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Updated: June 1, 2025
She still saw that fair hair gleam in the dusk that was the one who was doing all the mischief. The mother made inquiries about her son's doings with a sagacity that would have done credit to a policeman. Had her husband had any idea of how often at any time of the day or evening his wife wandered round the house where Wolfgang had his rooms, he would have opposed it most strenuously.
The wonderful acquirements of both these children, to which Wolfgang soon added skilful playing on the violin and organ, induced their father to travel with them. In January, 1702, when the boy was just six years old, they went first to Munich, and in the autumn to Vienna, the children everywhere on their journey exciting the greatest sensation, and being handsomely remunerated.
Little Wolfgang, now three years old, in his childish eagerness to be as busy as the others, had only hindered, and had to be reprimanded once in a while. One could never be vexed with the little elf, even if he turned somersaults in new clean clothes, or made chalk figures all over the living-room chairs.
Cannabich had a daughter named Rosa, a girl of thirteen, exceedingly pretty and clever, and Wolfgang appears to have admired her very much, and perhaps for a time to have flirted and been in love with her.
Wolfgang followed the retreating pair, but turned on the threshold to make his obeisance to the ranch mistress, and to say, "At your service, good lady. My pick and my head." Then, bowing again toward all the company, he disappeared.
"That was breaking the ice with a vengeance!" said Berkley, as they pushed out into the lake again; and ere long they were floating beneath the mighty precipice of Falkenstein; a steep wall of rock, crowned with a chapel and a hermitage, where in days of old lived the holy Saint Wolfgang.
"Wolfgang Mozart of Salzburg," answered the boy. "What!" cried the Cardinal. "Are you really that famous boy of whom so many men have written to me?" Mozart bowed in assent. "And are you not Cardinal Pallavicini?" he asked in turn. "Yes," said the prelate. "Why do you ask?" "My father and I have letters to your Eminence," said the boy, "and are anxious to wait upon you with our compliments."
Yet as a test for the culture of a Poet, in his poetical capacity, for his pretensions to mastery and completeness in his art, we cannot but reckon this among the surest. Tried by this, there is no writer that approaches within many degrees of Goethe. Johann Wolfgang von Goethe was born in Frankfort on August 28, 1749.
A speck was seen rapidly descending from the heavens; it grew to be as big as a crown-piece, then as a partridge, then as a tea-kettle, and flop! down fell a magnificent heron to the ground, flooring poor Max in its fall. "Take the arrow out of his eye, Wolfgang," said Otto, without looking at the bird: "wipe it and put it back into my quiver."
He therefore wriggled like an eel, especially when Wolfgang, in spite of his polished words and manners, had shown himself excessively grasping and as hard hearted as a stone. Only one thought comforted Macko and that was, that de Lorche would have pay for all, but even that, the loss of de Lorche's ransom, worried him.
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