FACSIMILE: Where's the real stuff Haydn?

I was expecting for us to visit many composers' houses while we were in Austria. It seemed logical; it's a tourism-based country, and no one could blame Austria for making a little cash off of their rich artistic history, right? So upon entering Haydn's small apartment in Eisenstadt, I was excited to discover what would be there. Would it be his piano? Would there be books of his manuscripts? Would they have some of his clothes or a piece of his wig? I scoured each case carefully, pouring diligently over letters he wrote, his marriage license, page after page of delicate notation, gleaming tidbit after tidbit about his life and work. What it must have been like, to be within these walls while he worked. How different it is to be a musician now working when and how you want, as opposed to being on call by a royal family whose life soundtrack you would be imposed upon to write on a whim. It was about 15 minutes into my trusting adoration that I noticed the fine print at the bottom of one of the exhibits, and came to know that word that I and my Euros would come to dread: "FACSIMILE". The word was emblazoned upon almost every surface I could see. I browsed my English pamphlet given to me at the door; this wasn't Haydn's house! It was Haydn't staircase with a replica built around it. I felt used. They had played upon my childish enthusiasm and given me photocopies with a decorative edge. I was wiser, savvier than when I entered. I was also on the prowl. I would find real composer artifacts. I had four more weeks; it could only get more real from here.