The ladies insisted—they always had music when Zelter made them a visit.
"Come, make some noise and awaken the spirits that have so long lain slumbering!" ordered the old poet.
Zelter advanced to the piano and played a stiff, formal little tune of his own.
He arose and motioned to Felix.
"Play that!" said the teacher.
The child sat down, and with an impatient little gesture and half-smile at the audience, played the piece exactly as Zelter had played it, with a certain drawling style that was all Zelter's own. It was so funny that the listeners burst into shouts of laughter. But the boy instantly restored order by striking the bass a strong stroke with both hands, running the scale, and weaving that simple little air into the most curious variations.
For ten minutes he played, bringing in Zelter's little tune again and again, and then Zelter in a voice of pretended wrath cried, "Cease that tin-pan drumming and play something worth while."
Goethe arose, stroked the boy's pretty brown curls, kissed him on the forehead and said: "Yes, play something worth while. I know you two rogues—you have been practising on that piece for a year or more, and now you pretend to be improvising—I'll see whether you can play!"
And going to a portfolio he took out a manuscript piece of music written out in the fine, delicate hand of Mozart, and placed it on the music-rack of the piano. Felix played the piece as if it were his own; and then laying it aside, went back and played it through from memory.
Then piece after piece was brought out for him to play, and Zelter leaned back and by his manner said, "Oh, it is nothing!"