It was Holy Week when young Mozart and his father entered Rome, and the city lay under the spell of the great festival of the year.  They soon joined the throngs that filled the vast temple of St. Peter’s, to which all turn during this solemn season.  After attending a service and viewing the treasures of the Cathedral, they turned their steps to the Sistine Chapel, which contains the wonderful painting of the Last Judgment by Michael Angelo.  It was here that the celebrated Miserere by Allegri was performed.  Wolfgang had been looking forward to this moment all through the latter part of his journey.  His father had told him how jealously guarded this music was; it could never be performed in any other place, and the singers could never take their parts out of the chapel.  He was intensely eager to hear this work.  And indeed it would be difficult to imagine anything more beautiful and impressive than the singing of the Miserere, which means “Have Mercy.”  It follows the solemn service called Tenebrae, (Darkness) during which the six tall candles on the altar are extinguished one by one,—­till but one is left, which is removed to a space behind the altar.  Then in almost complete darkness the Miserere begins.  A single voice is heard singing the antiphon, or short introduction,—­and then comes silence, a silence so profound that the listener scarcely dares to breathe for fear of disturbing it.  At length the first sad notes of the supplication are heard, like the softest wailing of an anguished spirit; they gradually gain force till the whole building seems to throb with the thrilling intensity of the music.

The young musician was profoundly moved; the father too was much affected by the solemn service.  Neither spoke as they left the chapel and sought their lodgings.  After they had retired the boy could not sleep; his thoughts were filled with the wonderful music he had heard.  He arose, lit the lamp, and got out pens and music paper.  He worked industriously the long night through.  When morning dawned the boy sat with his beautiful head upon his folded arms, asleep, while before him on the table lay a score of the Miserere of Allegri, entirely written from memory.

The next day, Good Friday, the Miserere was performed for the second time.  Wolfgang, the boy of fourteen, who had performed the wonderful feat of writing this work out after one hearing, again attended the service, keeping the score in his hat, and found his work was nearly perfect, needing but a couple of trifling corrections.

The news of this startling feat gained for the young musician a cordial welcome into the houses of the great in Rome; during their stay father and son were feted to their hearts’ content.

At Naples, their next stopping place, Wolfgang played before a brilliant company, and excited so much astonishment, that people declared his power in playing came from a ring he wore on his finger.  “He wears a charm,” they cried.  Mozart smiled, took off the ring and played more brilliantly than ever.  Then the enthusiasm was redoubled.  The Neapolitans showed them every attention and honor.  A carriage was provided for their use, and we have an account of how they drove through the best streets, the father wearing a maroon-colored coat with light blue facings, and Wolfgang in one of apple green, with rose-colored facings and silver buttons.