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.