you waited for him often, only to have him come late? Has he never looked up from his writing and not even realize who you are? There, you see. And what would occur if you married him? You would be waiting, waiting. You would be by a window waiting for someone often out in society, often in the presence of many beautiful women. And then you would be sorry you didn’t listen to the sad words of an old man who loves him. For I have waited, mademoiselle; I have waited many years for my son to truly come home. And if he does marry ... take this nothing against yourself, mademoiselle ... I think perhaps your family is not the best to marry into. He will have to make his way in the world. Do not be offended by my words, but he can’t succeed with you at his side. He would not be wise to choose to marry the daughter of a boardinghouse keeper.”
The voices below grew louder, and a door slammed. Mozart came up the steps and back into the room, running his hand through his wild hair. “Well,” he said a little breathlessly, looking from one to the other, “you’ve had a chance to talk. That’s good. We should perhaps go and have something to eat. There’s nothing here.”
Constanze stood at once. “I can’t come; I’m expected home.”
“Tomorrow then?”
“Yes, tomorrow.”
“Let me walk with you a bit.”
The day was very hot, and the lemonade stand on the corner, with its gay blue-striped awning, was crowded. She let him take her arm but did not move close to him, and he said with all tenderness, “Has he said something that upset you? Beloved, beloved, tell me what he said.”
The words stumbled out, and when he heard, he seemed to swell with anger. “How dare he speak to you like that?” he said, his voice rising in spite of the crowds about them. “Where’s his respect for my wishes? I respect him. I’ll always provide for him no matter how many wretched lessons to deaf pupils I must teach. And what of all the money I earned as a child? He invested in me; he’s not poor. By God, he must let me go! If I rise or fall, I must do it on my own.”
He was shaking her hands now. “He will come round and give his blessing to our marriage. He will. Nothing matters but that we make up and be the dearest friends again, my Stanzi.”
Her face had become very plain. “But don’t you see, I couldn’t. I couldn’t marry anyone with a father like him. He’d be pulling you one way, and I’d be pulling you another. I want him to like me, and he doesn’t. He won’t. I wouldn’t ask you to choose between us. Listen, Wolferl: we were both lonely and we fell in love, but perhaps it wasn’t meant to be. Perhaps we can find a way to be friends as we once were. Isn’t that possible?”
“No, it isn’t,” he said quietly, and leaned against the side of a church where they had stopped. “But I know you’ve felt this way since we quarreled. Everything’s going badly for me today. One day you think all’s within your grasp, and the next it’s swept away. That’s true of life, but I always want it differently. Gottlieb Stephanie’s too busy to complete the libretto, and it’s likely the commission will be offered to another composer. My writing is too original for some people; I’m not handsome; and no one will forgive me for growing up, not even my own family. Today I may have lost my chance at the opera and my hopes of marriage to you. We perhaps shouldn’t speak anymore of it. We’ll see each other in the street now and then, Constanze. I’ll always be glad to hear of you. Send my greetings to little Sophie when you write her.”
He walked away with his head lowered, and she stood for a time with the basket of fish on her arm, and then walked home. Two neighbors were sitting with her mother in the kitchen drinking coffee; Constanze climbed the stairs to her room, and lay silently across her bed with her arm over her face.
The doors of the opera house were closed when he reached them, but he found a side door unlocked and hurried up the stairs. From the offices he heard movement; he knocked, and entered at once, expecting