were you not? Surely you were expecting me. We planned—”
“Yes, of course. Come in, come in. The journey was ...”
“Difficult. My bones ache.”
Mozart kissed the older man, rang for the landlady to remove the dirty dishes, and paced the room anxiously. He hardly heard the stories of Salzburg, of work difficulties, as he hurled the covers hastily on the bed and picked up his dirty hose. He wanted to throw open his arms at the mess and cry, You see, this is why I must marry, Father. Can’t you see I need a wife? But with the events of the past week, it was not the time to do it. He did not know what Constanze was feeling. He could not break through her anger, her little hard profile when he tried to see her.
He spoke about music with his father, who then said dryly, “And so? Where’s the girl?” He looked about the little room as if he expected his son had hidden Constanze Weber in a closet. “I’m hungry for my midday meal; ask her to join us.”
Mozart hurried from his rooms and went running down the street, dodging between horses and carts and shoppers, slipping past the stalls of goods for sale, and to the house in Petersplatz, but Constanze was not home; a neighbor said he had seen her go to market. He turned and headed that way, the dust of the warm streets now covering his shoes, and saw her emerging from the fishmonger’s, a large piece of fish wrapped in old paper in her basket. He felt his hair stand on end as he approached her.
“My father’s come,” he said into her ear. “We’ll all have a fine dinner together. He’s hungry and wants to meet you. I couldn’t stop him from coming; I asked him to postpone his trip. Come right now, please, and I beg you, Stanzi, my beloved, my only darling, my wife to be, don’t let him see any differences between us. They’ll all be gone soon, once you stop sulking and realize how much I love you, so there’s no need for him to know about them now.”
“I’ll make up our differences when my hurt stops,” she said. “It just doesn’t go away that quickly. But I’ll meet your father and be very nice, as I was taught to be. Oh, why couldn’t he have come next week? I’m just almost over being angry; I needed only a little time more, Wolfgang.” She slipped her hand in his, and he took her basket of fish. They walked together toward his rooms, past his concierge, who stood in front of the building eating an ice, and climbed the stairs.
Constanze saw a small man with gray hair and a sour face, but his hands, with their callused fingertips from his lifetime of playing the violin, were rather beautiful.
She curtseyed, suddenly aware that she was wearing a mended dress, discolored along the hem with street muck and floor sweepings.
He returned a small bow. “Ah,” said Leopold. “So you are Constanze. Yes, it is a pleasure to meet you, Constanze....”
“I hope your journey was well, sir.”
“Coach journeys tire me....”
The conversation went on in this stiff way until they were interrupted by a knock from below and the nasal voice of the old concierge. “It’s my librettist,” Mozart said. “He likely has more of the words for me to set; I’ve been waiting for them. Sit down, sit down and be comfortable. Father, show her some Salzburg hospitality. There’s a little wine in the decanter. Then we’ll go for supper.”
Mozart’s father and Constanze both took chairs. Constanze folded her hands in her lap. She realized that they were not very clean. For a few moments they listened to the agitated voices below.
Leopold muttered of wine, of church music, of childhoods. Then he cleared his throat. “You seem like an honest girl, Mademoiselle Weber,” he said. “And I think I see a pleasing innocence in your face, yes, just as he has described you. You think you know my son, but that’s difficult to do; he doesn’t know himself, never has.”
She pressed her hands together. “I believe I know him well, sir. What do you mean?”
“He thinks he loves people, but it’s music he loves. I formed him for music and he belongs to music, but it won’t give him a life. He can’t make his way in the world, and for any woman to marry a man like that would be a disaster. Haven’t