“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?”