As Mozart was returning from this soiree (at which, as it happened, the singer was not present), a somewhat excited friend was so indiscreet as to repeat to him the spiteful remark.  It was the more amazing to him because it was the first unmistakable proof of the utter ingratitude of his protegee.  In his great indignation he did not notice the extreme coolness of Frau Constanze’s reception.  Without stopping to take breath he poured out his grievance, and well-nigh roused her pity; yet she held conscientiously to her determination that he should not so easily escape punishment.  So when he awoke from a sound sleep shortly after noon, he found neither wife nor children at home, and the table was spread for him alone.

Ever since Mozart’s marriage there had been little which could make him so unhappy as any slight cloud between his better half and himself.  If he had only known how heavy an anxiety had burdened her during the past few days!  But, as usual, she had put off as long as possible the unpleasant communication.  Her money was now almost spent, and there was no prospect that they should soon have more.  Although Mozart did not guess this state of affairs, yet his heart sank with discouragement and uncertainty.  He did not wish to eat; he could not stay in the house.  He dressed himself quickly, to go out into the air.  On the table he left an open note in Italian: 

  “You have taken a fair revenge, and treated me quite as I deserved. 
  But be kind and smile again when I come home, I beg you.  I should like
  to turn Carthusian or Trappist and make amends for my sins.”

Then he took his hat, but not his cane—­that had had its day—­and set off.

Since we have excused Frau Constanze from telling so much of her story we may as well spare her a little longer.  The good man sauntered along past the market toward the armory—­it was a warm, sunshiny, summer afternoon—­and slowly and thoughtfully crossed the Hof, and, turning to the left, climbed the Moelkenbastei, thus avoiding the greetings of several acquaintances who were just entering the town.

Although the silent sentinel who paced up and down beside the cannon did not disturb him, he stopped but a few minutes to enjoy the beautiful view across the green meadows and over the suburbs to the Kahlenberg.  The peaceful calm of nature was too little in sympathy with his thoughts.  With a sigh he set out across the esplanade, and so went on, without any particular aim, through the Alser-Vorstadt.

At the end of Waehringer Street there was an inn, with a bowling alley; the proprietor, a master rope-maker, was as well known for his good beer as for the excellence of his ropes.  Mozart heard the balls and saw a dozen or more guests within.  A half-unconscious desire to forget himself among natural and unassuming people moved him to enter the garden.  He sat down at one of the tables—­but little shaded by the small trees—­with an inspector of the water-works and two other Philistines, ordered his glass of beer, joined in their conversation, and watched the bowling.