amusing servant, came to rescue them. Not far into the opera, the tenor began his poignant aria, whose lyrics poured through the theater with their aching repetition of the heroine’s name: Constanze, Constanze. She could feel her sisters turn to her, and Sophie took her hand. In front of all the people in the theater, he was calling to her, and it was as if there were no one in the theater but the two of them as he declared his love.
“Constanze, dich wiederzusehen, dich!”
(Constanze, when will I see you again?)
She put her head down; had she not been seated in the middle of a row, she would have run out, weeping. “Immer noch traurig, geliebte Constanze?”(Are you still sad, dear Constanze?) spoke the bass voice of the Pasha. She could feel Sophie squeeze her hand hard. Each aria, duet, or chorus passed in sequence, until the great quartet when the two pairs of lovers have been reunited.
“Wohl, es sei nun abgetan, es lebe die Liebe!”
(Now let all our doubts be gone; our love will be lasting!)
The lovers are caught, and forgiven by the benevolent Pasha, then sent on their way to the joyful singing of soloists and chorus over the bright orchestra. Then it was over, and the audience broke into cheers and applause. Through her tears, Constanze saw the neat little figure with the white silky wig bowing to the audience.
“You’ll wait to see him,” Josefa said.
“No, I must go home.”
Darkness was beginning to fall as they approached their street; looking up, they saw one of the new boarders in his shirtsleeves, gazing out over the church and smoking his pipe. They walked into the entrance of the boardinghouse. As they began to mount the long dusty carpeted stairs, they saw their mother waddle from the kitchen. “Home at last,” she crowed. “Come, tell me about it; it’s bound to fail. Frau Thorwart says it’s too florid; I knew it.”
Constanze gazed at her carefully. She frowned, and then turned to look back through the still open door toward the carriages rolling past the church. “I’ve been mistaken,” she said quietly. “I know it in my heart; I know it. I heard it in the music. It’s all wrong what people have said. I’m going to him.”
“What!” her mother cried. “Are you mad? What of your reputation? Can I at least hope that you’re going to tell him good-bye?”
“Mama,” shouted Sophie. “It’s not your concern.”
Constanze ran through the streets. The lamplighters were now moving their ladders from lamp to lamp, and the beautiful stone houses glowed in the soft golden yellow light. Coming toward her were members of the opera’s audience, chatting about the music and the dresses, the jewels and the hair, about the Emperor and his party, who had all gone off to a great supper where there would be woodcock and fish and wine from the vineyards that surrounded the city. Would Mozart be home yet? It was less than an hour since the opera ended, and he likely was still receiving congratulations.
The concierge was standing idly before the house in which Mozart’s rooms were located. The two women nodded to each other, and Constanze creaked open the heavy door and mounted the two flights of stairs.
Mozart had just come in; his door was still ajar. He stood there in his red coat trimmed with silver lace, faint splotches of rouge still visible on his cheeks. He gazed at her, his expression blank for a moment, as if he didn’t recognize her. “Come in,” he said at last. “I didn’t think you’d be coming. I heard what you were told. Stanzi, it isn’t true. I never looked at your sister after I understood how much I loved you. You know that, don’t you? You believe me?”
“Yes, I believe you.”
“Thank God. I’m so tired I don’t know if I have words to defend myself, not tonight anyway. I’ve done it; I’ve done it. God was with me, and I’ve done it. But I saw—you were there.”
He moved to her side and kissed her gently several times. Leaning against him, she murmured, “The concierge knows I’m here alone with you.”
“And if she does? Do we care? Do we care what anyone thinks?”
“No, not really. Not anymore. So many people were cheering for you tonight.”
“I heard some of it. As I was leaving, the Archbishop’s man, Count Arco, came up to me. He said he hoped Salzburg would have the pleasure of hearing my opera soon. At first I