"Let my footman tell you the glory of the nightingale and the parrot," said Haydn, with a faint smile. "The works of man are perishable, but the works of G.o.d last forever."

"But the works of man come likewise from G.o.d, for it was He who gave him the strength to create them," replied Iffland, warmly. "Did not the great and glorious creations of your genius come just as much from G.o.d as the flowers which you hold in your hand, and the perfumes of which delight you so visibly?"

"Yes, these flowers are beautiful," said Haydn, musingly.

"The bouquet is doubtless a gift from one of the many fair admirers of our maestro?" asked Schmid, laughing.

Haydn looked up to him smilingly and shook his head gently. "No," he said, "it is the last souvenir of Nature, to which I have bidden farewell. I worshipped to-day in the open air, and this is the rosary with which I will pray. Ah, I love Nature so pa.s.sionately!"

"And you have taught those whose eyes and ears were closed against the holy charms of Nature, how to see and hear," said Iffland. "Your 'Seasons' is the most glorious hymn on G.o.d's splendid world."

"Yes, the 'Seasons,'" cried Haydn, almost vehemently, "gave me the death-blow. It was so difficult for me to derive enthusiasm from the words of the text. The words said so little, really so very little!

Frequently a single pa.s.sage caused me a great deal of trouble for several days, and I did not succeed after all in expressing the idea I wished to convey to the hearers. The words were a dead weight on my music. Well, it is all over now. Yes, you see, it is all over now. The 'Seasons' is to blame for it, for it exhausted my last strength. I have had to work hard all my lifetime; I had to suffer hunger, thirst, and cold in my wretched attic, whence I had to descend a hundred and thirty steps before reaching the street.

Privations, hard work, hunger, in short, all that I suffered in my youth, are now exerting their effects on me and prostrating me. But it is an honorable defeat--it is hard work to which I am succ.u.mbing.

However, G.o.d a.s.sisted me. I never felt it more strikingly than this very day, and therefore I am so happy, oh! so happy, that I must shed tears of blissful emotion. Do not laugh at me on this account.

I am a weak old man, and when any thing affects me profoundly, I must weep. It was otherwise in former years. Ah, in former years!"

He turned his tearful eyes toward the window, and gazed into vacancy. "In former years my mind was strong and vigorous," he sighed, "and when I wrote my 'Creation,' a manly fire filled my heart."

"Your enthusiasm is imprinted on your great work, and it will never disappear from it," said Iffland. "Joseph Haydn's 'Creation' is immortal and full of eternal youth. The Viennese proved it to you on hearing your sublime music the other day."

"But I proved to them that I had become so feeble that I could no longer bear listening to my own music. I had to leave the room long before the performance was at an end."

"You ought not to have gone to the concert at all," said Schmid.

"The excitement might have been injurious to your health."

"It was injurious to me," said Haydn, "but considerations of health had no right to prevent me from being present. It was not the first time that homage had been rendered to Haydn, and I wished to show that I was able to bear it this time too. Ah, it was a glorious evening, and never did I hear a better performance of my 'Creation.'"

"It was the great composer's apotheosis which the musicians and singers were celebrating," said Iffland, deeply moved. .

"It is true the Viennese have done a great deal for me. They are so good, and they love me dearly."

"Oh, the Viennese are not ahead of the people of Berlin in this respect," exclaimed Iffland. "In Berlin, too, every one knows and loves the great Joseph Haydn, and his 'Creation' is likewise recognized there as a masterpiece. It was performed in Berlin quite recently at a charity concert, the receipts of which amounted to over two thousand dollars--"

"Over two thousand dollars for the poor," said Joseph Haydn, with beaming eyes; "oh, my work, then gave the poor a good day. That is splendid, that is the most beautiful reward for a life of toils and privations. But," he added, after a brief pause, "it is all over now. I can no longer do any thing. I am a leafless tree, which will break down to-day or to-morrow."

"The fall of this tree will move the whole of Germany as a great calamity befalling every lover of his country."

"Yes, it is true, much love has been manifested for me, much homage has been rendered to me," said Haydn, musingly.

"All nations and all princes have rendered homage to you," exclaimed Iffland. "The laurel-wreath, for which we other poets and artists arc struggling all our lifetime, and which is generally bestowed upon us only after we are in the grave, was long since granted to you in the most flattering and gratifying manner. Europe has presented you, not with one, but with many laurel-wreaths, and you may look back on your life like a victorious hero, for each of your exploits was a triumph for which you received laurel-wreaths and trophies."

"Yes, I have many souvenirs of my past," said Haydn, smilingly. "I will show. them to you.--Conrad, give me my treasures."

Conrad opened the drawer of the large writing-table which was standing close to Haydn, and which contained a great many large and small etuis, caskets and boxes.

"You shall see my treasures now," exclaimed Haydn, cheerfully. In the first place, he showed them a beautiful casket made of ebony and gold. It was a gift with which the young Princess Esterhazy had presented the beloved and adored friend of her house only a few weeks ago, and on whose lid was painted a splendid miniature representing the scene at the last performance of "The Creation,"

when Haydn received the enthusiastic homage of the audience. He then showed them the large gold medal sent him; in 1800, from Paris, by the two hundred and fifty musicians who, on Christmas evening in that year, had performed "The Creation," and thereby delighted all Paris. Then followed many other medals from musical societies and conservatories, and valuable diamond rings, snuff-boxes, and breastpins from kings and emperors. Last, Haydn showed them, with peculiar emotion, the diploma of citizenship which the city of Vienna had conferred on him: It was contained in a silver case, and its sight caused his eyes even now to flash with the most intense satisfaction.

He had placed on the table before him every piece, after showing it to them and explaining its meaning; and now that all the treasures were spread out before him, he contemplated them with a blissful smile, and nodded to them as if to dear old friends.

"Do not laugh at me," he said, lifting his eyes to Iffland, almost beseechingly. "I am fondly attached to these things, and hence it delighted me to look at them from time to time with my friends. You will say they are the playthings of an old man. But they are more than that to me; on beholding them, I think of my past life, and my recollections render me young again for a few moments. After my death all these things will pa.s.s into dear hands, and I hope that, when I am slumbering in my grave, my souvenirs will be carefully preserved and honored if only for my sake." [Footnote: Haydn bequeathed all his trinkets and ma.n.u.scripts to the Esterhazy family, who had honored him so highly during his whole life.]

"I hope the day is distant when Germany will have to lament the death of her favorite, Joseph Haydn," exclaimed Iffland.

"That day is close at hand," said Haydn, calmly; "I feel to-day more distinctly than ever before that my end is drawing nigh. My strength is exhausted."

"Let us go," whispered Schmid, pointing to Haydn, who had feebly sunk back into his easy-chair, and was leaning his pale head against the cushions.

Iffland fixed his eyes for a long time with an expression of heart- felt grief on the groaning, broken form reposing in the easy-chair.

"And that is all that is left of a great composer, of a genius who delighted the whole world!" he sighed. "Ah, what a fragile sh.e.l.l our body is, a miserable dwelling for the soul living in it! Come, my friend, let us softly leave the room. Only I would like to take a souvenir with me, a flower from the bouquet which Haydn held in his hands. May I venture to take one?"

At this moment Haydn opened his eyes again, and fixed them with a gentle expression on Iffland. "I heard all you said," he remarked; "but I was too feeble to speak. You wish to get one of my flowers?

No, you shall have them all."

He took the bouquet, looked at it tenderly, and buried his whole face for a moment in the flowers, and then handed it to Iffland with a gentle smile.

"Farewell," he said; "remember me on looking at these flowers. I would I had known you in happier days, when I should have been able to enjoy your genius and admire your art. You must be a great actor, for you have a wonderfully sonorous and pliable voice. I should like to hear you declaim, even though you should recite but a few verses."

"Permit me, then, to recite the lines in which Wieland celebrated your 'Creation,'" said Iffland; and, advancing a few steps, holding the bouquet in his hand, and fixing his gleaming eyes on Haydn, who gazed at him with a gentle smile, Iffland recited in his full sonorous voice Wieland's beautiful lines:

"Wie stroem't dein wogender Gesang In uns're Herzen ein! Wir sehen Der Schoepfung maecht'gen Gang, Den Hauch des Herrn auf dem Gewaesser wehen; Jetzt durch ein blitzend Wort das erste Licht entstehen, Und die Gestirne sich durch ihre Bahnen drehen; Wie Baum und Pflanze wird, wie sich der Berg erhebt, Und froh des Lebens sich die jungen Thiere regen.

Der Donner rollet uns entgegen; Der Regen saeuselt, jedes Wesen strebt In's Dasein; und bestimmt, des Schoepfers Werk zu kroenen Sehn wir das erste Paar, gefuehrt von Deinen Toenen.

Oh, jedes Hochgefuehl, das in dem Herzen schlief, Ist wach! Wer rufet nicht: wie schoen ist diese Erde?

Und schoener, nun ihr Herr anch dich in's Dasein rief, Auf da.s.s sein Werk vollendet werde!"

[Footnote: "Thy wondrous song in melting strains To our mute hearts swift entrance gains; By magical yet unfelt force, We see creation's mighty course: The firmament appears in s.p.a.ce-- G.o.d breathes upon the water's face.

One flashing word bids primal light appear, Revolving stars begin their vast career; Upheaving mountains now are seen, Tall trees and tender herbage green; Young animals to being rise, And animate by living cries; We hear the mighty thunder roar, And rains in gushing torrents pour.

All creatures struggle into life; and stand Before our eyes, fresh from their Maker's hand, The first pair, led by thy sweet tones.

Now waked by inspiration's art, Enthusiasm stirs our heart.

Who cries not, 'Earth is pa.s.sing fair!'

Yet far more fair her Maker is, How perfect every work of his!"

After concluding his recitation, Iffland approached the old man quickly, knelt down before him and imprinted a kiss on his clasped hands. Then, without adding another word, he rose, and, walking backward as if before a king, approached the door, opened it softly, and went out, followed by Schmid. [Footnote: The whole account of this interview between Joseph Haydn and Iffland is in strict accordance with Iffland's own report of it in his "Theatre-Almanac,"

pp. 181-207.]

"Farewell!" exclaimed Haydn, in a deeply-moved voice, and sank back in the easy-chair. Profound silence now reigned around him; but all at once this silence was broken by a thundering crash, which caused the windows to rattle and shook the walls. The deafening noise was repeated again and again, and rolled through the air like the angry voice of G.o.d.

And now the door opened, and Conrad and Kate, the aged servant- woman, rushed into the room. "Ah, master, master, it is all up now, and we are all lost! The Austrians and the French are in force close to Vienna, and the battle has already commenced."

"The battle has commenced!" exclaimed Joseph Haydn, rising from his easy-chair, and lifting his hand to heaven. "The battle has commenced! Good and great G.o.d in heaven, protect our fatherland, and grant Austria a glorious victory over her arrogant foe! Do not allow Austria and Germany to succ.u.mb; help us to defeat the proud enemy who has humiliated and oppressed us so long! O Lord my G.o.d, shield the honor of Germany and Austria! Protect the emperor!"

And Joseph Haydn walked through the room with the vigor and alacrity of a youth, dropped his hands on the keys of the piano, and began to play in full concords the melody of his imperial hymn, "Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser!" Conrad and Kate stood behind him, singing in a low, tremulous tone; but outside, the booming of artillery continued incessantly, and they heard also the cries of the people who were hurrying in dismay through the streets, and the tolling of all the church-bells, which called upon the Viennese to pray to G.o.d.

All at once Haydn paused in the middle of the tune; his hands dropped from the. keys, a long sigh burst from his lips, and he sank fainting into the arms of his faithful Conrad. His servants carried him to his couch, and soon succeeded in restoring him to consciousness. He opened his eyes slowly, and his first glance fell upon Conrad, who stood weeping at his bedside.

"The nightingale was right; my end is drawing nigh," he said, with a faint smile. "But I will not die before learning that the Austrians have defeated the enemy, and that my emperor has gained a battle."