“VIENNA, April 29, 1782.

“MY DEAR AND BELOVED FRIEND:—­You still, I hope, allow me to give you this name?  Surely you do not hate me so much that I may no longer be your friend, nor you mine?  And even if you do not choose henceforth to be called my friend, you cannot prevent my thinking of you as tenderly as I have always done.  Reflect well on what you said to me to-day.  In spite of my entreaties, you have met me on three occasions with a flat refusal, and told me plainly that you wished to have no more to do with me.  It is not, however, a matter of the same indifference to me that it seems to be to you, to lose the object of my love; I am not, therefore, so passionate, so rash, or so reckless, as to accept your refusal.  I love you too dearly for such a step.  I beg you then once more to weigh well and calmly the cause of our quarrel, which arose from my being displeased at your telling your sisters (N.B., in my presence) that at a game of forfeits you had allowed the size of your leg to be measured by a gentleman.  No girl with becoming modesty would have permitted such a thing.  The maxim to do as others do is well enough, but there are many things to be considered besides,—­whether only intimate friends and acquaintances are present,—­whether you are a child, or a girl old enough to be married,—­but, above all, whether you are with people of much higher rank than yourself.  If it be true that the Baroness [Waldstaedten] did the same, still it is quite another thing, because she is a passee elderly woman (who cannot possibly any longer charm), and is always rather flighty.  I hope, my dear friend, that you will never lead a life like hers, even should you resolve never to become my wife.  But the thing is past, and a candid avowal of your heedless conduct would have made me at once overlook it; and, allow me to say, if you will not be offended, my dearest friend, will still make me do so.  This will show you how truly I love you.  I do not fly into a passion like you.  I think, I reflect, and I feel.  If you feel, and have feeling, then I know I shall be able this very day to say with a tranquil mind:  My Constanze is the virtuous, honourable, discreet, and faithful darling of her honest and kindly disposed,

“MOZART.”

This letter seems to have ended the quarrel—­the only one we know of their having.  For, a week later in a letter to his father, Mozart implies that Constanze and he are once more on excellent terms; also that Nannerl had answered Constanze’s letter with appropriate courtesy.

Meanwhile, in spite of the excitement of producing his opera and fighting the strong opposition to it, Mozart is still more deeply absorbed in gaining his father’s consent to his marriage.  He briefly dismisses his account of his opera’s immense success and bends all his ardour to winning over his father.  The agony of his soul quivers in every line.  Vienna is alive with gossip.  Some say that he and Constanze are already married.  He fears to compromise the woman he loves.  He hints that if he cannot wed her with his father’s blessing he will wed her without it.