In the Wide World
It was the height of summer. The Archbishop of Salzburg had ordered his
chapel to the neighboring Château of Heilbronn to entertain a number of
invited guests with table music, and had sent them on in advance without
any instructions, in his usually provoking and imperious manner.
Although the members of his chapel were distinguished artists, he had no
more respect for them, and particularly for Vice Chapelmaster Mozart,
than for the dust under his feet, and treated them no better,
sometimes,—indeed even worse,—than the lowest of his lackeys. Upon this
occasion he several times displayed his contempt for them in a manner so
utterly devoid of decency that Father Mozart resented it, and in
depressed spirits returned to Salzburg on foot. Naturally his artistic
pride rebelled against such treatment; but when tempted, as he often
was, to break the galling fetters of this servitude, consideration for
his family forced him to be patient, and to endure it uncomplainingly.
The trifling compensation which he annually received for his service as
vice chapelmaster was not sufficient to relieve himself and family from
anxiety; but even these few hundred guldens he could not spare, except
at the risk of impoverishment, and as the small sums received from
private instruction were not large enough to support the family, he was
forced to submit to this indignity, and conceal his resentment as best
he could, by the exercise of the strongest self-control.
As he proceeded along the shaded avenue to Salzburg, absorbed in
mournful contemplation, and vainly seeking to calm his disturbed spirit,
a friend and patron unexpectedly met him. He had been attached to Mozart
for a long time, because he knew his worth and thoroughly appreciated
his faithfulness and industry.
“Good day, my dear Mozart,” he cordially said. “Where are you going? And
why are you so troubled? I did not suppose a good musician and a master
of art like you could ever be out of humor.”
“Oh, if you only knew, Count von Herbenstein,” replied Mozart,
pleasantly surprised by his patron’s greeting. “The shoe often pinches
us poor musicians in more than one place, and sometimes so hard that the
best disposition cannot stand it. You were there this very day, Herr
Count, when the Archbishop treated us so shabbily. Did he not insult us
before all the guests by calling us a ‘dissolute rabble,’ ‘frivolous
fellows,’ and ‘a good-for-nothing pack’? I could have sunk into the
earth for shame. What must these distinguished strangers have thought of
us when we were treated in such manner by our own master? Really,
sometimes I would rather be a wood-chopper or a boot-black than the
Archbishop’s vice chapelmaster.”
“Restrain yourself, dear Mozart,” said Count Herbenstein, gently placing
his hand on the vice chapelmaster’s shoulder. “We all know the
Archbishop, and what to expect from him. Believe me, you are not lowered
in our estimation by his aspersions. Do not let them disturb you. Seek
consolation in your beautiful art. I know that you are a great violin
virtuoso, and that you have written a famous ‘Violin School.’[9] I have
thought for some time of asking you to write me some nice chamber music,
for which I will advance you twenty-five ducats.”
“Oh, you are too generous, Herr Count,” replied Mozart, delightedly. “It
will be a welcome addition to my meagre income, and I will thankfully
undertake your kind commission. It will help to pay the expenses of a
journey to Vienna, which I am going to make as soon as possible with my
Wolfgang.”
“Ah! so you are going with your little son to Vienna,” said Count
Herbenstein. The conversation now took a new turn. “Is it really true
that your little Wolfgang is such an extraordinary genius as I hear on
all sides?”
Whenever his son was mentioned, Father Mozart was aflame with
enthusiasm. “Certainly it is, Herr Count,” he replied, excitedly. “I
cannot say too much for that child. It is perfectly astonishing the
progress Wolfgang has made in such short time. It absolutely surprises
me. Just think of it, notwithstanding his hands are so little, he
already plays the piano finely; better, indeed, than his sister, who is
older than he, and who is not without talent herself. When he has been
to a concert, he can play every piece by memory.”
“This is really extraordinary,” said the Count. “And does he actually
play intelligently and correctly?”
“Correctly and sometimes brilliantly,” answered Father Mozart. “He
learns with incredible facility. It hardly takes him half an hour to
learn a minuet or any other small concert piece, and play it clearly and
neatly.”
“Impossible! Impossible!” exclaimed the Count.
“Do you not believe me, Herr Count?” said Father Mozart. “If you will
give me the honor of your company and go home with me, you shall have
proof of my statements, and see for yourself that I have not
exaggerated.”
The Count consented to go, for he was really curious to see the little
Wolfgang. “All right, dear friend, I will go with you,” he said. “Your
Wolfgang must be a marvellous little fellow if all they say of him is
true.”
They soon reached the house and entered. They came at an opportune time,
for an interesting spectacle greeted them. Little Wolfgang was seated at
his father’s desk, writing upon a sheet of paper with such eagerness
that he did not notice their entrance. The vice chapelmaster beckoned to
the Count to approach nearer, and both looked over the boy’s shoulders.
It was a singular looking paper. Half of it was covered with notes, and
smudged over with blots, which in his haste he had wiped out with his
hand, leaving dingy curves, resembling big and little comets, in the
midst of which the notes looked like black stars. The little fellow kept
on writing, not in the least minding when he jabbed his pen to the
bottom of the inkstand and blotted his paper anew. He would coolly wipe
it off with the palm of his hand as before, and go on writing until the
paper was covered with notes and blots from top to bottom. All at once
he jumped up and gleefully clapped his hands when he saw his father and
the Count. His eyes shone with unusual lustre, his cheeks glowed, and he
was evidently deeply excited.
“What are you doing there, Wolfgangerl?” asked his father. “Have you
been spoiling more paper with your scribbling?”
“No, not spoiling it, dearest father,” replied the boy, flourishing the
paper exultantly in the air. “See, I am writing a concerto[10] on it.
The first part is all done. Look at it yourself.”
“Yes, it must be fine stuff you have been scrawling, you silly little
fellow,” said his father, laughing. He took the paper and at first only
hastily glanced at it, but suddenly his gaze was riveted upon it, and
the utmost astonishment was manifest in his countenance. At last he
looked up and addressed the Count. “Truly, this is a correct concerto,
Herr Count,” he said exultantly, while tears of delight and surprise
stood in his eyes. “It is written in accordance with the rules of the
art, only it is too difficult for any one to play.”
“It is only a concerto,” replied little Wolfgang. “It must be practised
some time before one can play it; but after all, it is not so difficult
as you think. I will show you how it goes on the piano, papa.”[11]
The little fellow, barely five years old, eagerly ran to the piano and
began playing with enthusiasm. Of course he hesitated a little at first,
and the more difficult passages did not go well at the first trial; but
it was not long before he had it so completely in hand that the working
up of the themes was clearly apparent. Father Mozart stood speechless
with rapture. Count Herbenstein was overcome with astonishment, and both
contemplated the boy with something like reverence.
“Herr Vice Chapelmaster,” at last said Count Herbenstein, “I
congratulate you from the bottom of my heart. If God spare your child’s
life, he will one day be a great artist.”
“Yes, he will be a great artist,” repeated Father Mozart, in the
exuberance of his joy, as he took little Wolfgang in his arms and kissed
him. “If Heaven will keep him safe and well, I will never again complain
of anything, or envy the power and greatness of the Archbishop.”
“With such a treasure as this you will have no occasion to do so,” said
the Count, pointing to Wolfgang. “And now, God keep you. May we have a
speedy and happy reunion.” He shook hands heartily with Father Mozart,
kissed little Wolfgang, and went away to tell his friends what wonderful
things he had seen at the vice chapelmaster’s.
From this time on Father Mozart took unusual pains with the instruction
of his children, particularly with Wolfgang. The result was so
satisfactory that before his son had finished his sixth year he decided
to make a concert tour with him and his sister, introduce the two little
artists to the great world, and challenge its admiration. In reality, he
ran no risk. Success was assured in advance, for Wolfgang’s ability
increased with such wonderful rapidity as to astonish even his father,
who was by no means easily satisfied, but on the contrary very exacting.
The little man not only displayed extraordinary facility and dexterity
in piano playing, but he also composed a large number of pretty pieces,
which he played over to his father, who wrote them out.[12] He no longer
cared for anything but his loved music. He took no part in the sports of
children of his age after his father began his instruction. He also
displayed unusual interest in the study of mathematics, and was
completely absorbed in melody and harmony.
Preparations for the journey were soon made, and little Mozart was
delighted with the prospect. He had not the slightest fear of appearing
before strangers in public. On the contrary, he was eager to surprise
them with his rare talent. Their first visit was to Vienna, where Father
Mozart hoped to find patrons and friends who could secure their
presentation at the royal court. They made the journey by way of
Linz,[13] and thence by the regular passenger boat down the Danube. He
took the whole family with him, and as all were buoyant with hope, the
journey was a pleasant one. Wolfgang particularly enjoyed himself
because of his open and trusting disposition. He mingled freely in his
lively way with the passengers, chatted with each and every one, was
fondled and caressed by all, and even made friends with the rough crew
by his merry antics.
On the way they reached the little village of Ipo, on the Danube, where
the vessel remained a short time, as some of the passengers wished to
visit a monastery in the vicinity. Father Mozart and his family also
went there. It was solitary, silent, and solemn in the great auditorium
of the church, for the monks were at dinner. Thoughtful and awestruck,
Wolfgang looked at the lofty building, its tall, slender columns and
brilliantly stained windows, until at last his gaze rested upon a
magnificent organ. His eyes flashed.[14]
“Explain the pedals to me, papa,” said he. “I should like to see if I
can play the organ.”
His father complied, and Wolfgang listened attentively until he
understood the mechanism of the instrument, then he requested a servitor
of the church to blow for him, pushed the organ bench to one side, and,
standing by the pedals, trod them and struck the keys as correctly as if
he had practised for months. The music, continually growing more
powerful and majestic, rolled in grand and solemn volume through the
great hall of the church, and melody followed melody in the consecrated
solitude. The monks in the refectory near by laid down knife and fork
and, marvelling greatly, entered the church. The brother organist was
among them, and gazed at his organ as if terror-stricken. It had never
been played like this before. Who could it be letting loose such a flood
of music from those rigid pipes? The monks looked at each other with
blanched faces. The organ seemed to be playing itself, for the little
performer could not be seen from below. Some of the brothers crossed
themselves in fear. Some whispered, “Satan himself is playing,” while
others said, “This is a miracle. It has never happened before.” At last
some of them mustered up courage, and with the prior at their head, went
up into the organ-loft, where they stood transfixed with astonishment at
sight of the child, who was still playing as if inspired, and did not
observe them until his father aroused him from his spell. Then all
gathered about him, praising and admiring him. The brother organist,
pale with excitement, laid his trembling hand upon the boy’s head and
blessed him, saying, “Thou wilt yet accomplish great things for the
honor of God, and may God be with thee in all thy ways as thy strong
protector.”
Little Wolfgang looked about him in surprise, and pleasantly smiled as
if he had done nothing to occasion such a demonstration. His power was
indeed great, but he was not in the least aware that he possessed it.
The influence of this power was again manifested before the family
reached Vienna,—this time in an accidental and somewhat amusing manner.
Before the passengers were allowed to go into the city their baggage was
searched by a custom-house official for articles liable to duty. This
occasioned considerable delay as well as vexation. Little Wolfgang was
impatient over it, and in his saucy, impetuous manner accosted one of
the higher officials, and boldly addressed him. “Dear Sir,” said he,
“why do you open the trunks and bags of these people and search them?
Don’t you know you are hindering them from going on their way?”
“Why, youngster, that is our duty,” replied the official, laughing. “But
what are you in search of in our beautiful Kaiser city?”
“I? I have come here to play the piano,” said Wolfgang, with an air of
importance.
“You! You little snip! You play the piano!” said the official. “Much you
can do with those little claws! Go ahead, but look out that they don’t
laugh at you.”
“We will see whether any one dares to laugh at me,” said Wolfgang,
angrily. “See, there is our piano which we brought with us from
Salzburg, packed in that big box. If it were only open I would soon show
you whether I can play the piano or not.”
The official was curious to hear him, for the little fellow spoke so
confidently that he could hardly doubt him.
“Well, we will let you try,” said he, as he ordered a workman to unpack
the box. Wolfgang opened the piano, seated himself at it, and played
some lively dances with his usual skill. The official opened his eyes in
astonishment, and vigorously applauded him. All those in the custom
house—officials, passengers, and servants—crowded around Wolfgang, and
listened with delight to the melodies which he elicited from the keys
with his “little claws.” Then with a smile he stopped and turned to the
official. “Now do I know anything about piano playing?” said he,
roguishly. “You can laugh at me, sir, if you like.”
“No, youngster,” replied the delighted official, as he stroked the boy’s
red cheeks; “you are truly a little master musician. Those who hear you
will not laugh at you. With thanks to you and your father for your
beautiful playing, we will soon discharge you, so that you may go to
your hotel and rest.”
It was done at once. The official performed his duty in the most
courteous and agreeable manner, and Father Mozart and his family were
soon comfortably ensconced in their hotel, while the other passengers
had to wait in the custom house for their permits.
Such was the influence of his great skill. As Amphion, according to the
legend, set the rocks to dancing, so little Wolfgang moved the usually
flinty heart of the customs official until it became his willing
servant.