[Illustration: _Standing by the pedals, he trod them and struck the keys
       as correctly as if he had practised for months_ (Page 45)]

                    _Life Stories for Young People_




                             MOZART’S YOUTH


                     _Translated from the German of
                            Franz Hoffmann_

                                   BY
                            GEORGE P. UPTON
                    _Translator of “Memories,” etc._

                  [Illustration: A. C. McCLURG & CO.]

                                CHICAGO
                          A. C. McCLURG & CO.
                                  1904

                               Copyright
                          A. C. McClurg & Co.
                                  1904
                       Published October 1, 1904

                          THE UNIVERSITY PRESS
                           CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.




                                Preface


The life-story of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart contained in this volume
closes with his admission to membership in the Accademia Filarmonica at
Bologna, Italy. Mozart was then in his fifteenth year. Up to that time
his life had been a happy one, free from care, untouched by adversity,
and crowned with continuous successes. He was admired by the people,
considered a prodigy by the greatest composers, and was received with
extraordinary honors at the Courts of Austria, France, Holland, and
England. His twenty remaining years, embittered by enmities and saddened
by privations and misfortunes, find no place in this life-story. They
were occupied almost exclusively with artistic tours, during which he
brought out many of his greatest works, among them, “Mitridate,”
“Idomeneo,” “Marriage of Figaro,” “Don Giovanni,” and “The Magic Flute.”
The last-named opera made its appearance in 1789, and the same year he
began the immortal “Requiem,” the composition of which was so
significant in its relation to his rapidly approaching end. He died two
years later. He was then in impoverished circumstances. His funeral was
of the kind common among the poorest class. No note of music was heard.
No friend accompanied the solitary hearse to the cemetery where this
great genius was left in a pauper’s grave. His life-story in this volume
leaves him crowned with honors, the idol of his time, a marvel to the
greatest musicians, flushed with success and exultant in the pride of
genius, standing on the threshold of youthful manhood, the brightest,
most beautiful, most attractive, most lovable figure in the world of
music. It is one of the attractions of this little volume that it takes
leave of him there, before the sunshine of his life was obscured by a
single cloud.

                                                                G. P. U.

Chicago, 1904.




                                Contents


  I The Wonder Child                                                  11
  II The Little Virtuoso                                              20
  III In the Wide World                                               35
  IV At the Imperial Court                                            50
  V The Second Violin                                                 70
  VI In Paris                                                         85
  VII The Cavalier of Music                                          105
    Appendix                                                         119




                         List of Illustrations


  Standing by the pedals, he trod them and struck the keys as
          correctly as if he had practised for months     _Frontispiece_
                                                           _Facing page_
  He failed to observe a gentleman who had been watching him with
          a quiet smile                                               16
  Hardly had he blown the first cruel notes when the boy, with a
          cry of pain, grew deadly pale                               72
  He greeted them courteously, and said: “Beautiful ladies, will
          you have the goodness to tell me where we really are?”      90




                         {harp} _Mozart_ {harp}




                               Chapter I
                            The Wonder Child


Vice Chapelmaster Leopold Mozart[1] of Salzburg paced to and fro in his
apartment, evidently disturbed and anxious. He stopped several times at
the door of the adjoining room and listened intently to every sound
within. Then he would resume his monotonous walk from one corner of the
room to another. From time to time he whispered a hurried prayer. Great
drops of sweat fell from his brow. His face was pale, and showed
unmistakable signs of trouble and misgiving.

The hands of the house clock, which persistently kept up its monotonous
ticking, moved slowly forward. Minute after minute passed, and with
every minute the vice chapelmaster grew more and more anxious. A piano
stood at one side of the room. To divert his thoughts he went to it, and
with trembling hands struck a few chords, whose soft, full tones seemed
to exert a quieting influence upon him. He wiped the perspiration from
his brow, and his dimmed eyes grew brighter as he went to the window and
looked up at the sky.

“Let the dear God do as He wills,” he gently said to himself. “He will
surely do everything that is for our best and highest good.”

He stood at the window several minutes with clasped hands and uplifted
eyes. The sky was overcast with dark clouds, with here and there
occasional glimpses of the blue. The air was sultry and oppressive, and
seemed to threaten a storm. Suddenly the dark cloud-veil was rent, as it
were, and the dazzling sun shed a brilliantly glorious flood of light
upon the beautiful scenery of Salzburg. The glistening sunbeams also
streamed into the vice chapelmaster’s room, and Father Mozart welcomed
them with a serene smile.

“Behold, it is as if the eye of God were shining out of heaven in token
of his inexhaustible goodness and mercy,” he said to himself. “I will
accept it as a good omen, Lord, my God.”

A cheery little nurse with smiling face entered, carrying in her arms a
little boy, vigorously crowing and kicking.[2]

“Look, Herr Vice Chapelmaster,” she said with an expression of the
heartiest delight; “this is what the beautiful sunlight, even yet
glistening upon the roofs like gold, has brought us. If this is not a
good omen, why, then, I am no prophet.”

The vice chapelmaster stretched out his arms to the little boy, held his
hands in blessing over his head, and made no effort to restrain the
tears of joy which ran down his cheeks.

“My God and Lord,” he said with trembling voice, “accept my thanks for
this happy moment, and let Thy blessing rest upon the head of this child
whom Thou hast given me for my comfort.” Thereupon he bent down, kissed
the boy’s forehead, and looked at him for some time with an expression
of the greatest delight.

“And the mother,[3] my good woman?” he asked hastily, as if awakening
from a beautiful dream.

“All is well, Herr Vice Chapelmaster,” was her reply. “The dear little
woman is as lively as a fish in the water. See for yourself.”

He needed no second invitation. In three steps the happy father was in
the next room. His wife, somewhat pale, smilingly stretched out both her
delicate hands, which Father Mozart affectionately kissed.

“My dear wife, you have made me very happy,” he said in a tone which
came straight from the heart.

“Not any happier than I feel myself,” the mother replied. “Let us both
praise God for His merciful help.”

“Yes, but I must insist that you do your praising apart from each
other,” interposed the woman, who stood one side with the still
vigorously kicking and screaming boy in her arms. “You must withdraw at
once, Herr Vice Chapelmaster, for your little wife must have some rest.
You ought to be satisfied, for you have seen with your own eyes that
everything has been done for the best. So go, or I shall be offended.”

Father Mozart smilingly obeyed, after he had kissed his wife, and
returned to his room. He could not keep quiet long, however. His heart
was too full. He must relieve it in the glorious freedom of nature. He
took his hat and cane, quietly slipped out of the house, and hurried
through the narrow streets of Salzburg to the beautiful avenue leading
to the Archbishop’s château at Heilbronn. Here he could give vent to his
feelings without interruption or restraint, for the avenue was usually
quiet, and frequented by only a few solitary pedestrians.

Father Mozart, ordinarily a very calm, sedate, self-possessed man, was
hardly himself to-day, for by the blessing of God a wish, long and
secretly cherished in his heart, had been realized. A little son had
been given him. When he reflected that he would educate and instruct
him, inspire him in his early years with a love for his beautiful art of
music, and, with divine aid, develop him into a great musician, a
thousand hymns of joy exultantly sang themselves in his heart, and his
fancy painted bright pictures of the future. He was oblivious of all
around him. He had no eyes for the attractions of the unsurpassably
beautiful country stretching out in every direction like a blooming
garden. He thought of nothing but his little son. He rubbed his hands
together exultantly, muttered unintelligible words to himself, looked up
with radiant glance into the blue and now cloudless sky, and so far
forgot himself as to indulge in loud and joyous peals of
laughter—laughing upon the public highway!—something which no one before
had ever known the vice chapelmaster to do. He acted really like one
completely beside himself, and so absent-mindedly, indeed, that he
failed to observe a gentleman approaching him from Heilbronn, who had
been watching him for some little time with a quiet smile. The new-comer
stepped behind a tree trunk, and as the happy father was going by
without seeing him, he came up behind him, tapped him on the shoulder,
and said in good-natured banter:

“Why, why, my respected friend and vice chapelmaster Leopold Mozart,
what kind of a whimsical notion are you carrying about in your pate that
makes you behave on the public thoroughfares like one out of his senses?
Never before in all my life have I seen you laughing and acting like
this. It must be something extraordinary that has brought about such a
radical change.”

 [Illustration: _He failed to observe a gentleman who had been watching
                        him with a quiet smile_]

“Guess, friend Adlgasser,”[4] replied Mozart, good-humoredly, as he
freely joined in the laughter of his old, true friend, who had been
appointed court musician in the chapel of the Archbishop of Salzburg.
“Guess! Indeed, it is something extraordinary. Just think of it,
Adlgasser, when the sunshine first broke through the dark clouds to-day,
the dear God gave us a strong, healthy baby, at the very instant of the
first gleam! Is not that well-nigh a miracle, and should not a father’s
heart leap for joy?”

“Oh, friend, if that is the case, all is explained, and I congratulate
you as an honest friend and faithful comrade should,” replied Adlgasser,
as with joyous face he stretched out both hands to the vice
chapelmaster. “My hearty good wishes. May the little one grow up to be a
joy to us all, and some time become as skilful a musician as his father,
our always esteemed Leopold Mozart. It surely was a significant omen,
for it means that this little one will some day illuminate the whole
world like the sun, and all the earth will regard him with admiration as
a true light from heaven. I do not know whence the thought comes to me,
Mozart, but I have a presentiment that this is not only true, but that
he will accomplish this result in a very short time.”

“God grant that you speak truly, dear friend,” replied Mozart,
excitedly. “At least, let us hope we may live to take comfort with the
little one, and that we may bring him up to be a valiant follower of our
noble Mistress Musica.”

“Amen! may it be so,” said Adlgasser, heartily shaking the vice
chapelmaster’s hand.

Arm in arm the two went on, discussing for some time the little
world-citizen who had come fresh from the other side with the sunbeams,
until the sky was all aflame and the towering peaks of the neighboring
Untersberg[5] were transfused as with a golden glory.

“A beautiful evening,” said Adlgasser, “but, if I mistake not, still
more beautiful days will follow it. God has given you a son, Mozart,
and, as I believe, a wonder child. Let us hope he will fill the whole
world with the light of his genius.”

“Yes, let us so hope, but let us put our trust in the help of the
Almighty,” said Father Mozart, with much emotion. “Everything shall be
done, so far as lies in my power, that will make this child a great
artist.”

By this time they had reached the city, where their ways separated. They
parted with a hearty handshake, and each betook himself to his own
house. Father Mozart’s way led him straight to the cradle of his boy.
The little one was peacefully sleeping. He gently kissed him, and in a
silent prayer commended him to the protection of the Lord. Then he went
to his own room, took his violin, and in sweetest tones gave melodious
expression to the happiness of his heart. That was always his way when
his emotions were aroused. He had not played so beautifully for a long,
long time as on that evening; perhaps he never played so beautifully in
his life. Never before, indeed, had there been such a joyous and
satisfactory inducement.




                               Chapter II
                          The Little Virtuoso


The little Mozart was christened Johann Chrysostom Wolfgang Amadeus,[6]
and was called by his parents and his sister Nannie,[7] “Wolfgangerl,”
at least as long as he wore children’s shoes. On the fourteenth of
December, 1759, he being then three years and ten months old, a pleasant
family feast was given by the relatives and friends of the sincerely and
heartily beloved Father Mozart, in honor of his fortieth birthday. On
that day the solicitous mother had been actively engaged making
preparations since early morning, and although her little eight-year-old
daughter Nannie was an industrious helper, there still remained so much
to be done that she could pay little or no attention to Wolfgang, who
consequently passed away the time until noon just as he pleased. Dressed
in his best clothes, the little fellow sat at the window, quietly
looking out into the street, and softly repeating, over and over again,
the words of a little poem, with which, in childish festive fashion, he
intended to welcome his father when he came home from his duties at
noon. A friend of the family had written the verses, and Nannie and his
mother had recited them to him so often that he knew them by heart.
Suddenly, however, the little fellow stopped; his handsome, good-natured
face was illumined with a smile, and he sprang up and knocked sharply on
the window-pane.

“Hey! Andreas,” he loudly cried; “Andreas, come in a little while. I am
all alone.”

The door was immediately opened, and a boy of Wolfgang’s age, Andreas
Schachtner,[8] his devoted playmate, entered the room with a look of
astonishment.

“Why, Wolfgang, how is it you are so nicely dressed?” said he. “This is
not Sunday, nor a feast day.”

“No, but it is a birthday,” replied little Wolfgang, with an air of
importance,—“father’s birthday. We are going to have cake and wine,
Andreas! Just think how good they will taste!”

“Yes, to you; but what does it matter to me?” said Andreas, trying to
keep the tears back.

“Well, what are you crying for?” replied Wolfgang, quickly, and with
affectionate impulsiveness. “Do you think I would not share a piece of
cake with you and let you drink out of my glass? Oh, no, I am not so
mean as that! So don’t mind; and let us play a little while together,
that the time may pass more quickly until noon.”

“But what shall we play? It’s too cold to go out doors, Wolfgangerl,”
said Andreas, appeased at once by the prospect of having some cake and
wine.

“Let us stay in and turn somersaults,” cried Wolfgang. “That’s great
fun, if you don’t fall on your nose.”

Andreas made no objection, and with loud and merry shouts of laughter
the two little fellows ran about, turned somersaults, wrestled, and
tumbled around on the sand-strewn floor, Wolfgang utterly forgetting
that he was dressed in his best clothes. Their uproar rang through the
house, and at last reached his mother’s ears. In alarm she hastened to
ascertain the cause of the tumult.

“Look at yourself, Wolfgangerl, you naughty child!” she exclaimed, as
she entered the room and found the little fellows covered with dust and
sand from head to foot. “What have you been doing? How you have soiled
your clothes! What if your father should see you now! Oh, you bad, bad
child!”

Little Wolfgang stood amazed, and looked confusedly, now at his mother,
now at the sorry figure he presented. Shame and sorrow struggled in his
childish face, and at last tears rolled down his flushed cheeks. “Oh,
darling mother,” he suddenly exclaimed, rushing to her with outstretched
arms, “Oh, my darling mother, do not be angry! We have only turned a few
somersaults, but we will not do it again. We will be real nice, only
don’t be angry with me, dear mother.”

The good woman could not resist the little one’s appeal. Displeasure
vanished from her face, and she gently stroked her little son’s blond
locks. “You are indeed a harum-scarum,” said she; “and see, your hair
too is full of sand. Well, we will overlook it this time, but if you are
naughty again to-day, you shall have neither cake nor wine.”

“Oh, I will be good, perfectly good,” replied Wolfgang, stroking,
pressing, and kissing his mother’s hand in a coaxing way. “Please
forgive me, and be nice to me again.”

The good mother bent over her little one and embraced him with maternal
tenderness. Wolfgang was soothed and contented. Then his mother brushed
him clean, put his hair and dress in order, and looked upon him with
evident pride.

“Now it is all right again,” she said, “but there must be no more
foolishness, Wolfgangerl, or your father will be angry. Don’t you know
that these fine clothes cost a good deal of money, and that your father
has to work very hard to earn it? So you must be a good child, and see
that you do not soil or spoil them. Will you not do so, naughty little
one?”

“Yes, certainly I will, for I love my father so dearly that I would not
do anything to trouble him for all the world,” the boy replied, and in
such a tone of sincerity that his mother was satisfied.

“Well, now, I will leave you alone again,” said she; “but what will you
do next, if you are not going to turn somersaults any more?”

“Oh, I know, dear mother,” he at once replied; “we will play soldiers,
and tramp around the room, and I will play a nice march.”

“Oh, I know your march will be fine,” said Frau Mozart, smiling. “I wish
I could hear it.”

“You can, right off,” replied the little fellow. “Attention, Andreas! In
position—so—now, forward march.”

Andreas obeyed. Wolfgang stationed himself by his side, held both hands
to his mouth as if he had a trumpet in them, and then began playing, or
rather singing, a charming march, in such correct time that his mother
was completely surprised. The two children marched exultantly around the
room, as well satisfied as if all the world were watching them.

“It’s all right now,” at last said his mother. “Now, after this, be good
children, and each of you shall have a big piece of the birthday cake.”

With these words she graciously nodded to the children and went away.
Wolfgang and Andreas marched and trumpeted for some time. At last
Wolfgang’s voice gave out and Andreas complained that his legs were
tired. “This is enough for now,” he said to Wolfgang, wiping the sweat
from his forehead. “I can’t march any longer, it is so warm.”

“Then we will play schoolmaster,” said Wolfgang in great glee. “You sit
there on the stool, for you are the pupil and I am the teacher. Now pay
attention, for I am going to give you some examples on the blackboard.
There is some chalk in the drawer.”

While Andreas comfortably seated himself, Wolfgang took a big piece of
chalk and began scribbling upon the floor and walls as earnestly as if
he really were executing a task of the utmost importance. They were not
actual figures, for he did not yet know how to make them, but rather
meaningless hieroglyphics, which soon made the polished boards and the
walls of the room look as if a dozen white-footed crows had been hopping
over them.

“Wolfgang, you naughty boy, what nonsense is this?” suddenly exclaimed a
childish voice. Nannie, Wolfgang’s sister, stood in the doorway,
regarding with astonishment the disfigured boards and walls.

“Why, what is the matter, Nannerl? We are only playing school, and
having some lessons in arithmetic,” replied Wolfgang, looking at his
sister in the most innocent manner and with an expression of absolute
delight.

“Yes, but you entirely forget that mother and I have been toiling since
early this morning to get things clean and in good order,” said Nannie,
beginning to cry. “Now we must begin all over again, and there is no one
more to blame for it than you. You are a naughty, naughty child. Go
away; I do not wish to see you any more.”

When little Wolfgang saw tears glistening in his sister’s eyes and
noticed her manifest grief, it came over him all at once that he had
behaved improperly. Thoroughly surprised, he was at her side in an
instant. He gently pulled at her dress and softly said: “Don’t be angry,
dear Nannerl, I beg of you. Little Wolfgang has been naughty, but he
will not do so again. Only don’t be angry, my dear, darling Nannerl.”

He begged so piteously, appeared so thoroughly contrite, and raised his
little clasped hands so imploringly to his sister, that she could not
remain offended. She turned a kindly face to him, and Wolfgang was not
slow in noticing it.

“Now you are again my good Nannerl, and you have forgiven me,” he loudly
exclaimed, as he put up his mouth to her.

“Well, this shall be overlooked,” said his sister, as she lovingly
kissed her brother’s little lips, “but don’t make any more trouble. I
will quickly rub it all out, so that mother will never know how naughty
you have been.”

Little Wolfgang sat quietly by while Nannie rubbed out the chalk-marks
with nimble hands. In a few minutes everything was again clean and
orderly, and Wolfgang embraced her, and over and over again called her
his “dear, good Nannerl.”

“You are a good-for-nothing,” she replied, half laughing, half angry,
“but I cannot help being good to you because you have a good heart; but
don’t play any more of your silly tricks, for your father will soon be
here, and then you must recite your little piece. Can you do it now?”

“Oh, yes, every line of it,” he answered. “I guess papa will be
astonished for once. Listen.”

At that instant the house door opened, men’s voices were heard in the
hall, and soon Vice Chapelmaster Leopold Mozart entered with some of his
friends. Wolfgang joyously flew to him and embraced him. “God greet you,
father,” he cried. “I congratulate you a thousand times on your
birthday.”

“Thank you, thank you, my little one,” replied Father Mozart, kissing
him. “Do you love your father very much?”

“Yes, father,” said Wolfgang, looking at him with beaming eyes, “I love
you very, very much, and, do you know, after the dear God comes my dear,
good papa.”

“This greatly pleases me, little fellow. Keep both in your heart as long
as you live and all will be well with you,” said Father Mozart, with
great emotion, as he laid his hand in blessing upon the child’s curly
head. The mother and sister also entered and offered their
congratulations. While this was going on little Wolfgang mounted the
stool, struck an attitude, and recited his little address, not only
correctly and in good voice, but with heartfelt emotion. It ran thus:

  “This day my heart exults with joy,
  This day that sweetest welcome brings;
  It greets me in my own young day,
  And to my youthful heart it sings:
  ‘I bring both happiness and blessing.
  Yes, happiness is truly mine,
  Oh, day so rare, oh, day so fine;
  My father’s life, so true, so strong,
  And God’s own love to me belong;
  His counsel wise I will obey,
  Hold to the right, take virtue’s way;
  Yes, father, I am thine my whole life long,
  My heart is yours;’ so ends my song.”

A loud “brava” followed the little poem, which had truly come from his
heart, and all complimented Wolfgang because he had acquitted himself so
well. Tears stood in his mother’s eyes, and even the men displayed
emotion, as if they realized that an unusual inspiration was already
manifesting itself in the little one. Wolfgang, however, was somewhat
disconcerted by the serious mood of the company. Jumping down from his
stool, he loudly shouted, “Let us go to the table, for I am hungry, and
mamma has promised me a glass of wine and a big piece of cake.”

All laughed and followed the little fellow into an adjoining room, where
the table was spread, handsomely decorated with flowers and growing
plants. They seated themselves, and more than an hour passed in lively
conversation and general intercourse. They were tried and true friends.
What they said came truthfully and sincerely from the heart. The
afternoon called the father to his duties, for he would not neglect
them, even on his birthday, and his guests left at the same time. Toward
evening, however, he returned, contented and pleased after a day’s
duties well performed. “I have been very happy to-day, mother,” he said
to his wife, as he affectionately embraced her. “I am going to begin
to-day what I have contemplated for some time, namely, giving piano
lessons to our Nannerl. Come here, child. You shall have one at once.”

“And give me one too, papa,” said Wolfgang, eagerly. “You will find I
can do just as well as Nannerl.”

“Why, you silly boy, you can hardly stretch four keys with your little
fingers,” said his father, laughing. “Play and laugh with your comrades
all you will, and never mind the piano.”

Thus severely admonished, Wolfgang retired to a corner of the room with
a sorrowful face. Nannie seated herself at the piano, and Father Mozart
began the lesson. It had not continued long before Wolfgang became
restless. He stole nearer and nearer, on tiptoe, until he was behind his
father’s chair, where he listened intently to his words and
instructions. There he remained until the lesson was over. Nannie left
for the kitchen, to help her mother to get supper. Father Mozart began
reading a book in his armchair. Wolfgang stood at the piano,
thoughtfully looking at the keys. After a little, and apparently
unconscious of what he was doing, he placed his hands on the keyboard
and began striking thirds as he had just seen his sister do. At the
sound of the instrument his countenance lit up, his eyes glowed, and
utterly absorbed by the passion of music he forgot all else.

Father Mozart at first paid no notice to his son’s playing. Gradually,
however, as the tones grew fuller and stronger, he became attentive,
laid aside the book he had been reading, and watched little Wolfgang
with constantly increasing astonishment. He listened eagerly, and was
more and more delighted when he found that Wolfgang repeated accurately
and without a slip the little exercise which he had played over shortly
before to Nannie. Tears of joy stood in his eyes. He arose, and going to
Wolfgang, folded him in his arms and, overcome by his emotions,
exclaimed: “Wolfgang, my heart’s own little one, surely, and beyond all
question, you are already a true musician.” Then he called the mother
and sister and told them the good news, and Wolfgang had to repeat the
little pieces, which he did excellently. All were delighted. His mother
embraced and kissed him, his sister joyfully clapped her hands, and his
father looked on with beaming face. Little Wolfgang alone remained calm,
and wondered that his playing caused such a commotion. “Why, that is
nothing,” he said. “I have known all that from the first; but you will
see, papa, that I shall soon know far more than this.”

“God grant it. For my part, I have no further doubt of it,” said his
father, deeply moved. “I will not fail to teach you all that I know.”

Meanwhile bedtime had come, and little Wolfgang was tired. This time his
father himself put him to bed, said the evening prayer as his mother was
accustomed to do, and tucked him up nice and warm. It was hardly done
before the little fellow was sound asleep, but Father Mozart knelt a
while at the bedside, and raised his heart and soul to the Eternal
Father in heaven.

“Lord, my God,” he silently prayed. “Thou hast given me a rare and
beautiful flower. Give me also strength and perseverance, that I may
tend it and bring it to its perfect blossoming, for thy honor and my
happiness.”

God heard the prayer. It rose to His throne in heaven, found favor in
His eyes, and was granted.




                              Chapter III
                           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.




                               Chapter IV
                         At the Imperial Court


The reputation of the family had preceded them, and greatly to their
advantage, for the nobility of Vienna were enthusiastically interested
in them. They received almost daily invitations to entertainments, where
Wolfgang’s extraordinary skill created the utmost astonishment. Count
Palssy, in particular, who had heard Wolfgang play in Linz, and Countess
Sinzendorf took them under their protection, introduced them to the
homes of the best families, and at last procured the special invitation
to Court which Father Mozart had so long hoped and waited for. Wolfgang
himself was still too little and childish to appreciate the high honor
paid him. He was simply pleased at the opportunity he would have to see
the splendors of the Court. As to the playing, he relied upon his skill
and courage, which had never yet failed him.

Presentation day came. At three o’clock in the afternoon the royal
equipage was at the door, and Baron von Stauffen, his Majesty’s private
treasurer, invited the family to take seats in the elegant state coach.
Little Mozart’s heart beat more quickly as he rode through the streets
of the Court quarter. A few minutes later he was in the ante-chamber of
her Majesty the Empress, waiting the moment which should reveal to him
all the glories of her Court. That moment quickly came. The folding
doors of the music hall were thrown open. Her Majesty’s first gentleman
in waiting beckoned to the family to come forward, and a moment later
they were in the presence of the renowned Empress, Maria Theresa, and
her noble consort, Francis the First, the royal household standing in
the background.

Wolfgang had never seen such splendor before. He was in a rich and
brilliantly decorated hall, with silken tapestries, tall mirrors in
glistening gold frames, heavy silken curtains, and polished inlaid
floor. In a chair a little above the rest, over which glistened a golden
crown, sat a majestic woman—the Empress. At her side stood the princes
and princesses, and a little farther on the Emperor, leaning against a
beautiful piano.

Wolfgang cast hardly more than a fleeting glance at the splendor all
about him. His gaze was fixed upon the Empress, whom he regarded for
some time with childish love and reverence. The little archduchess,
Marie Antoinette, afterwards the unhappy spouse of Louis the Sixteenth
of France, with her beautiful curly head resting upon her mother’s arm,
watched Wolfgang with curious eyes. After a little the Emperor advanced
to Wolfgang and led him to the Empress, who outstretched both hands with
true maternal tenderness, and greeted him with a gracious smile.
Although forty-five years of age at this time, she was still a very
beautiful woman, and one whose fascinating manners could not help making
a deep impression upon the susceptible young artist.

“And so you are the little piano-player of whom we have heard so much,”
said she.

“Yes,” replied Wolfgang, as naturally and as unembarrassed as if he were
talking with his own mother. “It is true I am only a child, but
notwithstanding that I can play the piano, as I shall be very glad to
prove to the Lady Empress.”

The easy and familiar manner in which Wolfgang addressed the august lady
nearly paralyzed the courtiers, who were accustomed to the most rigid
etiquette, but the Empress was not in the least offended with his
childish frankness; on the other hand, she appeared pleased with this
sincere, cordial, and informal artist nature.

“Oh, yes, child,” she kindly said; “but are you so sure of all this? I
warn you there are several persons behind us who know a great deal about
music, and they will criticise you pretty severely.”

“Those there?” replied Wolfgang, turning a little to one side and
casting a sharp glance at the brilliant assemblage. “Those?” he
repeated, shaking his head contemptuously. “No, Lady Empress, begging
your pardon, they do not look as if they were good musicians. Certainly
not.”

“And why not, you saucy boy?” said the Empress, restraining a smile with
some difficulty.

“Well, they don’t show any signs of it, Your Majesty. They are
altogether too stiff.”

At this naïve reply, which nearly threw the whole royal train into a
panic, Maria Theresa could no longer restrain herself. She laughed
loudly, and as a matter of etiquette her attendants had to laugh also,
though they were not particularly flattered at the low estimate the
little virtuoso had placed upon their musical ability.

“Well, you are truly a saucy child,” said the Empress, still laughing,
as she patted Wolfgang’s cheeks with her white hands. “Really, Franz, he
is a cunning little imp and ought to make a diplomat or a statesman, if
physiognomy counts for anything.”

“He certainly does not lack for courage,” said the Emperor, smiling and
turning to the Empress, who had addressed her last remark to him.

“Well, then, let us keep him here,” said the little Marie Antoinette,
raising her head and looking at the Empress with her large, kindly eyes.
“I like him very much.”

“Yes, there would be one advantage in keeping him,” replied the Empress,
good-naturedly. “You could at least learn from him how to play the piano
properly.”

“Does he play so very well?” said the little princess.

“Magnificently, I hear from all sides,” replied the Empress.

“Then why may we not hear him right away? I am really very curious about
it,” said Marie Antoinette, looking at Wolfgang as if challenging him to
play.

Wolfgang’s artistic pride was aroused, for there was something in the
manner of the little princess that impelled him to do the best he could.
With kindling eyes he looked about him, and stepped up to the piano to
give them an example of his skill. The Emperor, however, interposed.
“Hold, little man,” said he. “You have just asserted that none of these
ladies and gentlemen know enough to judge of your playing—who then shall
be the umpire?”

With scarcely an instant’s hesitation Wolfgang replied, “Oh, I know an
excellent one,—Herr Wagenseil,[15] the Empress’s music teacher. He
understands music. If convenient, send for him.”

“All right; it shall be done,” said the Emperor, who at once ordered a
servant to summon that famous composer and pianist. In the meantime
Wolfgang went to his sister, took her by the hand, and led her to the
Empress without any ceremony. “See, Your Majesty,” said he, introducing
her, “this is Nannerl, my sister. She plays as well as I do.” The
Empress laughed heartily at the odd ways of the little fellow, addressed
a few kind words to Nannie, and then beckoned to Father Mozart, with
whom she conversed most affably about the children and music. In the
meantime Wolfgang and Nannie chatted with the princes and princesses,
and Wolfgang was so loud in his praises of his sister that it attracted
Maria Theresa’s notice. “Look here, little one,” she said, stretching
her hands out to him as before, “do you really love your Nannerl so very
much?”

“Oh, yes, Lady Empress,” eagerly replied Wolfgang, pressing her
Majesty’s hand with childlike freedom. “Of course I love her, but I also
love you, for you please me very much.”

“That is extremely flattering to me,” replied the Empress, “but how can
you convince me of it?”

“By giving you a kiss, thus,” he exclaimed; and before any one could
stop him, or prevent such unheard-of audacity, he sprang into the
Empress’s lap, threw both arms around her neck, and kissed her tenderly
and impulsively.

The Empress in her infinite goodness indulged the boy and laughed,
perhaps more heartily than she had ever done before, at his childish
boldness. The Emperor and the princes and princesses also laughed until
the tears stood in their eyes, and the others, following the example of
their superiors, dutifully simpered, though some of these stiff ladies
and gentlemen nearly fainted away in their amazement at the temerity of
this common lad. Such an occurrence had never before been known at the
royal court in their recollection.

At last Herr Wagenseil came, and the Emperor, after introducing them,
requested Wolfgang to play. He was all ready, kissed the Emperor’s hand,
and hurried to the piano. “I am glad you are here,” he said to Herr
Wagenseil. “I will play a concerto of yours, and would like to have you
turn the leaves for me.”

Herr Wagenseil came forward with a smile, and after rapidly running over
a few passages, Wolfgang played the concerto. His performance took every
one by surprise. Whatever their expectations, Wolfgang was resolved to
surpass them. He played with a fire and intelligence which astonished
all. It grew more and more quiet. The Emperor, the Empress, the princes
and princesses, and the rest of the company kept their eyes fixed upon
the little virtuoso, and Herr Wagenseil’s manner betrayed his extreme
surprise.

When the concerto was finished, and Wolfgang had played the last note,
it was naturally supposed he would stop, but instead of doing so, he
continued playing, taking a theme from the concerto and improvising upon
it beautifully for nearly a quarter of an hour. He drew from the
instrument expressions of sorrow and joy, pain and ecstasy, melancholy
and divine happiness. A stream of richest melodies seemed to gush from
under his hands as the clear, silvery brook leaps from the rocks. All
listened as if entranced, until he closed with a brilliant cadenza, and
then sprang from his seat with flashing eyes.

For some time deep silence followed his playing. Then the Empress
expressed her great delight by applause. All present imitated her, and
overwhelmed the little player with compliments. Even the quiet and
sedate Herr Wagenseil frankly expressed his surprise. Wolfgang calmly
accepted the ovation, keeping his delighted gaze upon the Empress, and
said, “Now, your Majesty, have I not done my work well?”

“Yes,” said the exalted sovereign; “notwithstanding your youth, you are
already a great musician, whom we must admire. We heartily wish that
your skill may increase with your years, until at last you reach the
very summit of your art.”

“With divine help, Lady Empress,” replied the happy Wolfgang, “which
will not fail me, I shall strive to deserve your praise.”

Nannie also played, revealing surprising skill for one so young; but in
reality she had neither the intellectual nor the artistic ability of her
brother, and consequently had to be satisfied with less enthusiastic
applause from the audience.

During a pause in the music, the Empress turned to Father Mozart and
said: “I sincerely congratulate you that you have these children. They
are a gift from Heaven, such as is rarely vouchsafed to man. Educate
them well, so that their fine natural ability may be developed and
produce the highest results.”

While the vice chapelmaster was assuring her Majesty upon this point,
there was a sudden outburst of merry laughter near her. She turned with
an expression of surprise and displeasure. Her rising anger, however,
was dispelled when the Emperor came forward and said with a smile: “This
Wolfgang is a witty genius. I asked him whom he considered the greatest
musician in the past, and he replied, ‘The trumpeter who blew down the
walls of Jericho.’”

The Empress could not help laughing at the droll answer. The Emperor
continued: “I may not succeed, but I am going to try to catch him. Look
here, Wolfgang, I acknowledge that you have played very beautifully, but
you have done it with all ten fingers, and that is not much of a feat.
Show us what you can do with one finger, or with the keyboard covered,
then we can tell whether you really are a true musician.”

“All right,” replied Wolfgang. “I have never tried either way, but I
will.”

Saying this, he went to the piano again, and skilfully executed some
very difficult passages with one finger. Then he covered the keyboard
with a cloth and played some charming little pieces as clearly and
accurately as if he had always practised them that way.

“He is a little magician,” said the astonished Emperor, “and so skilful
that he compels you to admire him, whether you will or no.”

The audience over, the Mozart family took leave of the royal family in
the most friendly manner. The Empress gave Wolfgang and Nannie two
beautiful diamond rings and graciously expressed her satisfaction to
Father Mozart.

“Your children have delighted me,” said she, “and I hope we may see them
again ere long.”

Delighted with her condescension, Father Mozart and the children
returned home, and blessed the day which had been so happy and fortunate
for them. But still greater joy and surprise were in store. Some days
after the presentation the royal equipage again drove up, and the
private treasurer, Baron Stauffen, brought instructions and gifts from
the Empress. Father Mozart received a hundred ducats, and each of his
children an elegant costume which had been made for some of the little
royal highnesses. They were also invited by the Baron, in the name of
the Empress, to the imperial table for that day,—of course only as
spectators, to witness the pomp and ceremony of a state dinner.

“Her Majesty, our exalted Empress, desires that the children shall
appear in these court dresses,” said the Baron, “and will send a
carriage at six o’clock to bring you all to the castle.” Thereupon he
took leave with a stiff bow, for he was an exceedingly ceremonious
person, and in fact was somewhat displeased that he had to come in
contact with these common persons at the command of his royal mistress.
The Mozart family, however, did not trouble themselves in the least
about his high mightiness. They were all delighted at the graciousness
of the Empress, who had shown them so many delicate attentions.

The children were dressed and all ready at half-past five, and looked
charming. Wolfgang strutted about the room with mock dignity in a
lily-colored waistcoat with broad gold borders, while Nannie admired her
beautifully embroidered white silk dress in the mirror with expressions
of delight.

The carriage drove up at the appointed time, and a few minutes later the
family were in the so-called “golden hall” of the castle, where the
highest grandees were to be served at seven tables. The centre table, a
little higher than the others, canopied with heavy silk and embroidered
cloth of gold, was set apart for the royal family. The others, three on
the right and three on the left, were for the royal household. They were
not yet assembled, so Wolfgang had time to admire the splendor displayed
in the arrangements. Massive gold and silver plate, beautiful sets of
china, and superb displays of flowers in vases of the most exquisite
designs, decorated the tables, while numberless candelabra above shed a
brilliant light over all. After a little the folding doors of an
adjoining apartment opened, and the Empress and Emperor, surrounded by
the prince and princesses of the royal house, entered the dining hall.
All present bowed low before the majestic sovereign, who slowly
advanced, with a gracious word here and a kindly glance there, and
seated herself at table with her immediate circle. A shrill fanfare
accompanied this ceremony, signifying also that the rest were to take
their places according to their rank and dignity. They were hardly
seated when the imperial court chapel, which on these occasions
furnished the table music, began playing. The splendid apartment was
filled with exquisite melody. Wolfgang, who had never heard such music
before, was transported with delight. The moment it began, he forgot all
the magnificence around him, and was absorbed in its performance until
the last tones softly died away. Then he awoke with a sigh, as if from a
dream, and once more realized where he was.

At this instant a beautiful voice broke the stillness, and Wolfgang was
surprised to hear his name spoken. It was the Empress, who was calling
and beckoning to him, much to the astonishment of the company. Though a
little surprised himself, Wolfgang knew how to behave. He advanced
through the room, carrying his head high, and looking like a little
prince in his new costume, ascended with firm step to the royal table,
and bowing low to their Majesties, stood a few paces away from the
Empress. “What a cavalierish bow the little fellow makes,” said she,
with a kindly smile and a slight inclination of her head, “and how well
he looks in his new waistcoat! One would suppose he had always been at
Court.”

“Oh, well, Your Majesty,” replied Wolfgang, boldly, and with the utmost
composure, “I have seen Herr Baron Stauffen do that.” The Empress could
not help laughing loudly, for Wolfgang had exactly imitated the stiff,
formal manner of the pompous courtier, even to the swelling out of his
breast.

“Look out,” said the Empress, warning the boy with her finger; “have a
care that the Baron does not hear you. He may be tempted to upset the
carriage some day.”

“It is a matter of no consequence if he does hear me, Your Majesty,”
replied Wolfgang, smiling contemptuously, “for nothing could tempt him
to disarrange his ruffles or break his perfume box.”

“Silence, child,” interposed the Empress; “you have a very disrespectful
way of talking, which you must stop. Come nearer.”

Wolfgang obeyed, and the kind Empress gave him some dainties from her
own plate, which he ate with evident relish. “Good,” said the Empress,
“now you can go; but I shall expect you after dinner in my own
apartments, where you can play with my children a while.”

“I shall be glad to go, Your Majesty,” replied Wolfgang. “Will her
little Royal Highness with the blond hair be there too?”

“You mean my Marie Antoinette?” replied the Empress. “Yes, she will be
there, and will be delighted to see you. Adieu till then.”

Radiant with joy, Wolfgang bowed again, and proudly enough marched back
to his father’s side. Their Majesties soon arose at the sound of the
trumpets, the signal that dinner was finished. After affably bowing to
the assembled guests, the royal train left in the same stately way it
had entered, and Chapelmaster Mozart and his family were conducted by a
servant to the ante-chamber of the Empress to await further orders.

They did not have to wait long. The Empress was in her dressing-room,
and while her maid was arranging her toilet, Wolfgang and Nannie
performed by turns upon a piano in the waiting-room. Wolfgang played
with an inspired enthusiasm, which enabled him to overcome the greatest
difficulties with ease. The condescension and maternal kindness of the
noble lady had won his heart, and he improved this opportunity to
express his love and gratitude by an extraordinary display of his skill.
He continued in this manner until the Empress herself at last checked
his enthusiasm. “Enough, enough, my child,” she graciously said. “We do
not wish you to make yourself sick by overdoing. You have again shown us
you are a great magician; now show us that you can be a child among
children.”

The little archduchesses Elizabeth and Marie Antoinette, who had been
listening with delight to Wolfgang’s playing, understood their exalted
mother’s hint, and while she engaged in conversation with Father Mozart
and Nannie, they took Wolfgang by the hand and led him through the
magnificent state rooms which the Empress usually occupied. They called
his attention in the most courteous manner to the beautiful pictures and
furniture, pointed out remarkable objects, and talked as freely with him
as if they were brother and sisters. An amusing incident shortly
happened, growing out of the fact that Wolfgang was not as much at home
in the castle as the charming little archduchesses. As they went along,
looking at the statues and pictures on the walls, Wolfgang did not
notice the smoothness of the inlaid floor, stumbled on a particularly
slippery spot, and fell his whole length. The sight was amusing; so
amusing that Elizabeth could not refrain from laughing loudly. Marie
Antoinette, on the other hand, did not see the laughable side of the
mishap. She was frightened, and, bending over Wolfgang, helped him to
arise. “Poor child, have you hurt yourself?” she said compassionately.

“Oh, no,” replied Wolfgang, giving the pretty little archduchess a
grateful look. “No, I do not think I have, but your Royal Highness, you
are so good and kind to me that I will marry you if you are willing.”

Marie Antoinette received the marriage proposal quite pleasantly, and
laughed over it. “Let us wait a bit, little one,” she graciously
replied, shaking her curly head. “I will ask my mother at once, and see
what she thinks of it.” Taking him by the hand, she went along with him
until they were once more at the Empress’s dressing-room. Leading him to
her, she said coquettishly, “Mother, Your Majesty, Wolfgangerl has
offered to marry me.”

Father Mozart was so shocked at the boy’s boldness that he felt like
sinking through the floor. Maria Theresa looked at the audacious little
fellow with evident pleasure. “Well, well,” she said with a smile, “this
is a great honor you have offered us, Wolfgangerl, but may I ask how you
came to make such a flattering proposal to my daughter?”

“Certainly, Your Majesty,” replied Wolfgang, modestly and
affectionately. “I was grateful to her little Royal Highness for being
so kind to me when I slipped and fell. The Archduchess Elizabeth laughed
at me, but Marie Antoinette helped me up, and I could not help saying
what was uppermost in my heart.”

“Well, that is very nice of you, Wolfgangerl,” said the Empress. “A
thankful heart is worth more than gold, and we should always be
thankful; but as to this marriage proposal, we must consider it for a
while, you are both so young.”

Father Mozart was happy that the event ended so well, and Wolfgang,
perfectly contented, chatted again with the archduchesses until the
family were kindly dismissed. They returned to their hotel, happy over
the generosity of the good Empress, and loud in their praises of the
powerful sovereign who had shown them such generosity and affection.




                               Chapter V
                           The Second Violin


Overloaded with attentions, honors, and distinctions, the Mozart family
returned to Salzburg for a time and resumed the old quiet life. The
journey to Vienna had been advantageous in many ways. Father Mozart
brought back quite a little sum of gold; but of still greater value was
the reputation which Wolfgang had so quickly acquired. His talent had
been surprising from his infancy, and now his first introduction into
the great world was in every way a success. His fame as a rising star of
the first magnitude in the musical firmament was already beginning to
spread all over Europe.

Wolfgang, young as he was, appreciated this, and it was a spur that
urged him to attempt the highest artistic achievements. After the Vienna
journey nothing but music had any attraction for him. He practised
almost incessantly. The customary amusements of childhood no longer
interested him. He was absorbed in a dominating passion—the passion of
music.

It was noticeable, as well as curious, that Wolfgang in his earlier
years, notwithstanding his love for music, had an irresistible aversion
to the sound of metallic instruments, and particularly to the shrill
tone of the trumpet. He revelled in the music of string instruments and
the piano, like a butterfly among fragrant flowers, but the loud noise
of trumpets and trombones seemed to scare him, and cause him actual
pain. His father, of course, soon noticed this, and it caused him great
anxiety. How could his son conduct great musical performances, in which
the brasses were indispensable, if he did not succeed in overcoming this
aversion? Remonstrance and reasoning alike were of no avail. As soon as
he heard a trumpet, even in the distance, he would either run out of
hearing or stop both his ears. His father decided to adopt vigorous
measures, and one day asked a trumpeter to his room.[16]

“Come here, Wolfgangerl, and be sensible,” he said to his son, who was
looking at the dreadful trumpet with a shudder, and was about to take to
his heels as usual. “You must stop this nonsense. You must get used to
the trumpet or you never can be a chapelmaster.”

“I cannot do it, papa, I cannot do it,” replied Wolfgang. “Please,
father, send the trumpeter away.”

This time, however, his father was remorseless. He firmly held Wolfgang,
and ordered the trumpeter to sound one of his shrillest fanfares. Of
course he obeyed. Hardly, however, had he blown the first cruel notes
when the boy, with a cry of pain, grew deadly pale. He trembled in every
limb, cold sweat stood on him, and he fainted. Father Mozart was
alarmed, and sent the trumpeter away at once. When Wolfgang was himself
once more, his father went to the family physician, told him his
trouble, and requested him to assist in overcoming his son’s peculiar
sensibility. The physician reassured him. “Do not worry about this, Herr
Vice Chapelmaster,” he said. “Medical treatment can do nothing for him.
Wolfgangerl is still but a tender child, and the cause of his aversion
to loud, shrill, and piercing noises lies in his delicate organism. Let
him alone a few years. When he has greater physical strength his dislike
of the trumpet will disappear of itself. But upon no account try to
compel him to become accustomed to it or make any more such forcible
attempts as you have done to-day. It might be his ruin.”

[Illustration: _Hardly had he blown the first cruel notes when the boy,
                 with a cry of pain, grew deadly pale_]

The father was relieved by the assurances of the skilful physician, and
did not repeat the experiment. The latter’s statements were ultimately
confirmed. Wolfgang not only became accustomed to the brasses, but he
employed them for years in his larger works more effectively than any of
his predecessors had done. But though he could not yet overcome his
aversion to piercing noises, he could overcome other difficulties with
the utmost ease which would have cost an ordinary person almost
incredible exertion.

One day he determined to learn the violin. “I am no longer satisfied
with the piano alone,” he said to himself. “I must do something more in
music.”

All by himself, and without letting a soul know what he was doing, he
began the new study. When his father was away from home he would take a
little violin which had been given him in Vienna, quietly steal off by
himself, so that his mother and sister should not hear him, and practise
assiduously. Not a word ever escaped from him about it.

Some weeks passed in this way. A wonderfully beautiful spring morning
promised a perfect day. Father Mozart could not let it pass without
enjoying it to the utmost, and invited his friends Schachtner,
Adlgasser, and Lipp to take a glass of wine with him that afternoon in a
beautiful little garden near the gates of Salzburg, which was his
personal property, and which he often used in summer for friendly
gatherings. His devoted associates of course gladly accepted the cordial
invitation, and the afternoon found them all in the garden. Frau Mozart
was not of the company, as she was detained at home by household duties,
but she sent the gentlemen by Nannie a goodly supply of wine and cold
lunch for their refreshment.

The day was one of rare loveliness. There was not a cloud in the deep
blue, crystalline heavens, and the jagged peaks of the neighboring
mountains stood out clearly before the eye. The rushing Salza, like a
great glistening serpent, wound through meadows, fields, and clumps of
trees. The trimly arranged garden beds were rich with blossoms and
fragrance. Violets, lilies of the valley, and snowdrops profusely
exhaled their sweet perfume. Hyacinths and tulips were arranged in their
most gorgeous colors, and the branches of the ornamental shrubs, a short
time ago leafless, were decked in delicate mantles of green. It was an
exquisite and enjoyable scene. The friends revelled in the mild spring
air and admired both the wide, beautiful prospect and the floral beauty
near at hand.

After setting the table in the little summer-house, Nannie returned
home. The wine and viands had been served, and the chairs were pushed
back, when Father Mozart heard a knock at the garden door. Little
Wolfgang and a family friend entered, and were heartily greeted by all.
“A thousand times welcome, dearest Wenzel,” exclaimed the vice
chapelmaster, advancing to meet him and shaking both his hands. “This is
fortunate, for you have come at a most auspicious time. I am very glad
to see you.”

While the others were greeting the new-comer, Wolfgang slipped away to
one side lest he should be seen and sent home again. He well knew there
would be music in the summer-house, because the guests had brought their
instruments, and music was the joy of his life. No one paid any
attention to him. His father conversed intimately with Herr Wenzel, a
clever young violinist who for some time had been taking lessons of him
in composition; and the others, even if they had noticed Wolfgang’s
presence, would not have had him sent away, for they were very fond of
him. Young Wenzel admired the beautiful garden and its charming
location, much to the satisfaction of Father Mozart. “Yes, I am very
devoted to my little garden,” said he. “I never enjoy myself more in
summer than I do here.”

“I can well believe it,” replied Wenzel. “How pleasant it must be to
stroll here! How delightful the prospect and the flowers! How one could
think and dream here! It must be a great satisfaction to work, compose,
and meditate in this garden.”

“Yes; you have hit it exactly, Herr Wenzel,” said Father Mozart.
“Whenever a good idea comes to me it is here in this cosy solitude. But
what about your own affairs, my friend? You certainly have not come out
here without some good reason for it. I see a roll of paper peeping out
of your pocket which looks as if it might contain something nice.”

“The Herr Vice Chapelmaster really should be the Archbishop’s privy
councillor, he is such a good guesser,” replied Wenzel, blushing and
slightly embarrassed. “I brought a few little compositions with me,
having learned from your good wife that you were all here with your
instruments. May I ask you to run through them so that I may have your
judgment on them?”

“Certainly; we shall be a thousand times glad to play them,” replied
Father Mozart. “What are these nice things?”

“Six violin trios,” answered Wenzel, taking them from his pocket and
handing them to Father Mozart. “Their composition has been a great
pleasure to me, but whether my poor talent will satisfy you is another
question.”

“Well, we shall soon see,” said Father Mozart. “We will play the trios
through and then have some of the food and drink my good wife has so
generously provided. Let us get to work, dear friends. You, Wenzel,
shall play the first violin, friend Schachtner the second, and I will
undertake the bass upon the viola.”

They were all willing, and went to the garden-house where their violins
were. The scores were placed on the racks, the instruments perfectly
tuned, and the playing was about to begin, when little Wolfgang, who had
quietly stolen up, lightly nudged his father’s elbow. “What is it,
child?” said he. “Where did you come from? Say what you wish quickly,
for we are all ready to begin.”

Wolfgang had been concealing something under his coat, but he now took
it out, and his father saw a little but excellent violin, which he had
brought from Vienna. “What does this mean?” he said with some surprise.

“It means, father, I would like to play the violin with you,” replied
Wolfgang. “Please let me play the second violin.”

“Why, you silly child,” said his father, laughing, “what put such a
notion as that in your head? You can make believe you are playing with
us, but as to playing in earnest, you cannot do it. Perhaps the time may
come when you can.”

“I can now, really and truly,” said Wolfgang, with flashing eyes and a
look of absolute confidence.

“Did you learn to play the violin in your sleep?” said his father,
jokingly.

“No, not in my sleep, but when I was awake,” replied Wolfgang. “Just let
me try once, papa, and then I will explain it all to you.”

His father, of course, had not the slightest idea that Wolfgang had
secretly learned the violin, and consequently thought the boy was only
in sport. “When we go home, we will try a little minuet, Wolfgang, but
don’t disturb us any more now.”

“A minuet! That is easy,” answered the boy. “Let me play Herr Wenzel’s
trio with you. Then I will show you what I can do.”

His father now began to grow seriously displeased at the boy’s
persistence, which seemed to him little else than idle boasting, and he
somewhat unwillingly pushed him back. “Go away, go away,” said he.
“Because you can play the piano it does not follow that you understand
the violin. Go away, and don’t make yourself ridiculous.”

“But, father,” replied Wolfgang, tearfully, “it does not require much
skill to play the second violin.”

“Silly child; your head must be a little turned or you would not talk
such nonsense,” replied his father, at last really vexed, for he thought
his son’s remark was disrespectful to his friends, Schachtner and
Wenzel. “Go away, and don’t annoy us any longer. You need not fancy you
know everything because the good God has given you a little skill. That
is childish folly, and you must quit it. Remember that.”

Wolfgang was so overcome by the harsh reproof of his father, who was
usually so kind to him, that the tears came into his eyes, and he nearly
cried out loud. He sadly took his violin under his arm, and was about to
slip away, when just at the right time his friends interposed in his
behalf.

“Let him stay, Herr Vice Chapelmaster,” said Schachtner, “and play with
us a little. If he does not make it go, it will be time then to stop
him.”

“Well,” replied Father Mozart, graciously,—for in reality it had greatly
pained him to be harsh with his darling,—“you can play with Herr
Schachtner, but play softly, so that we shall not hear your scraping,
and don’t howl if any one says a word to you. Come here and play, but,
as I said, play softly.”

At these words sorrow disappeared instantly from Wolfgang’s countenance,
and in its place came a look of intense satisfaction. He wiped away his
tears with his sleeve, took his place by Herr Schachtner, and the
playing began.

The piece was not very easy. Herr Schachtner himself had to give his
whole mind to it, and followed it at first with such close attention
that he entirely forgot his little associate. But soon he heard such a
clear, pure tone at his side that he listened with surprise, and watched
Wolfgang with the utmost astonishment. The child played with an
accuracy, precision, and purity which seemed to him inspired. Delight
and satisfaction were pictured in his joyous manner and beaming eyes.
Herr Schachtner could hardly believe his senses. He played more and more
softly, so as not to lose a tone of Wolfgang’s violin, and after a
little stopped entirely, dropped his arms, and gave Wolfgang’s father a
significant look.

Father Mozart himself had noticed for some time the beauty, clearness,
and correctness with which his son was playing, and when their glances
met tears of joy and delight were in his eyes. The performance was not
interrupted, however. He indicated to Herr Schachtner that he
understood, and kept on playing. Wolfgang was doing the same, for he was
so completely absorbed in his work that he had not observed the little
intermezzo between Herr Schachtner and his father. He bowed and fingered
accurately and skilfully, and played all six trios through, keeping up
with the others without even a hitch. When the last note was played
Father Mozart laid down his viola, joyfully hastened to Wolfgang, took
him in his arms, and kissed him. “Why, Wolfgangerl, you marvel, when and
where did you learn all this?” he loudly exclaimed.

“When you were at church or away from home giving lessons,” replied the
boy. “Did I claim too much, father? Now you shall see that I can also
play the first violin.”

As he had demonstrated his ability by actual test, all were convinced
that the seven-year-old little fellow could accomplish even this more
difficult task, and they were anxious for him to begin at once. He did
so. He played the first violin, with several curious and irregular
fingerings, to be sure, but he did not have to stop, and he kept correct
time with the other players. All were greatly pleased at the surprise
the lad had given them as well as his father by his skill. The latter
kissed and caressed him, and the others heartily congratulated him.

“Now, Wolfgang,” said his father, when it was quiet, “some request of
yours shall be granted. You have given me great pleasure, and I am
grateful for it. Have you a wish? If so, mention it, and I will grant it
if it is in my power to do so.”

“Oh, yes, I have a wish, and a very pleasant one,” said Wolfgang,
snuggling up to his father and whispering in his ear.

“What is it?” said his father, just as softly.

“I should like to make another concert trip, father,” said Wolfgang. “I
cannot tell you how eager I am to get out into the great world.”

“Good, my child,” replied his father, with a smile of satisfaction;
“this is a happy coincidence. We have the same wish, for I have already
decided to undertake another trip.”

“And where, father?” asked Wolfgang, excitedly.

“To Paris!”

“To Paris!” shouted the lad. “Oh, that is beautiful, the beautiful thing
I have dreamed of so often. Let us go as soon as it is convenient. You
may be sure I will do my best when we get to the great city.”

His father promised the journey should be made as soon as possible. The
company again assembled at the table that they might congratulate him
upon his good fortune. They ate and drank, chatted and laughed,
expressing wishes for a happy trip and a successful future, until
evening came, and the joyous party separated to meet at some other time.
All went home delighted, and Father Mozart most delighted of all over
this newly discovered talent of his son, which justified the brightest
hopes for his future.




                               Chapter VI
                                In Paris


A carriage was driven along at a quick trot toward Paris one hot
summer’s day, and had just reached the village of Choissy, when the
careless coachman drove over a rock and upset the vehicle. There was an
outcry of alarm from the inside. The door was forced open, and four
persons crawled out, one after another, and stood around the wreck in
dismay. They are old acquaintances—Herr Vice Chapelmaster Mozart, his
wife and children.

“Well, this is a pretty business,” said Father Mozart, indignantly.
“Here we are, hardly two hours away from Paris, upset in a wretched
village, and, worst of all, with broken axletrees. We are expected at an
early hour this evening by Count Van Eyck, the Bavarian ambassador, and
now we cannot get there before late at night.”

“Don’t worry, dear husband,” interposed Frau Mozart, “the accident is
not so bad as it might have been, for we have all escaped without
injury. Let us thank God, and hope that the little mishap is not a bad
omen.”

“Never fear, little mother,” said Wolfgang, cheerfully. “I shall not
break down in Paris. You can rely upon that.”

Father Mozart had to laugh at the boy’s amusing consolation, and his
indignation speedily subsided. “Well,” said he, “what has happened can’t
be altered. With divine help we can bear this ill-luck patiently. I
wonder if there is a smith or a wheelwright in the village who can
repair the carriage. Say, driver, how soon can you have the damage your
carelessness has caused made good?”

“We can go on in a couple of hours,” replied the driver.

“And what shall we do meanwhile to pass the time away in this miserable
spot?”

“I can help you about that, sir,” said the driver in a most amicable
tone, hoping they might overlook his carelessness if he were civil. “The
beautiful castle, Choissy-le-Roi, where her Majesty the Queen has her
summer residence, is near here. You can go there and stroll about the
elegant park, and the hours will pass like minutes.”

“Your suggestion sounds well,” replied Father Mozart. “What do you think
of it, dear wife? As we have nothing else to do, suppose we go over
there a while.” The mother gave her assent, and both the children were
delighted at the prospect of frolicking about in the open air for two
hours after having been so long closely crowded in a carriage on the
dusty roads. They set off at once, while the driver went for help to
mend the broken vehicle.

The park, which they soon reached, was shadowy and cool. The trimly kept
walks were arched with a roof of beautiful green foliage. Stags and deer
were browsing here and there on the grass patches, and above the
tree-tops gleamed the towers of the castle, noted at that time for its
stateliness. They greatly enjoyed themselves in the cool shade, and
gradually approached the castle. No one was to be seen except our
travellers. Wolfgang noticed an open door in a building standing by
itself, which, from its construction, he judged must be the castle
chapel. His curiosity impelled him to enter, and Nannie and his parents
followed him. It was a fair-sized chapel and superbly decorated. A very
beautiful organ particularly attracted Wolfgang’s attention, and he
could not resist the temptation to play on it. As the chapel was empty,
and no one could be seen in the vicinity, Father Mozart ventured to
gratify his son’s wish. He went to the bellows, and soon a flood of
beautiful, captivating music streamed through the chapel and out into
the park.

Two richly dressed ladies of distinguished bearing and unusual beauty
were just at this time walking in the park, and heard with surprise the
wonderfully rich tones which seemed to them to come from the sky. They
approached the chapel nearer and nearer, and at last stopped and
concealed themselves behind some thick shrubbery, that they might enjoy
the magnificent music unperceived. It continued a little longer and then
closed with beautiful harmony, softly dying away. Silence once more
reigned in the great solitary park.

“It is wonderful,” said one of the ladies to her companion. “It seems to
me I have never heard such beautiful, such ravishing music before. Who
can the organist be? Our old organist is an excellent player, but he has
no idea of such melody and harmony as that.”

“If you wish I will inquire,” said the other lady; “but the quickest and
easiest way would be to enter the chapel and see for ourselves.”

“No, no, dear,” said the first lady, about to turn away. “Those truly
heavenly sounds have put me in an exalted mood, which I would not have
disturbed. Let us go on. Perhaps we may learn in the morning who this
extraordinary artist is, and the occasion of his performance.” With
these words the lady turned into a denser and more shadowy part of the
park, and her companion followed her without further suggestion.

Father Mozart and his family left the chapel about the same time and
happened to go in the same direction. They intended to return to the
village and look after the carriage, but not being familiar with the
labyrinthine windings of the park, which were made still more confusing
by high rows of yews and beeches here and there, they soon lost their
way, and after wandering about aimlessly for half an hour they at last
stood helpless. “It is too bad that we cannot find our way out,” said
Father Mozart, with some uneasiness. “The whole park is deserted; there
is not a person to be seen anywhere.”

“Oh, yes, father, there is!” exclaimed Wolfgang, whose sharp eyes saw
everything, even through the foliage of the hedges. “Look there, father!
Two beautiful ladies! They can tell us and set us right if they only
will. I will go and ask them.” No sooner said than done. In his usually
bold, informal way, he ran up to the ladies, greeted them courteously,
and said in German: “Beautiful ladies, will you have the goodness to
tell me where we really are?”

The ladies, one of them in particular, who was of exceptionally
distinguished presence, at first seemed displeased with his boldness;
but when her eyes rested upon the pretty boy, who was accosting her so
familiarly, she smiled and replied, also in German, “In the park of
Choissy, my little one. You ought to have known that.”

“Oh, yes, I know that,” answered Wolfgang, “but the park is so big and
has so many walks, and they cross and recross so often, that we can’t
find our way back to the village whence we came.”

“Oh, that is another thing,” said the lady, kindly. “You are now on the
right way. Go down that walk there and you will find Choissy on your
left. But tell me who you are, and how you come to be so far away from
Germany.”

   [Illustration: _He greeted them courteously, and said: “Beautiful
 ladies, will you have the goodness to tell me where we really are?”_]

“I am Wolfgang Mozart,” he replied, looking as important as possible,
“and these are my dear parents, and the little girl is my sister
Nannerl. We are on our way to Paris, where Nannerl and I are to play
before the King and Queen.”

“You, child!” said the lady in surprise. “What can you play?”

“The piano, violin, or organ, just which is most desired.”

“Impossible! It is impossible for such a little man as you.”

“Why is it impossible? I played last winter before the Empress Maria
Theresa, in Vienna. Why should I not play here? Have you not heard
anything about me?”

“No, my child, to tell the truth I have not.”

“Then you do not read the papers much,” said Wolfgang. “They have had
whole columns about me. Try to remember, fair lady; you must have heard
of Wolfgang Mozart.”

“It would be useless,” said the lady, smiling, “for I scarcely ever read
a paper. But it is a matter of little consequence anyway. If you play at
Court I shall be there, and shall be delighted to renew our
acquaintance.”

“Ah! So you are also attached to the Court? I am so pleased,” said
Wolfgang. “When you get there you will know all about me. I do not play
badly if I am a little boy.”

“Dear me,” said the lady to herself, “can it be possible that—listen, my
child,” she said, turning again to Wolfgang, “can you tell me who was
playing the organ just now in the castle chapel?”

“It was I, and my father was blowing for me,” replied Wolfgang.

The lady was overcome with astonishment. She could hardly believe his
assertion; but all doubt disappeared when she looked into his frank,
open countenance and honest eyes.

“Well,” she said at last, “if this is true, and I have no reason to
doubt it, then indeed you are a great artist, and I promise to use all
my influence to secure your presentation at Court.”

“That is splendid, and I thank you for it in advance,” replied Wolfgang.
“When you see the Queen, greet her many times for me. The Countess
Lillibonne has already told me she is a dear, good, lovely woman, and
she certainly has heard of the little Mozart.”

“I promise you, my child, that I will convey your greetings to her,”
said the lady. “And now adieu. Your parents must be getting impatient,
and I have much to look after before the day closes. Adieu.” She
extended her hand to Wolfgang. He kissed it and took his leave.

“She is a lovely lady,” he said, when he got back to his parents. “She
says she belongs to the royal household, and has promised her help in
securing our presentation to the Queen.”

Father Mozart did not attach much importance to chance promises of this
sort. It was of more consequence to him that Wolfgang had found the
right way to the village of Choissy, and thither they repaired. They
found the carriage all right again, and resumed their journey to Paris,
which they reached without further mishaps before nightfall.

With his usual consideration and far-sightedness, Father Mozart had
provided himself with letters of introduction to several of the best
families in Paris, which secured him an unexpectedly courteous and
kindly reception. The leading people planned a public appearance for the
children in a style befitting their reputation, and succeeded in
engaging a prominent theatre for their concerts,—a favor rarely granted
to travelling artists. The concerts were duly announced and given, and,
as usual, Wolfgang was enthusiastically received by large audiences of
the highest social standing. Father Mozart was greatly pleased, for his
well-nigh empty pockets were filling up again with bright gold-pieces,
and this of course kept him in good humor. After a few weeks’ stay the
situation became still more satisfactory.

Baron von Grimm,[17] a friend of the family and a German by birth, but
very influential in Paris, brought the welcome intelligence one day that
the family would shortly be invited to Court. “For some curious reason,”
he said, “the Queen herself has shown a most extraordinary interest in
our little Wolfgang. It is mainly due to this that we have succeeded so
quickly—more quickly indeed than I had expected.”

“Aha!” said Wolfgang, gleefully clapping his little hands, “do you not
see, papa, this is the work of that beautiful lady at Choissy? She has
at last accomplished what she promised.”

“What lady?” said Baron Grimm in surprise. Wolfgang and his father by
turns narrated the little adventure in the park of Choissy, and Baron
Grimm smilingly but eagerly listened. “Ah! is that so?” said he in a
somewhat significant tone. “The riddle is now clearly solved. This is a
very agreeable surprise.”

“But when shall I play before the Queen?” said Wolfgang, impatiently. “I
am very eager to know.”

“Soon, perhaps, my child,” said Baron Grimm. “It is not possible to say
exactly when, but we will do all we can to hasten the time.”

Wolfgang was satisfied with this assurance. He was not kept on the rack
long, however, for, a few days after this, Baron Hébert, the Queen’s
lord high treasurer, was announced, and invited the family to be present
at an appointed hour in her apartments at the palace of Versailles.

The hour came at last, and Wolfgang found himself in the midst of the
splendors of the French Court, which eclipsed those of the Court in
Vienna. The highest nobility of the land, arrayed in gold-embroidered
costumes and blazing with diamonds, were assembled in a grand salon from
which opened, right and left, elegant suites of rooms flooded with the
brilliancy of hundreds of wax tapers. The family could see this
magnificence only from a distance, for the King had not yet appeared,
and his signal had to be awaited before they could enter. After a
little, a movement in the salon indicated that Louis the Fifteenth had
entered, and about half an hour later Baron Hébert accosted the family.
“Come,” he said in a pompous manner; “his Majesty orders that you be
presented to the Queen.”

They followed him. As they entered the salon, Wolfgang, not in the least
embarrassed by the splendor, uttered a cry of joy. He saw the lady with
whom he had conversed in the park of Choissy and gazed at her with
sparkling eyes. “Oh, it is so nice that you are here,” he said
excitedly, at the same time kissing her hand, which was graciously
extended to him. “You have kept your word, and I heartily thank you over
and over again. But tell me, where is the Queen?”

“Have you not divined, dear child?” replied the lady, with a smile. “I
am the Queen.”

“I am overjoyed,” exclaimed Mozart, surprised and delighted. “I shall
love you still more, for you have been very good to me.”

“And this,” turning to a gentleman standing near her, “this is his
Majesty, the King, who also wishes to hear you play.”

Wolfgang bowed gracefully to his Majesty, who acknowledged the courtesy
with a slight inclination of his head. As he did not clearly understand
the situation, the Queen explained how she came to be acquainted with
the pretty child, and then Wolfgang’s father and sister were presented.
The King addressed a few kindly words to each, and then resumed a card
game with some of his courtiers. Wolfgang continued his conversation
with the Queen, who also presented him to the French princesses,
Victoire and Adelaide, both of whom fortunately spoke German. Victoire,
the younger, was greatly interested in Wolfgang, for she had heard
glowing reports about him from others and was herself a clever musician.
While Wolfgang was having a pleasant chat with her, the King suddenly
turned round, and, looking up from the card-table, said: “Eh, bien! Are
we not soon to hear our little musician?”

There was a deep hush at these words. Wolfgang and Nannie, acting upon
the King’s suggestion, instantly went to the piano and began a
four-handed sonata, which they performed with great skill and
brilliancy. In fact the children played with extraordinary effect. The
King, however, did not stop his card game, and as he apparently paid no
attention to the children’s playing, the rest of the company followed
his example. The performance would have passed entirely unnoticed had
not the Queen and Princess Victoire listened with the closest attention.
They rewarded it with hearty applause, and sought to allay the feeling
of disappointment which the indifference of the rest of the company had
caused. The sensitive feelings and artistic pride of the children had
been deeply grieved, however. The tears came into Nannie’s eyes, and
Wolfgang, indignant at the conduct of his audience, made no effort to
conceal his anger. “Come, papa,” he said in a loud tone to his father,
at the same time slapping the leaves of his music-book together, “come,
let us go. It is easy to see that these people know nothing about
music.”

The vice chapelmaster was alarmed at this loud expression of his son’s
indignation. He feared, and not without reason, that they might incur
the royal displeasure, and he also realized the harm it would do them in
the world if it were known that Wolfgang’s playing had failed to make an
impression at the French Court. He kept his presence of mind, therefore,
and quietly said: “Just as you like, Wolfgang. We will go if you are
resolved not to play any more, but think how you will feel when the
world says, ‘Little Wolfgang Mozart has failed at the Court of
Versailles.’ How could you stand such disgrace? And the world will not
fail to say this if we sneak away now without accomplishing our
purpose.”

“You are right, father,” proudly replied Wolfgang. His sense of honor
was now aroused for the first time, as could be seen by his flashing
eyes. “I will make them hear me, and once they listen I shall succeed.”
Boldly advancing to the card-table, he bowed, and said to the King:
“Will Your Majesty have the kindness to give me a theme for
improvising?”

The King looked up with surprise, for it now occurred to him he had been
so engrossed with card-playing that he had utterly forgotten the
children. “Ah, it is you, is it?” said he. “What do you wish?”

“He wishes you would give him a theme for improvising,” promptly replied
the Princess Adelaide. The King, with an exclamation of surprise, cast a
searching glance at Wolfgang. “Certainly,” said he. “Try this,” humming
a melody from a favorite opera at that time.

“I hope to satisfy Your Majesty,” replied Wolfgang, with confidence, as
he returned to the piano.

The King’s attention had been aroused by the boldness of the child, and
although he did not stop his game, he heard Wolfgang’s playing just the
same. Suddenly he laid down his cards, arose, and said to those around
him, “This is really extraordinary.”

Wolfgang heard him, and there was a gleam of triumph in his face. He
continued playing with increasing beauty, power, and brilliancy, and
closed with a technical display surpassing anything ever before
exhibited. Now all were attentive. Only the tones of Wolfgang’s music
were heard in the great hall. The Queen and the princesses listened with
delight. Tears of sympathy stood in Princess Victoire’s eyes. The King
remained standing, overcome with astonishment, and now and then passed
his hand over his brow as if to convince himself he was not dreaming. As
the last note died away, his loud “brava” was the signal for such a
storm of applause as had never been heard at Versailles before. Princess
Victoire, unmindful of Court etiquette, rushed to Wolfgang, embraced
him, and kissed him repeatedly.

Besides the Queen, there was another lady present who at that time had
great influence with the King, and consequently was all-powerful at
Court—the famous Marquise de Pompadour. Like the rest, she was overcome
by the fascinating performance, and expressing to the King her wish to
see the boy more closely, he brought Wolfgang to her. “A little man,”
said she, “but a great genius notwithstanding. Put him on the table.”

This was done. When the beautiful Marquise—for she was really an
exceedingly beautiful woman—looked at him with her large, brilliant eyes
and smiled, Wolfgang bent forward to kiss her. He was not a little
surprised, however, when she drew back and turned herself away. He could
not restrain his impetuous disposition, and in his deep mortification he
cried out contemptuously: “Ah, who is this that will not kiss me? Has
not the Empress kissed me?”

Fortunately for him, and perhaps for the rest of the family, he spoke in
German, and no one at Court understood that language except the Queen
and the princesses, who were not at all displeased at the contempt which
Wolfgang then and afterwards displayed for the hated Marquise.

To prevent any further imprudent outbreaks on the part of the audacious
little fellow, he was induced to return to the piano, where he delighted
the company anew with his charming and graceful playing. He also
repeated the feat of playing upon the covered keyboard, which he had
performed for the Emperor of Austria. It was greeted with even more
applause and made a greater impression than his legitimate playing, and
this still further vexed and angered him. “They do not understand music
here at all,” he said to the Princess Victoire, to whom he had freely
opened his heart. “You are the only exception, and I will play for you
as a token of affection. Give me some task to perform.”

“What kind of one?” replied the princess. “Can you play a minuet and
write in the bass part beforehand?”

“Why not? I can if you will give me the melody.”

The princess requested her music teacher, Mons. Le Grand, to arrange a
minuet theme for Wolfgang. Le Grand obeyed, but with a doubtful shake of
the head. When it was ready Wolfgang took the composition, went to a
desk, and without stopping or hesitating an instant, wrote in the
correct bass. Mons. Le Grand was surprised, for, though he was an
excellent musician, he could not do anything like that. It was an easy
task, however, for Wolfgang.

“Now then, child, since you have successfully performed my sister’s
task,” said the Princess Adelaide to him, “will you try another?”

“With pleasure,” replied Wolfgang. “What shall it be?”

“Something very difficult,” said Princess Adelaide. “I will sing an
Italian cavatina which I know by heart. Do you think you can accompany
me on the piano without knowing the melody, entirely by ear?”

“That is impossible, absolutely impossible!” exclaimed Mons. Le Grand.

“It is not very easy,” said Wolfgang, “but I will try.”

He sat down to the piano, and Princess Adelaide, who was really a fine
singer, began the cavatina. Wolfgang accompanied her, imperfectly of
course, and sometimes incorrectly, for, as every musician knows, it is
almost impossible to divine every modulation and digression in an
unknown melody. The princess had hardly ended before Wolfgang requested
her to repeat the cavatina, and this time accomplished what human ears
had seldom, if ever, heard before. He not only played the melody with
his right hand, but the bass accompaniment with his left, apparently
with the greatest facility. Ten times over he requested the princess to
begin again, and each time he played an absolutely correct
accompaniment, each time varying it.

The performance was simply incredible, and it is not remarkable that
this feat of almost superhuman skill was greeted with a storm of
applause. All were enraptured. Princess Victoire took Wolfgang in her
lap, hugged and kissed him as if he were her own child, and gave him a
magnificent diamond brooch which she unfastened from her breast. The
Queen lavished dainties upon him, and fed him as if he had been a little
bird. Even the King conversed with the sharp little fellow, his replies
being translated into French by the Queen. The troop of courtiers stood
staring at the wonder child who had thus been honored above all other
artists in the world.




                              Chapter VII
                         The Cavalier of Music


After six months’ stay in Paris, the Mozart family left France, going
first to England,[18] and thence to Holland. Wolfgang was very ill at
the Hague,[19] but speedily recovered, thanks to the careful nursing of
his parents, and resumed his studies with renewed zeal. Paris was also
revisited, and about the close of 1766, crowned with the laurels of
fame, he returned to Salzburg.

Wolfgang spent a few years there in quiet seclusion, interrupted only by
a visit to Vienna, where he distinguished himself on several occasions,
and won the esteem and approbation of the famous Chapelmaster Hasse.[20]
He also received at home a distinguished honor for a boy of twelve, from
the Archbishop of Salzburg, who appointed him concert master of his
chapel after repeated tests of his ability.

Everything conspired to increase his fame. His artistic skill was
admired and appreciated wherever he went. There was but one thing
lacking in his effort to reach the summit of his art—the approbation of
Italy.

Italy was at this time the home of art. The greatest musicians and
composers lived there, and it was Wolfgang’s highest ambition to secure
their recognition and to win honors at their hands. “To Italy,” was his
watchword. Although his father fully appreciated the risk of the
experiment, he at last yielded to his son’s solicitations. The Italian
journey took place in 1769. This time father and son went alone. Nannie
remained at home with her mother.

There was at that time a Philharmonic Academy in Bologna, which was
recognized throughout the world as the final authority in all musical
matters. Musicians considered it the highest honor to be a member of
this Academy, and with good reason, for those only were admitted who had
passed the severest tests. Padre Martini,[21] universally recognized as
the most learned of musical scholars, and his faithful friend, the
renowned singer, Farinelli,[22] who had retired after receiving most
extraordinary honors, and was living at a charming villa near Bologna,
were at the head of this famous institution. They were acquainted with
the reputation of Wolfgang Mozart, and they were not surprised,
therefore, that when he reached Bologna he expressed the desire to
become a member of the Academy.

Padre Martini, as well as Farinelli, welcomed Wolfgang with sincere
cordiality, and his agreeable and unaffected demeanor soon commended him
to the good-will of these renowned men. His extraordinary endowments
were quickly recognized and appreciated by them, and yet Padre Martini
doubted whether the boy could pass the severe examination necessary for
admission to the Academy. He did not conceal his doubts from his friend
Farinelli.

One day, after Wolfgang had called upon them, Padre Martini said to
Farinelli: “This boy certainly is a wonder child and a rare flower of
our beautiful art, but it is my duty to assign him the severest of
tests, and I fear he is not skilful enough to succeed. ‘I fear,’ I
repeat, for the lad has won my heart, and I shall be deeply grieved if
he fail.”

“I do not share your apprehensions,” replied Farinelli. “His career
abroad, as well as the proofs of his ability at home, speaks for him.
Paris, London, Holland, and Vienna have been captivated by this wonder
child.”

“Yes, ‘by this child,’” answered Padre Martini; “but Wolfgang is now
leaving childhood. Although a boy, he is no longer a child, and he must
now establish his claim as an artist. Though all the world may recognize
him as such, he must first of all demonstrate it here. If our decision
should elevate him to the rank of Cavaliere Filarmonico, his fame will
be established. His piano, violin, and organ record cannot help him
here. He must prove that he is a scientifically educated musician, and
thoroughly grounded in counterpoint. It is this that makes me doubt.”

“Well, we shall see,” replied Farinelli, who had greater confidence in
the young man. “What test will you assign him?”

“The most difficult one I know,” replied Padre Martini. “He must set an
antiphon from the Antiphonarium, in four parts.”[23]

It was Farinelli’s turn to be anxious, for the test was so hard that its
accomplishment required an absolute and perfect knowledge of musical
science.

“You ought not to require that of him,” he said, with some emotion.

“I must do it. He must submit to the most difficult test. The boy is yet
very young, and the honor of the Academy is at stake,” replied Padre
Martini, unmoved by his friend’s protest. “If he do not succeed it will
be no disgrace for one so young, and he will have the consolation of
knowing that older musicians have failed in like manner; but should he
succeed in this hard contest, then, Farinelli, his fame will be as lofty
and enduring as the stars.”

“Manage this matter according to your best judgment,” replied Farinelli,
for he realized that nothing could induce the resolute old master to
change his purpose. “For my part I wish the boy success.”

“Not more than I,” said Padre Martini, with emotion. “I love this child
with my whole heart, and for that very reason I would have him
accomplish something great.”

Wolfgang in the meantime awaited his hard task with a serenity which
would have appeared foolhardy had he not been sure of his ability to
overcome the greatest difficulties without much exertion. The gifted boy
had not passed his leisure days at Salzburg in idleness. He had
resolutely and industriously devoted them to the study of his art, both
practically and theoretically. He had thoroughly analyzed the
compositions of such great masters as Stradella, Scarlatti, Durante,
Hasse, Bach, Handel, and others, and counterpoint had no difficulties
for him. Knowing that he was well equipped, he eagerly awaited his test,
anticipating it with impatience rather than with anxiety. It was the
height of his ambition to show the world that he was a recognized master
of music, and thus secure the friendship and esteem of Padre Martini,
whom the Italians almost worshipped, and whose judgment on all musical
questions was all-important because it was absolutely decisive.

On the day fixed for the test the cultivated people of Bologna were all
astir. A great crowd gathered in front of the large and elegant building
where the Accademia Filarmonica held its sessions, and waited with
intense eagerness for the result of the test. The public were not
allowed to enter the building, but awaited the news of the victory or
defeat of a candidate, which was announced from a balcony. This was the
old-time custom. The people already knew and admired young Mozart, for
he had roused their enthusiasm by his wonderful playing in his concerts,
and when he made his appearance about one o’clock that afternoon at the
hall, an enthusiastic “Evviva” welcomed him on all sides. His frank,
handsome face showed no trace of anxiety or doubt; on the contrary, he
mingled with the people as freely and with as much unconcern as if the
coming hours did not affect his interests, his honor, his fame, and his
future, all of which were at stake. Should he fail, his artistic career
would be at an end, and the laurels he had won would be of no more value
than heaps of dust and ashes. He might be assigned a fair place in the
ranks of artists, but no one would concede him any higher position.

Knowing all this, Wolfgang was calm when he appeared with his father,
whose face wore an anxious look, in the hall of the Academy. Padre
Martini, Farinelli, and all the other members at that time in Bologna,
most of them old and famous chapelmasters and composers, were already
assembled there. They received the boy in a dignified manner. It was a
solemn moment. Father Mozart’s heart beat with secret fear and his limbs
trembled, as he stood before the stern and stately judges of his son.
Wolfgang, however, was undisturbed as he looked at their array, but he
displayed no sign of overconfidence.

After the formal greeting Father Mozart was conducted outside into the
library. Wolfgang was requested to approach. After a few instructions
the judges arose and handed him the paper containing the test. It was,
as Padre Martini had said, the arrangement for four voices of an
antiphon from the “Antiphonarium Romanum,” which Wolfgang must
accomplish in a closed room, three hours being allowed for its
completion.

Wolfgang took the paper, made a low bow of reverence, and with quick
step and confident manner followed an official, who conducted him to an
apartment and locked him in. Anxiously and with secret misgivings Padre
Martini and Farinelli watched the exit of this boy so full of life,
animation, and courage. They had ample reasons for their anxiety, for
they knew of course the difficulty of the test. They also remembered
that many clever musicians had been wrecked by it, and that others had
labored the entire three hours, exerting their utmost ability to arrange
an antiphon of even fewer parts. The members watched him go in silence.
Here and there they whispered together. Padre Martini and his friend
Farinelli walked quietly up and down the hall. All were deeply moved.
The majority of the judges wished the young candidate good luck, but
there were some who were envious of the young artist’s ability and
secretly cherished the hope that he would not accomplish his task. Eager
expectation was visible on every face. Some were anxious and hopeful,
others were jealous and envious.

Thus a half hour passed. No one dreamed that the painful waiting was so
nearly over, when the door of the hall was suddenly thrown open, and the
official who such a short time before had locked Wolfgang in his room,
entered. He looked pale and uneasy, and was evidently overcome with
astonishment. “What is it? What has happened?” asked Padre Martini,
breathlessly.

“Signor, I am almost afraid to tell you,” replied the official. “I can
hardly trust my own ears. The young Mozart has given the signal that he
has completed his task.”

“Impossible! In so short a time? Impossible!” exclaimed Padre Martini,
his face growing somewhat pale.

“Impossible!” repeated several other members, who were amazed at the
official’s announcement. “The young man is either foolhardy or out of
his head.”

“We shall soon see,” said Padre Martini, calmly. “Nothing is impossible
to a great genius, and Mozart’s genius is far above the ordinary.”

“But the Academy has flourished a hundred years, and such a thing as
this has never occurred before,” said one member.

“That has little significance. What has never yet happened may have
happened now,” replied Padre Martini, who tried to conceal his anxiety
behind outward composure. “The signal has been given. Come, gentlemen
censors, and receive the young man’s work and test it here _in pleno_.”

They arose and followed Padre Martini, who led them with quiet dignity,
though at heart he was not so quiet as he appeared. He was really afraid
Wolfgang had underestimated the difficulty of his task and made errors.
His heart beat violently as the official unlocked the door, and his
eager eyes rested upon young Mozart, who was standing in the middle of
the room in his easy, careless manner, with uplifted head, smiling
countenance, and eyes glowing with the certainty of success. He handed
the paper to Padre Martini with a graceful bow. The latter took it and
cast a hurried, anxious glance at it. Almost instantly his face lit up
with satisfaction.

“He has succeeded,” he said to himself with a sigh of relief. “It is
greater, grander, more artistic than I had dared to think or hope.” Then
he turned in a dignified manner to the censors: “Let us return to the
hall, gentlemen. The work of the young musician must be thoroughly
analyzed and passed upon.”

With a gracious inclination of his head and a smile of delight, Padre
Martini took leave of Wolfgang, who was again locked in to await the
final announcement. Nearly an hour had passed when the boy heard some
one hurriedly approaching. The door was again opened, and Padre Martini
with tears of joy entered and embraced him. “Come with me, my son,” he
said with choking voice, as he led Wolfgang back to the hall.

When the youth entered by the side of the grand old master all the
members arose, greeted him with long-continued and enthusiastic
hand-clapping, and shouted:

“Evviva il maestro! Evviva il Cavaliere Filarmonico!”

Wolfgang was pale with joyous excitement. He had achieved his most
glorious victory. His work had been unanimously adjudged the highest
honors. He was now a member of the Academy, a recognized master, a
knight of the exalted art to which he had consecrated his whole life.
Two arms enfolded him with affectionate tenderness—the arms of his happy
father. Wolfgang shed tears of delight. There was a silence of sympathy
in the hall, broken all at once by the jubilant shouts of thousands in
the street, the acclamations of a vast multitude resounding like the
surge of the sea, and repeating the same words which had just rung
through the hall:

“Evviva il maestro! Evviva il Cavaliere Filarmonico!”

With this inspiring and exciting scene Mozart’s boyhood closed. He was
no longer a child. Though in years a boy, in deeds he was a man,—a man
in the full sense of the term, a sovereign in the empire of music, the
idol of the Italians, soon to be the favorite of the world. What the
child had promised, the man had achieved. His works bear witness to the
greatness of that achievement. They shine like brilliant stars in the
musical firmament. They assure his universal and imperishable fame.




                                Appendix


The following is a chronological statement of the principal events in
the life of Mozart:

    1756     Born at Salzburg, Austria, Jan. 27.
    1762     Concert tour with his sister. Received at the Austrian
             Court.
    1763     Received at the Court of France.
    1764     Received at the Court of England.
    1765     Received at the Court of Holland.
    1768     Appointed Concert-meister to Archbishop of Salzburg.
    1769     Visited Italy and elected member of the Accademia
             Filarmonica at Bologna.
    1769     “Mitridate” produced at Milan.
    1771     Second visit to Italy.
    1778     Visited Paris.
    1781     Composed “Idomeneo.”
    1782     Married Constanze Weber, third daughter of Fridolin Weber,
             a prompter and copyist.
    1786     Composed “Marriage of Figaro.”
    1787     Composed “Don Giovanni.”
    1787     Appointed Chamber composer to the Emperor.
    1787     Composed his last three symphonies.
    1789     Concert tour through Germany.
    1791     Composed “The Magic Flute” and “The Requiem.”
    1791     Died in Vienna, Dec. 5.
    1859     Monument erected on the probable site of his grave by the
             city of Vienna.




                               Footnotes


[1]Leopold Mozart was the son of a bookbinder at Augsburg, and was born
   Dec. 14, 1719. He was a skilful musician, and rose to be vice
   chapelmaster at the Court of the Archbishop of Salzburg.

[2]Johannes Chrysostom Sigismund Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the great
   composer, was born at Salzburg, Jan. 27, 1756.

[3]Maria Anna Pertl, Mozart’s mother, was a foster child of the convent
   of St. Gilgen in Strasburg. She was a good-hearted and very handsome
   woman, a faithful wife and loving mother, but not of striking
   intellectual ability.

[4]Anton Cajetan Adlgasser was organist at the cathedral of Salzburg,
   and court musician. He was also noted as a composer. He died in 1777,
   while playing the organ.

[5]A mountain in the Salzburg Alps, about eight miles from that city. It
   is celebrated in folk lore, and many legends of Charlemagne and
   Barbarossa are connected with it.

[6]Mozart’s full name was Johann Chrysostom Sigismund Wolfgang Amadeus.
   He was the youngest of seven children. In the family he was addressed
   as “Wolfgang,” or “Wolfgangerl,” the termination “erl,” like “chen,”
   being a diminutive, and used as a term of endearment.

[7]Mozart’s sister, Maria Anna, was born Aug. 29, 1751. Her household
   name was “Nannie,” or “Nannerl.”

[8]Andreas Schachtner afterwards was the principal trumpeter in the band
   of the Archbishop of Salzburg. His father was also a trumpeter.

[9]This was a work of considerable importance, entitled “An Attempt
   toward a Fundamental System for the Violin,” published in Augsburg.

[10]Nissen, one of Mozart’s biographers, says this concerto was written
   with a full score of accompaniments, including even trumpets and
   drums. This, however, is probably incorrect, for the compositions of
   his earlier period are mainly for strings, and the few wind
   instruments usually found in the small orchestras of that period.

[11]The word “concerto” in this connection is probably used in its old
   restricted sense, when this musical form resembled the sonata. The
   modern form of the concerto was fixed by Mozart, but at a later
   period in his life.

[12]The first of Mozart’s compositions catalogued by Köchel is a minuet
   and trio for piano. Upon the manuscript, which is still preserved,
   his sister has written: “The undersigned witnesses that this piece
   was composed by her brother in his fifth year.” The original is
   without title, and bears the date 1761.

[13]Linz, the capital of upper Austria, is a city of about 50,000
   population, on the Danube River.

[14]In a letter written Oct. 16, 1762, Mozart’s father says: “The
   following Tuesday we reached Ipo, where two Minorites and a
   Benedictine, who had been our companions on the water, said mass,
   between which our Wolferl rattled about on the organ, and played so
   well that the Franciscan fathers, who were entertaining some guests
   at dinner, quitted the table, and, together with their company,
   hastened into the choir, when their astonishment was inexpressible.”

[15]Georg Christoph Wagenseil was born Jan. 15, 1715, in Vienna, and
   died there March 1, 1777. He was the Court composer, organist to the
   Dowager Empress Elizabeth, and music master to the Empress Maria
   Theresa and the imperial princesses.

[16]Andreas Schachtner, Court trumpeter, in his recollections of Mozart,
   says: “If a trumpet was held before him, it was like putting a loaded
   pistol to his ear. Papa, wishing to overcome this childish dread, on
   one occasion told me not to mind this aversion, but to sound the
   trumpet near him. Scarcely had Wolfgang heard the shrill sound when
   he turned pale and began to sink to the ground. Had I gone on he
   certainly would have fallen in convulsions.”

[17]Baron von Grimm was a distinguished German-French critic and author,
   and one of the most brilliant literary celebrities of this period.

[18]Mozart and his father left Paris for London, April 10, 1764, and
   remained in England until August 1. The children were kindly received
   at Court, and made as usual an extraordinary impression.

[19]Upon arriving at the Hague, Mozart’s sister was first taken ill, and
   then Mozart himself took a violent fever, which lasted several weeks.
   It was nearly two months before he could play in Holland.

[20]Johann Adolph Hasse, a distinguished dramatic composer, was born
   March 25, 1699. It was Hasse who said, after hearing Mozart’s
   “Ascanio in Alba,” written when he was thirteen years old, “This boy
   will throw us all into the shade.”

[21]Giovanni Battista Martini, usually called Padre Martini, was born at
   Bologna, April 15, 1706, and was one of the most learned musicians of
   his time. He left many compositions and some important works in
   musical literature.

[22]Carlo Broschi Farinelli, born at Naples, Jan. 24, 1705, was a famous
   soprano singer. He created a furore all over Europe, and received
   distinguished honors at many Courts.

[23]The Antiphonarium Romanum is a collection of the plain song melodies
   handed down in the Roman church by tradition, and compiled by Saint
   Gregory with many of his compositions added. For many centuries after
   his death it was regarded as the authority in church music. The
   chants adapted to the Psalms are the more important parts of plain
   song.


                     LIFE STORIES FOR YOUNG PEOPLE

                     _Translated from the German by
                            George P. Upton_

                               Beethoven
                            Maid of Orleans
                                 Mozart
                              William Tell

                            _60 cents each_




                          Transcriber’s Notes


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