Patience

When I opened my diary at the page where I made my last entry, I happened to hold it in such a way that nothing but a blank sheet met my eyes. Then I fell upon the words ‘moral force,’ followed by ‘the Weber daughters.’ Indeed. We now know which one.

‘Constanze. Constance. My little Connie, my true, plain dove.’ He cannot sing her praises without also mentioning her deficiencies. ‘Papa dear, she is not exactly beautiful but she has, I tell you now, such fine brown eyes and a selfless heart – you could not fail to admire the way she is devoted to her mother – and her voice, though small, has a distinctive grace’… or words to that effect. Is this passion? Is this love, I ask myself? Can my brother - be taken by a person so ordinary to our minds that she has faults as well as virtues? Ah, Wolfie dear, perhaps I am blind. Think of your next opera. Pazienza. N.