He had been drawn from Gumpendorf—his retreat in the suburbs, the cottage surrounded by a little garden, which he had purchased after his retirement from the Esterhazy service, and where he had spent the last years of his life—to be present at this species of triumph. Three hundred musicians assisted at the performance. The audience rose en masse, and greeted with rapturous applause the white-haired man, who, led forward by the most distinguished nobles in the city, was conducted to the place of honor. There seated, with princesses at his right hand, beauty smiling upon him, the centre of a circle of nobility, the observed and admired of all, the object of the acclamations of thousands, who would not have said that Haydn had reached the summit of human greatness—had more than realized the proudest visions of his youth? His serene countenance, his clear eye, his air of dignified self-possession, showed that prosperity had not overcome him, but that amid the smiles of fortune he had not forgotten the true excellence of man.

“I can never hear this oratorio,” remarked one of his friends, whom we shall call Manuel, to another beside him, “without rejoicing for the author. None but a happy spirit could have conceived—only a pure, open, trustful, buoyant soul could have produced such a work. His, like the angels, is ever fresh and young.”

“I agree,” replied his friend, “in your judgment of the mind of Haydn. All the harmony and grace of nature, in her magnificent and beautiful forms, in her varied life, breathe in his music. But I like something deeper, even if it be gloomy. There is a hidden life, which the outward only represents; a deep voice, the echo of that which we hear. The poet, the musician, should interpret and reveal what the ordinary mind does not receive.”

“Beethoven’s symphonies, then, will please you better?”

“I acknowledge that I am more satisfied with them, or rather I am not satisfied, which is precisely what I want. The longings of a human soul are after the ineffable, the unfathomable; and to awaken those longings is the highest triumph of the artist. We are to be lifted above the joys of earth; out of this sunny atmosphere, where trees wave and birds fly, though we rise into a region of cloud and storm, chilly and dark and terrific.”

“You are more of a philosopher than I am,” returned Manuel, laughing. “You may find consolation for your clouds and storms in the thought that you are nearer heaven; but give me the genial warmth of a heart imbued with love of simple nature. I will relinquish your loftier ideal for the beauty and blessing of reality and the living present. For this reason is Haydn, with his free, bright, child-like, healthful spirit, bathing itself in enjoyment, so dear to me. I desire nothing when I hear his music; I feel no apprehension; I ask for no miracles. I drink in the bliss of actual life, and thank Heaven for its rich bestowments.”

“I thought our great composer, on the verge of life, would have looked beyond in his last works,” said the other, thoughtfully; “but I see plainly he will write no more.”

“He has done enough, and now we are ready for the farewell of Haydn.”

“The farewell?”

“Did you never hear the story? I have heard him tell it often myself. It concerns one of his most celebrated symphonies. The occasion was this:—Among the musicians attached to the service of Prince Esterhazy, were several who, during his sojourn upon his estates, were obliged to leave their wives at Vienna. At one time his highness prolonged his stay at the Esterhazy Castle considerably beyond the usual period. The disconsolate husbands entreated Haydn to become the interpreter of their wishes. Thus the idea came to him of composing a symphony in which each instrument ceased one after the other. He added, at the close of every part, the direction, ’here the light is extinguished.’ Each musician, in his turn, rose, put out his candle, rolled up his notes, and went away. This pantomime had the desired effect; the next morning the prince gave orders for their return to the capital.”

“An amiable thought; I have heard something of it before.”

“As a match story, he used to tell us of the origin of his Turkish or military symphony. You know the high appreciation he met with in his visits to England?”

“Where, he maintains, he acquired his continental fame—as we Germans could not pronounce on his claims till they had been admitted by the Londoners.”

“True; but notwithstanding the praise and homage he received, he could not prevent the enthusiastic audience from falling asleep during the performance of his compositions. It occurred to him to devise a kind of ingenious revenge. In this piece, while the current is gliding softly, and slumber beginning to steal over the senses of his auditors, a sudden and unexpected burst of martial music, tremendous as a thunder peal, startles the surprised sleepers into active attention. I should like to have seen the lethargic islanders, with their eyes and mouths thrown open by such an unlooked-for shock!”

Here a stop was suddenly put to the conversation by the commencement of the performance. “The Creation,” the first of Haydn’s oratorios, was regarded as his greatest work, and had often elicited the most heartfelt applause. Now that the aged and honored composer was present, probably for the last time to hear it, an emotion too deep for utterance seemed to pervade the vast audience. The feeling was too reverential to be expressed by the ordinary tokens of pleasure. It seemed as if every eye in the assembly was fixed on the calm, noble face of the venerated artist; as if every heart beat with love for him; as if all feared to break the spell of hushed and holy silence. Then came, like a succession of heavenly melodies, the music of the “Creation,” and the listeners felt as if transported back to the infancy of the world.

At the words, “Let there be light, and there was light,” when all the instruments were united in one full burst of gorgeous harmony, emotion seemed to shake the whole frame of the aged artist. His pale face crimsoned; his bosom heaved convulsively; he raised his eyes, streaming with tears, towards Heaven, and lifting upwards his trembling hands, exclaimed—his voice audible in the pause of the music—“Not unto me—not unto me—but unto Thy name be all the glory, O Lord!”

From this moment Haydn lost the calmness and serenity that had marked the expression of his countenance. The very depths of his heart had been stirred, and ill could his wasted strength sustain the tide of feeling. When the superb chorus at the close of the second part announced the completion of the work of creation, he could bear the excitement no longer. Assisted by the prince’s physician and several of his friends, he was carried from the theatre, pausing to give one last look of gratitude, expressed in his tearful eyes, to the orchestra who had so nobly executed his conception, and followed by the lengthened plaudits of the spectators, who felt that they were never to look upon his face again.

Some weeks after this occurrence, Manuel, who had sent to inquire after the health of his infirm old friend, received from him a card on which he had written, to notes of music, the words “Meine kraft ist dahin,” (my strength is gone.) Haydn was in the habit of sending about these cards, but his increased feebleness was evident in the handwriting of this; and Manuel lost no time in hastening to him. There, in his quiet cottage, around which rolled the thunders of war, terrifying others but not him, sat the venerable composer. His desk stood on one side, on the other his piano, and he looked as if he would never approach either again. But he smiled, and held out his hand to greet his friend.

“Many a time,” he murmured, “you have cheered my solitude, and now you come to see the old man die.”

“Speak not thus, my dear friend,” cried Manuel, grieved to the heart; “you will recover.”

“But not here,” answered Haydn, and pointed upwards.

He then made signs to one of his attendants to open the desk and reach him a roll of papers. From these he took one and gave it to his friend. It was inscribed in his own hand—“Catalogue of all my musical compositions, which I can remember, from my eighteenth year. Vienna, 4th December, 1805.” Manuel, as he read it, understood the mute pressure of his friend’s hand, and sighed deeply. That hand would never trace another note.

“Better thus,” said Haydn, softly, “than a lingering old age of care, disease, perhaps of poverty! No—I am happy. I have lived not in vain; I have accomplished my destiny; I have done good. I am ready for thy call, O Master!”

A long silence followed, for the aged man was wrapt in devotion. At length he asked to be supported to his piano; it was opened, and as his trembling fingers touched the keys, an expression of rapture kindled in his eyes. The music that answered to his touch seemed the music of inspiration. But it gradually faded away; the flush gave place to a deadly pallor; and while his fingers still rested on the keys, he sank back into the arms of his friend, and gently breathed out his parting spirit. It passed as in a happy strain of melody!

Prince Esterhazy did honor to the memory of his departed friend by the pageant of funeral ceremonies. His remains were transported to Eisenstadt, in Hungary, and placed in the Franciscan vault. The prince also purchased, at a high price, all his books and manuscripts, and the numerous medals he had obtained. But his fame belongs to the world; and in all hearts sensible to the music of truth and nature, is consecrated the memory of Haydn.

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