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.