One day nearly a hundred and fifty years ago two elderly gentlemen were
dining together in an old house in Hamburg, Germany. They were
music-masters of great note in those days. Herr Franck was the host; the
guest was Herr Reuter, Capellmeister at Vienna. Their conversation very
naturally was on music, and the new and old musicians, singers, and
conductors. Suddenly Franck declared he had in his house a prodigy, a
boy of nine, whom he had brought from the country. Reuter was delighted.
The boy was summoned from the kitchen, where he was dining with the
cook, and no doubt enjoying his Sunday pudding with great relish, for he
worked hard and did not fare too well.
I like to think of that picture: the old wainscoted dining-room, the
grave musicians looking up from their dinner as the door opened on a
small dark-haired, brown-skinned boy, a dainty, delicately modelled
child, who came in shyly, and stood at a distance from the table, with
his hands behind him, and his head bent down, until his teacher, Herr
Franck, bade him sing. And then the boy's voice broke all the bonds of
restraint. He threw back his little head and sang. It was an
irrepressible burst of melody, and Reuter, the old master, sprang up,
exclaiming, "He shall come to my choir; he is just what I want."
It was a wonderful step onward for the child; but Reuter little knew the
future of the boy whom he took that day, and never dreamed that his
name, Francis Joseph Haydn, would be famous in every civilized country
of the world.
Reuter carried young Haydn off to Vienna, where he was placed in the
cathedral choir, and where his sweet young voice, a marvellous soprano,
filled all the town with delight. His parents gave him freely in charge
to old Reuter; but the master was selfish and exacting. The boy longed
to compose, but Reuter refused to allow him to take lessons in
composition, and made him give his whole time to choir practice. Haydn
had very little money, but he hoarded every penny for a long time, and
when he was thirteen years old he purchased two treatises on music, and
having studied them diligently, actually composed a mass.
I don't suppose it was very fine music, but at all events it showed a
great desire for work, and it was too bad that Reuter should have roared
with laughter over it, and given the eager boy no encouragement. It
seems as though from that time the old master was determined to thwart
and annoy his pupil. The lad found choir work a slavery, but did not
know how to free himself. A piece of idle mischief led to his escape.
One day in a frolic he cut off the tail of the wig of a singer in the
choir. Reuter flew into a rage, turned Haydn out then and there,
actually expelling him from choir, board, and lodging. It was a cruel
winter's night. The lad wandered about the streets of Vienna, until he
remembered the one person who had ever encouraged him. This was a barber
named Keller, and to his humble abode Haydn directed his steps. Keller
gave him a cordial welcome, though he had but little to offer: a
loft--in which, however, stood an old harpsichord--and a seat at his
simple table. In the wig-maker's family Haydn went joyfully to work. He
had some sonatas of Bach's, he picked up odd bits of music here and
there, mastered the science of those who had gone before him, and though
often cold and hungry, was never cheerless. Now and then he went into
the shop, where Keller and his daughter Anne were at work on wigs, and
where Haydn's assistance was quite acceptable. Anne Keller was a plain
dull girl, who knew nothing of the great art of her father's lodger, yet
Haydn was grateful for her rough sort of kindness to him. He became
engaged to her, and later, when he was more prosperous, married her.
It was not long before the young musician had made a circle of friends.
He played on the violin and the organ, sometimes in the churches, and
occasionally in the salons of some great ladies, but his chief enjoyment
was a little club of wandering minstrels. They were a band of
enthusiastic youths who wandered about Vienna on moon-light nights to
serenade famous musicians.
One night they directed their steps to the house of Herr Curtz, the
leader of the opera. Under his windows they began one of Haydn's
compositions, the young musician's violin slowly filling the moon-lit
garden with melody. No demonstration from old Curtz was expected, but
suddenly a window was flung open, out came Curtz's head, and his voice
screamed to know who was playing.