“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.”
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.