splattered all about. Then she was serious and quiet again. As they approached Petersplatz she became even more silent and walked a little ahead of him, briskly, becoming once more the boardinghouse keeper’s daughter. Above them from the house hung the neat little sign: FINE ROOMS TO LET BY MONTH. Both the drunken theology student and the Spaniard had left. Pigeons were shaking the wetness off their wings, and the large puddles reflected the slate-hued sky.
Strange that she had been in this house so long and he had barely noticed her. Now he was aware of her often. She’s in the kitchen, he would say to himself, and now she’s gone out. Where has she gone? he would wonder. He looked from his window to see her walking off with her basket. Outside the sun shone; there were no puddles. He smiled to himself. Otherwise he was terribly busy trying to make ends meet as the libretto arrived in disorganized pieces; he composed when he could, and still had no approval from the Count. He played at the Countess Thun’s, and gave more lessons to Mademoiselle Aurnhammer, who flirted with him. He arrived home and found Constanze had become a shadow once more.
“Puddles,” he’d whisper as they passed on the stairs, and sometimes, “Puppies, little darling ones with wet noses who piss in little pots. Oh no, it won’t rain; it never rains in Vienna.” Though he made her smile, each time she then withdrew again. She recalled what he had said about her lack of beauty and could not forgive him. She was silent and severe. How could he persuade her he meant better? Life had sobered him, and she did have her own beauty, but he had no words to express it. They met just inside the street door, by the potted plant, where she was reading a letter from one of her sisters. He leaned against the wall, by the hatrack, and read one from Padre Martini, who had returned to Italy, then another from his father, who complained of Salzburg and told him to keep his feet dry. His sister, quiet and patient Nannerl, had also written.
“Come, play this with me,” he cried from the parlor the next day. “I’m setting some of my dances for fortepiano. What do you think? I know you play well.” She put down her sewing, came across the room, and sat beside him. Then, as in the old days, the parlor filled with music. Her left hand brushed his, but it was all right, for they were safe in music.
“What will be your future?” he asked when they stopped.
“None. I stay here.”
“Not just only that,” he cried. “Not only that for you.”
She stood up suddenly. Then they were laughing over something. He had not heard her laugh like that in a long time, or perhaps never, because before he had not paid attention. “Stop,” she said. “I must go back to my work.”
“Don’t go,” he said.
It was a whole world in those minutes from parlor to kitchen. She had never considered how long it was between those rooms, down a flight of stairs, through a hall past the sour faces of her ancestors’ portraits, and into the kitchen and the smell of the burning fire and chopped food. It was not merely the tinkle of the bright dances she regretted leaving, but something in herself she had not experienced in a long time. She rubbed her flushed face and then slipped into the kitchen where her mother and the maid were preparing dinner.
Her mother’s words came like a slap. “Look at you, Maria Constanze Weber, and God forgive you ... laughing with him instead of helping me. You’re the same as the others. I thought you were better. I have given everything to you girls, and you have cared only what happened to each other, never me, never me. Why are you with him so much these days? A poor musician just like your father. The opera will never happen. I have it on excellent knowledge.”
Constanze stood stunned. “What are these mad stories?” she said, when she found her voice. “What are you speaking about? Does laughter lead to anything bad? Are you worried I’m going to fall in love with him? Yes, of course. He’s not good enough for me because you are once more searching for an imaginary prince to give me a title and money, which will reflect well on you. The Grand Duke of Russia’s coming