"Especially characteristic is his great love for me, which breathes
through all the letters. Is it not true--those from the last year of
his life are just as tender as those written during the first year of
our marriage?" She added that she would like to have this fact
especially mentioned "to his honor" in any biography in which the data
she sent were to be used. This request was not prompted by vanity, but
by a just pride in the love her husband had borne her and which she
still cherished. The love of his Constance was the solace of Mozart's
life.

The wonder-child, born in Salzburg in 1756, and taken by his father
from court to court, where he and his sister played to admiring
audiences, did not, like so many wonder-children, fade from public
view, but with manhood fulfilled the promise of his early years and
became one of the world's great masters of music. But his genius was
not appreciated until too late. The world of to-day sees in Mozart the
type of the brilliant, careless Bohemian, whom it loves to associate
with art, and long since has taken him to its heart. But the world of
his own day, when he asked for bread, offered him a stone.

Mozart died young; he was only thirty-five. His sufferings were
crowded into a few years, but throughout these years there stood by his
side one whose love soothed his trials and brightened his life,--the
Constance whom he adored. What she wrote to the publishers was
strictly true. His last letters to her breathed a love as fervent as
the first.

Some six months before he died, she was obliged to go to Baden for her
health. "You hardly will believe," he writes to her, "how heavily time