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——”