Just to the south they could see the great spire of St. Stephens, a tall, gray finger against the sky, which told that Vienna was not far away. As it grew nearer and nearer, looming up bigger and plainer before them, Wolfgang thought more and more of his idea, until when they reached the mooring his eyes were dancing and his cheeks were aflame. His father believed the thought of seeing the great capital had excited him, but that was not it at all. He had a secret plan and could hardly wait until he knew whether or not it would work out.
The journey was ended and the people were going ashore. “Please loosen the cover, Father,” he said as Leopold Mozart carried the harp toward the customs gate.
“Ah, you are proud of it!” the man answered with a smile.
Wolfgang did not reply, thinking what a poor guesser his father was. He watched him as he set the instrument down and undid the wrapping, bringing the polished frame and glistening strings into full view. Then he went over and took his place beside the harp as the customs officer drew near, and Marianne came and stood beside him. She had forgotten all about her shabby dress in her eagerness to find out how much duty they would have to pay.
“What have you to declare?” the man asked.
“Only a harp,” Leopold Mozart answered, as he laid his hand on their one treasure.
“It is a beautiful instrument and valuable,” the official said as he looked at it, and named as the price of the duty an amount so big as to cut their little hoard almost in half.
Father Mozart’s face grew very serious, and the merriment went out of Marianne’s eyes. But Wolfgang did not worry at all. He still had that idea in his mind, and believed it would work out.
Leopold Mozart reached into his pocket for the little sack containing his savings, but it was not necessary to open it, for just as he was about to do so Wolfgang started to play. The customs officer turned with a start and listened, and the people gathered there forgot all about duty charges as they crowded around the little musician. His tiny hands swept the strings as if his fingers had some magic power, and the melody they made was sweeter than any ever heard on that old wharf. For five minutes, ten, he kept at it, and there was not a whisper or a murmur, only a sort of breathless surprise that one so young could play so wonderfully.
“What!” one exclaimed as he finished, “a lad of his age to perform like that!”