“I understand that I won’t be laughed at,” he cried. “And his father knows mine ... perhaps they’ll drink a glass together somewhere, and talk. It’s bad enough that the woman I will marry lives in a boardinghouse, with all manner of men coming and going, walking through the halls with their shirts not fully buttoned, seeing your garments hanging to dry, your precious small things....”
“Where else should I hang my things? Why are you so jealous? I haven’t given you cause, have I? I am waiting, just as my sister waited. I’m sick to think I’ll meet your father. To please him, I’ll have to behave in some peculiar way unlike myself.”
“I was going to tell him you’re not like the other Webers.”
“But I am a Weber, and I’m proud to be a Weber. Our hearts are open; we’re hospitable. It was our hospitality that brought you to us. Johann Schantz says bad things of me, and you believe him. Suppose he took advantage of me—”
“I know your passionate nature.”
“You’ve never objected to it before.”
They stood glaring at each other. She would have slapped him if he had not caught her hand. “Stop, stop ... dearest Stanzi,” he said. “I didn’t mean for things to get out of hand like this. I’m jealous, but I’ve never doubted you. It’s just what Schantz said. What you did before shouldn’t matter, but it does if it’s common talk. I will never buy one of his instruments. I’d rather use it for firewood. Come here; stop walking up and down like a soldier on guard.” He caught her in his arms, where she remained stiff and furious, eyes cast down, ready to shout again and say other things he could not imagine.
He whispered to her, “Listen, all will be well. I’m jealous because I want you so, and the thought of any other man touching your hand drives me from my mind. I’m sick with wanting you. I won’t wait longer than autumn. We must be married in the autumn. I’ll count the days and the hours. Listen, just think how happy we’ll be! We’ll have a little dog, yes, and a house full of beautiful chairs and mirrors and things. Several beautiful elegant rooms quite near Stephansplatz. Perhaps the old cathedral organist will die and I’ll take his place. Yes, many things may happen to me once the opera is done and a success, and it will be a success, I swear it. And at night we’ll draw the curtains and send the maid away.”
Though she did not break from him, Constanze stood stiffly, eyes downcast, responding to nothing, as if she had heard none of his words. She said, “I’ll be as rude as I like to your father if he’s rude to me. My family is as good as yours, even if we never played before the courts of Europe. I don’t care if your father comes. Your name may be known throughout Europe, but it’s little enough to me.” She said a great deal more until he grew pale and seemed to shrink.
“Very well then,” he said, “I’ll write. I can’t speak with you today.” As he left the boardinghouse, he muttered, “The girl has her mother in her. How will I ever manage that?”
The beauty, the sweetness of the warm months was gone between them. Three days passed without meeting, though Mozart sent her small hopeful notes of reconciliation. All the whispered conversations they had had, the pleasant arguments of what sort of furnishings they would have, in what part of the city they would live, even the names of their future children, stopped abruptly. When he received no answer to his last letter, he threw up his hands. He was too busy to placate her. He resented it, and sent a quick letter off to Salzburg asking his father to postpone his trip.
Unbeknownst to Mozart, it arrived two hours after the Salzburg coach left for Vienna. Mozart was writing one morning, huddled in his shirtsleeves over the paper, when his door opened to reveal his father standing there, gray hair pulled back in wound ribbons, gazing critically about the room at the clothes thrown here and there, the unmade bed, the dirty plates pushed to the side of the table.
Mozart leapt up at once, passing his hand over his mouth to conceal his agitation. “You’ve come.”