"Whose music is it?"
"Mine."
Down came Curtz, collared the astonished young man, and brought him upstairs to a big candle-lit room, where stood a fine piano littered with music. There, when the two had regained their breath, Curtz explained that he wanted Haydn to compose some music for a new libretto he had written. Now this was certainly an important moment. Haydn sat down to the piano, banged away, tried various ideas, and at last hit upon the right thing. Before daylight he had arranged with Curtz for the music, for which he was promised one hundred and thirty florins.
It was his first real success, and from that moment prosperity attended him. He wrote his first symphony when he was twenty-eight, in the year 1759. Soon after he received an appointment in the household of Prince Esterhazy, where his duty was a curious one. He was obliged to have a piece of music ready to lay on his patron's breakfast table every morning. This may seem drudgery, but in reality these years were among the happiest of Haydn's life, marred only by his marriage with the barber's daughter, Anne Keller, whose wretched temper at last forced him to separate from her. He cared for her tenderly, however, and she was well content with her lot in life.
Around Haydn in England, France, and Germany gathered a band of younger musicians, eager to watch his developments in music, and to whom he was familiarly known as "Papa Haydn." It was Mozart, the then youthful composer, that gave him the endearing title. Between them existed the most touching friendship, broken only by Mozart's early death.
I can not tell you of all of Haydn's works. His greatest were his Symphonies. In these he developed instrumental music until he made it something far greater than it had ever been before; and for this all generations will owe him thanks and praise.
His oratorio, The Creation, was composed in 1799, and with its performance, nine years later, is associated one of the last scenes in Haydn's life.
The public of Vienna wished to pay their honored musician a tribute, and so the oratorio was given with every possible brilliancy of effect and performance. Haydn was an old man, and very feeble, and he was obliged to be carried into the theatre; but there he sat near his dear friend Princess Esterhazy, while all eyes turned lovingly and reverently toward him.
When the music reached that part in which the words "Let there be light" occur, Haydn rose, and pointing heavenward, said, aloud. "It comes from thence"; and indeed all knew that the master's work was always a subject of prayer and humble supplication that he might be able to do the best for the good of all.
After that evening Haydn never left his house. He grew feebler daily, but suffered little pain. One day, when he was thought to be past consciousness, he suddenly rose from his couch, and by a superhuman effort reached the piano.