And so, prompted by love and gratitude, Wolfgang works on until at last the long task is finished, and the composer lays down his pen with a sigh of relief. 'What will the Archbishop think of the work? Will he laugh at it, and tell the father that he is mistaken in believing that his son can write good music? Would this week of toil be thrown away, and the sheets be cast into the fire?'
Such are the thoughts of the child-musician as he glances anxiously through the manuscript. 'Yet, no; it has some good points—as a musician he is sure of that—and surely his Grace will not fail to observe those good points.'
Mozart's fears were groundless. When the old Archbishop came to inspect the work, his face showed the pleasure and astonishment which he felt. Boyish the workmanship may have been, yet there was nothing of boyishness about the music itself. Wolfgang had taken the Italian oratorio as his model, and the result showed how completely he had mastered its forms. Such was the verdict which the connoisseurs passed upon the work, nor did those judges fail to call attention to its dignity and delicacy of expression, its well-chosen harmonies, and the flowing melodies that were a foreshadowing of the Mozart of later years. The cantata—the two remaining parts of which were composed by the Court musicians—was performed with great success during Lent, 1767, by the students of Salzburg University, and in the programme the eye of the composer met the words, 'The first part of this work was set to music by Herr Wolfgang Mozart, aged ten years.'
Wolfgang's studies had been much interrupted by travel, and now that they were home again his father began to give him regular instruction in counterpoint as a solid groundwork for future composition. There were many little breaks in these studies, however, and one which afforded Wolfgang immense delight whenever it came round was to visit the monastery of Seeon, with the monks of which he was on a footing of firm friendship. For one of the priests, known as Father Johannes, the boy had a deep affection; and whenever the good man made his appearance, Wolfgang would spring to embrace him, and, stroking his cheeks, would sing his greeting to a little air of his own:
Mein Han-serl! liebs Han-serl! liebs Han-serl![ToList]
The monks were always teasing Wolfgang about his tune. On Father Johannes' fête-day the boy presented him with an offertory of his own composing, in which he introduced the little melody as a birthday greeting. The caressing little air runs through the piece, and is 'twice interrupted by the words, "Ecce Agnus Dei, qui tollit peccata mundi" (Behold the Lamb of God, which taketh away the sin of the world), given in a quiet, serious manner that has a charming effect.' Good Father Johannes had no need to feel ashamed of the moisture which gathered in his eyes as he scanned this tender little offering of his child-friend on his birthday morning.
But the visits to the old monastery were to be interrupted by a further period of travel. Vienna was making great preparations for celebrating the betrothal of the Archduchess Josepha, who had made herself beloved of the people, and Leopold Mozart was desirous of being present with his children at the festivities. Accordingly, they set out in September, 1767, but no sooner had they arrived at the capital than they were met by the news that the Princess had been struck down with small-pox. A few days later the tidings of her death spread grief and consternation throughout the city. The dread of infection caused the nobility to flee the place, and Leopold hastened to remove the children to Olmütz. Their efforts to escape, however, were vain, for both children developed the disease, and for nine days Wolfgang was quite blind. A good Samaritan, in the person of Count von Podstatzky, Dean of Olmütz, received the family into his house, with a noble indifference to the risk which he incurred, and treated them with every kindness and consideration, so that with good nursing Wolfgang and Marianne soon recovered.