Joseph Haydn, quite overcome, his eyes filled with tears, leaned his
head against the back of his chair. A mortal pallor overspread his
cheeks, and his hands trembled as though he had the fever.

"Maestro, dear, dear maestro!" said the Princess Esterhazy, bending
over him tenderly, "are you unwell? You tremble, and are so pale!
Are you unwell?"

"Oh, no, no," said Haydn, with a gentle smile, "my soul is in
ecstasies at this hour, which is a precious reward for a long life
of arduous toils. My soul is in ecstasies, but it lives in such a
weak and wretched shell; and because the soul is all ablaze with the
fires of rapturous delight, the whole warmth has entered it, and the
poor mortal shell is cold and trembling."

The Princess Esterhazy took impetuously from her shoulders the
costly Turkish shawl in which her form was enveloped; she spread it
out before Haydn and wrapped it carefully round his feet. Her
example was followed immediately by the Princesses Lichtenstein and
Kinsky, and the Countesses Kaunitz and Spielmann. They doffed their
beautiful ermine furs and their Turkish and Persian shawls, and
wrapped them around the old composer, and transformed them into
cushions which they placed under his head and his arms, and blankets
with which they covered him. [Footnote: See "Zeitgenossen," third
series, vol. vi., p. 32]

Haydn allowed them smilingly to do so, and thanked, with glances of
joyful emotion, the beautiful ladies who manifested so much tender
solicitude for him.