. Vogl, used to the highest society, made himself quite
at home and did his best to put Schubert at his ease, but the
composer remained shy and confused. The singer began looking over some
manuscripts. When he left he shook Schubert's hand warmly, remarking;
"There is stuff in you, but you squander your fine thoughts instead of
making the most of them."

Vogl had been much impressed by what he had seen that day, and
repeated his visit. Before long the two were close friends. Schubert
wrote to his brother: "When Vogl sings and I accompany him, we seem
for the moment to be one." Vogl wrote of Schubert's songs that they
were "truly divine inspirations."

Schubert's residence with his friend Schober only lasted six months,
for Schober's brother came to live with him, and the composer had to
shift for himself. Teaching was exceedingly distasteful to him, yet as
his music did not bring in anything for years after he left home,
he had to find some means of making a living. In these straits he
accepted a position as music teacher in the family of Count Johann
Esterhazy. This meant that he must live with the family in their
Vienna home in winter, and go with them to their country seat in the
summer. The change from the free life he had enjoyed with his
friends who idolized him and his beautiful music, to the etiquette of
aristocratic life, was great. But there were many comforts amid his
new surroundings; the family was musical, the duties were not heavy,
and so Schubert was not unhappy.

At the Esterhazy country estate of Zelesz, he heard many Hungarian
melodies sung or played by the gipsies, or by servants in the castle.
He has employed some of these tunes in his first set of Valses. In
his present position he had much leisure for composition. Indeed Franz
Schubert's whole life was spent in giving out the vast treasures of
melody with which he had been so richly endowed. These flowed from his
pen in a constant stream, one beautiful work after another. He wrote
them down wherever he happened to be and when a scrap of paper could
be had. The exquisite song "Hark, Hark the Lark" was jotted down on
the back of a bill of fare, in a beer garden. The beautiful works
which he produced day after day brought him little or no money,
perhaps because he was so modest and retiring, modestly undervaluing
everything he did. He had no desire to push himself, but wrote because
impelled to by the urge within. So little did he sometimes value