Wolfg.: Writing a concerto for the clavier; it will soon be done.
Father: Let me see it.
Wolfg.: It is not finished yet.
Father: Never mind; let me see it. It must be something very fine.
Your father took it from him and showed me a daub of notes, for the most part written over ink-blots. (The little fellow dipped his pen every time down to the very bottom of the ink-bottle, so that as soon as it reached the paper, down fell a blot; but that did not disturb him in the least, he rubbed the palm of his hand over it, wiped it off, and went on with his writing.) We laughed at first at this apparent nonsense, but then your father began to note the theme, the notes, the composition; his contemplation of the page became more earnest, and at last tears of wonder and delight fell from his eyes.
"Look, Herr Schachtner," said he, "how correct and how orderly it is; only it could never be of any use, for it is so extraordinarily difficult that no one in the world could play it."
Then Wolfgangerl struck in: "That is why it is a concerto; it must be practised till it is perfect; look! this is how it goes."
He began to play, but could only bring out enough to show us what he meant by it. He had at that time a firm conviction that playing concertos and working miracles were the same thing.
Once more, honoured madam! You will doubtless remember that I have a very good violin which Wolfgangerl used in old times to call "Butter-fiddle," on account of its soft, full tone. One day, soon after you came back from Vienna (early in 1763), he played on it, and could not praise my violin enough; a day or two after, I came to see him again, and found him amusing himself with his own little violin. He said directly: "What is your butter-fiddle about?" and went on playing according to his fancy; then he thought a little and said:
"Herr Schachtner, your violin is half a quarter of a tone lower than mine, that is, if it is tuned as it was, when I played on it last."