From Photo Rischgitz.
Haydn.[ToList]
'Nothing—nowhere. I am starving, that is all,' was the reply.
'Starving—you! This is Reutter's handiwork,' said the other angrily. 'Have you seen your brother Michael? I met them coming out just now. Was he not with the rest?' he added in a gentler tone, still keeping his hand on the lad's shoulder.
'Yes, he was there; but he didn't see me,' replied the wanderer hesitatingly, adding, 'I was afraid the others might notice my distress.'
The friend bit his lip and seemed to be meditating. At last he spoke. 'Well, see here, Joseph, we cannot stand longer in the rain; come home with me. You know I haven't a palace to offer you, but such as it is you are welcome to a share of it for one night at least.' And so saying he drew Joseph's arm within his own, and, bidding him walk fast, the pair quitted the square.
Well might honest Franz Spangler, who held no higher or more lucrative post than that of tenor singer in the choir of St. Michael's Church, warn his young friend not to expect the luxury of a home replete with comforts. Indeed, anyone comparing the two young men as they threaded the narrow streets leading to Spangler's abode would have found it no easy matter to determine which presented the shabbier appearance; though, having decided this point to his satisfaction, he would have been at no trouble in estimating the sort of house to which the chorister would be likely to introduce his friend.
Situated in the poorest quarter of the town, the house presented a sufficiently poverty-stricken appearance to warrant the meanest opinion being entertained with regard to Spangler's powers of hospitality. The kind-hearted singer was, in fact, almost as poor as the youth whom he had befriended, with the additional responsibility entailed by a wife and child. Nevertheless, to the homeless, starving lad who now followed his protector up the crazy stairs leading to the garret which comprised the latter's home, the chorister seemed by comparison prosperous and well-to-do. Was it not luxury to be invited to seat himself beside the scanty fire burning in the stove, and to feel its warmth slowly penetrating to his chilled bones? Was it not luxury to one who had tramped the streets—those endless, pitiless streets—during the past eight-and-forty hours, without food or shelter, to taste the warm bread-and-milk which his kindly hostess had contrived to eke out of her small stock? Finally, was it not the height of luxury to such an one to stretch his weary limbs beside the dying embers, and sleep the sleep which exhausted nature demanded?