itation, and to journeying in Italy for the
production of these operas and the promulgation of her talents. Yet
after breaking his heart, as he supposed, for the gifted and fickle
woman who became a successful prima donna,--after losing her, he did
that most impossible thing which could never happen in real fiction,
and sought his consolation in the arms and in the heart of Aloysia's
younger sister, who was not especially pretty, and was only modestly
musical. But her name was Constanze, and she lived up to it.

Constanze could always read to him, and tell him stories as he liked to
have her do while he composed, and she could cut up his meat for him
lest in his absent-mindedness he carve off one of his valuable fingers.
And when she was ill, as she frequently was, there could be no gentler
nurse than he. Besides, when winter was upon them, it was no winter of
discontent, for if the fire gave out and the fuel could not be
afforded, could they not always waltz together?

Twice Mozart must make concert tours for money, and twice he came home
poorer than he went, but at least he left the world some of the
gentlest and most hearty love-letters in its literature. When he was at
home, Vienna was busy with anecdotes of his devotion. He was indeed so
good a husband that Constanze could not even withhold forgiveness for
certain occasions when he strayed from the narrow path of absolute
fidelity; for she knew that his heart had its home with her. When he
died, supposedly of malignant typhus, she tried to catch his disease
and die with him, and her health broke so completely that she could not
attend his funeral; and when she was recovered enough to visit the
cemetery, she could not discover, what no man has since found out, in
just what three-deep pauper's grave Mozart was buried.

All in all, in spite of certain ficklenesses in which this immortal
musician has been surpassed by lovers of all walks of life, from
blacksmiths to bishops, music has created one of tenderest, most honest
of all romances.

But then there was a man whose life encompassed Mozart's, as a long
brace encompasses a stave of music. For Joseph Haydn was born
twenty-four years before Mozart, and died eighteen years after him. And
this man's love affairs were of altogether different fabric.

While Mozart died in his poverty at thirty-five, Haydn, dying at
seventy-seven, was worried over the endowment he should leave to a
discarded mistress, whose name, stra