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THE DUTY THAT WAS NOT PAID
Katherine Dunlap Gather
More than a hundred years ago a man and his two children
were journeying from their home in Salzburg to Vienna. They
traveled by the Danube boat, and Marianne, the sister, stood
by the rail tossing pebbles into the water and watching the tur-
bulent river swallow them up. Her dress was worn almost
threadbare, but her face was so sweet and her eyes were so large
and bright that she looked pretty for all her shabbiness.
Just behind her on the deck her father and brother were
talking. “If we make some money in the city you’ll buy sister
a new dress, won’t you. Father?” little Wolfgang asked.
Marianne whirled and started toward him. She knew that
was sure to make her father sad, and she called, “Don’t coax,
Wolfgang. My dress will do very well until we can afford to
buy another, and a new one will seem all the nicer because of
my having worn this one so long.”
Her brother turned his big, earnest eyes upon her, and said,
“But, Marianne, I know you want one. I heard you wish for it
by the evening star, and last night you put it in your prayer.”
Father Mozart turned from them with a sad look on his face,
and walked up and down the deck, wishing very much he could
do what Wolfgang asked. But he was just a poor orchestra
conductor with an income so small he had to stretch it hard to
provide food and shelter for his family. Marianne must wear the
shabby frock until better times began, which he hoped would
be soon. They were to give some concerts in the Austrian
capital, and maybe in that rich, music-loving city would earn
enough to make them more comfortable than they had been
before. But until then they must not spend a penny save what
was needed for food and shelter, because the customs fee on
the harp they carried must be paid, and that would reduce their
little fund to a very small amount.
Wolfgang, too, thought about it as the boat crept in and
out between the hills, and wondered much if there was no way
in which Marianne might have the dress before they played in
Vienna. His old teacher in Salzburg had often told him that
there is a way out of every difficulty if one is clever enough to
think of it, and there must be out of this. His own suit was bright
and new, for his birthday was just past and it had been his uncle’s
gift. But Marianne was a very shabby little girl, and he knew
she was unhappy though she was brave and sweet about it.
They were gliding past the ruins of the castle that once,
men said, had been the prison of Richard the First, England’s
Lion-Hearted King, when his enemies took him captive on his
return from the holy wars. Often in the twilight time at
Salzburg, as they waited for the father to come from his work,
the mother told them his tale.
“He was very brave and wise, too,” the boy thought as he
looked at the crumbUng pile. “He would have found a way for
Marianne to have a new dress if she had been his sister.”
Was it the prayer being answered, or just the fulfillment of
the wish made by the evening star? For while he thought, an
idea came into his head. It was a good idea, it seemed to him,
so good that it made him smile. If it worked out, and he
believed it would, Marianne might have the dress she wanted so
much, because then his father would have more money to spend.
Just to the south they could see the great spire of St.
Stephen’s, 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 glis-
tening 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 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.
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 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!”
“Yes,” the father answered with a smile, “he does well at
the harp.”
“Amazing,” the officer murmured, “Fve heard many a good
harpist in my day, but never anything sweeter than that.”
Wolfgang smiled. The idea was working out, and he was
very glad. Already he had visions of a happy sister in a hand-
some new gown, and turning again to the instrument, he played
even more beautifully than before, for the gladness that crept
into his heart was creeping also into the music.
For some minutes he picked the strings, while the people
listened as if held in a spell, until the father said, “We must go
now, for it is getting late, and we have yet to find lodgings in
the city.** And he handed the money to the officer.
But the man shook his head. “No,” he said, and his eyes
were very tender. “A boy who can give as much pleasure as that
deserves something. Keep the money and buy a present for him.”
As Wolfgang heard the words he gave a bound. “Father,”
he exclaimed, with sparkling eyes, “buy the dress for Marianne.
You can do it now, since you have saved the customs money.”
The officer looked at him in amazement. “He is a wonderful
lad, truly,” he exclaimed, “and as kind as he is wonderful!”
“Yes,” came the low reply. “He has wanted nothing so
much as a new dress for his sister.”
And she did get it, too, a beautiful one of soft, bright red,
all trimmed with shining buttons. Wolfgang danced with delight
when he saw it, and there was no happier child in all Vienna.
They gave many concerts there, some before the royal family;
and Maria Theresa, the empress, became greatly attached to
both brother and sister, gave them handsome clothes and beau-
tiful gifts, and forgot all about affairs of state while Wolfgang
played. She called him the “little sorcerer,” and agreed with
the customs officer that he was a wonderful child.
Then, after some weeks, they went back to the home in
Salzburg, where the boy kept on at his music, doing such mar-
velous things that his fame traveled far. He grew to be the
great master, Mozart, at whose glorious music the world still
wonders, and he was a generous
and sweet-souled man, just as he
was a big-hearted and thoughtful
child. Many lovely acts are told
of him, but none that shows his
kindness and tenderness in a more
delightful way than when as a boy
on the Vienna wharf he charmed
the customs officer and all others
who heard, and Marianne got the
dress for which she had wished
with the duty money that wasn’t
paid.
