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The tenor is always the rara avis. He is hard to find, he is harder to train, and if we may except the prima donna, he is hardest to control. No wonder, then, that operatic managers have to start out on tenor-hunting expeditions and are supremely happy if they capture a good specimen of the bird.

In 1820, Count Palffy, the manager of the Vienna Opera, was at his wits' end for a good tenor. So he set out with Salieri, the composer and conductor, to scour the country round, seeking for the voice the latter wished for his last new opera. After chasing down several rumors of wonderful voices, tired and disgusted, they sought the comfort of a village inn. It was a holy day, and the peasants were passing in procession from one shrine to another, singing as they went, the most of them making more noise than music—if the truth be told.

Suddenly Salieri jumped up, rushed out into the crowd and caught one awkward country youth by the arm, commanding him to "Sing, Sing!" The fellow did so, and his tones were full, free, and of wonderful musical quality. But alas! his appearance! Bullet-headed, short, thin, ugly-featured, and—bow-legged! But Salieri cared nothing for his appearance. He declared his legs had nothing to do with his singing, and leading him back to the inn the composer threw open the piano and begged the tenor to begin. He chose an Italian aria, and as the last sounds of a high C died away his listeners warmly encored him, for the long sought-for man was found.

"What is your name?"

"Anton Haizinger."

"And your occupation?"

"Under school teacher."

"Your salary is yearly?"