Rafael spent a sleepless night tossing about in his bed.

Party admirers had honored him with a serenade that had lasted beyond midnight.  The “prominents” among them had shown some pique at having cooled their heels all afternoon at the Club waiting for the deputy in vain.  He put in an appearance well on towards evening, and after shaking hands once more all around and responding to speeches of congratulation, as he had done that morning, he went straight home.

He had not dared raise his head in Dona Bernarda’s presence.  He was afraid of those glowering eyes, where he could read, unmistakably, the detailed story of everything he had done that afternoon.  At the same time he was nursing a resolve to disobey his mother, meet her domineering, over-bearing aggressiveness with glacial disregard.

The serenade over, he had hurried to his room, to avoid any chance of an accounting.

Snug in his bed, with the light out, he gave way to an intense, a rapturous recollection of all that had taken place that afternoon.  For all the fatigue of the journey and the bad night spent in a sleeping-car, he lay there with his eyes open in the dark, going over and over again in his feverish mind all that Leonora told him during that final hour of their walk through the garden.  Her whole, her real life’s story it had been, recorded in a disordered, a disconnected way as if she must unburden herself of the whole thing all at once with gaps and leaps that Rafael now filled in from his own lurid imagination.

Italy, the Italy of his trip abroad, came back to him now, vivid, palpitant, vitalized, glorified by Leonora’s revelations.

The shadowy majestic Gallery of Victor Emmanuel at Milan!  The immense triumphal arch, a gigantic mouth protended to swallow up the Cathedral!  The double arcade, cross-shaped, its walls covered with columns, set with a double row of windows under a vast crystal roof.  Hardly a trace of masonry on the lower stories; nothing but plate glass the windows of book-shops, music shops, cafes, restaurants, jewelry stores, haberdasheries, expensive tailoring establishments.

At one end, the Duomo, bristling with a forest of statues and perforated spires; at the other, the monument to Leonardo da Vinci, and the famous Teatro de la Scala!  Within the four arms of the Gallery, a continuous bustle of people, an incessant going and coming of merging, dissolving crowds:  a quadruple avalanche flowing toward the grand square at the center of the cross, where the Cafe Biffi, known to actors and singers the world over, spreads its rows of marble tables!  A hubbub of cries, greetings, conversations, footsteps, echoing in the galleries as in an immense cloister, the lofty skylight quivering with the hum of busy human ants, forever, day and night, crawling, darting this way and that, underneath it!

Such is the world’s market of song-birds; the world’s Rialto of Music; the world’s recruiting office for its army of voices.  From that center, march forth to glory or to the poorhouse, all those who one fine day have touched their throats and believed they have some talent for singing.  In Milan, from every corner of the earth, all the unhappy aspirants of art, casting aside their needles, their tools or their pens, foregather to eat the macaroni of the trattoria, trusting that the world will some day do them justice by strewing their paths with millions.  Beginners, in the first place, who, to make their start, will accept contracts in any obscure municipal theatre of the Milan district, in hopes of a paragraph in a musical weekly to send to the folks at home as evidence of promise and success; and with them, overwhelming them with the importance of their past, the veterans of art the celebrities of a vanished generation:  tenors with gray hair and false teeth; strong, proud, old men who cough and clear their throats to show they still preserve their sonorous baritone; retired singers who, with incredible niggardliness, lend their savings at usury or turn shopkeepers after dragging silks and velvets over world famous “boards.”

Whenever the two dozen “stars,” the stars of first magnitude that shine in the leading operas of the globe, pass through the Gallery, they attract as much admiring attention as monarchs appearing before their subjects.  The pariahs, still waiting for a contract, bow their heads in veneration; and tell, in bated breath, of the castle on Lake Como that the great tenor has bought, of the dazzling jewels owned by the eminent soprano, of the graceful tilt at which the applauded baritone wears his hat; and in their voices there is a tingle of jealousy, of bitterness against destiny the feeling that they are just as worthy of such splendor the protest against “bad luck,” to which they attribute failure.  Hope forever flutters before these unfortunates, blinding them with the flash of its golden mail, keeping them in a wretched despondent inactivity.  They wait and they trust, without any clear idea of how they are to attain glory and wealth, wasting their lives in impotence, to die ultimately “with their boots on,” on some bench of the Gallery.

Then, there is another flock, a flock of girls, victims of the Chimera, walking with a nimble, a prancing step, with music scores under their arms, on the way to the maestro’s; slender, light-haired English misses, who want to become prima donnas of comic opera; fair-skinned, buxom Russian parishnas who greet their acquaintances with the sweeping bow of a dramatic soprano; Spanish senoritas of bold faces and free manners, preparing for stage careers as Bizet’s cigarette-girl frivolous, sonorous song-birds nesting hundreds of leagues away, and who have flown hither dazzled by the tinsel of glory.

At the close of the Carnival season, singers who have been abroad for the winter season appear in the Gallery.  They come from London, St. Petersburg, New York, Melbourne, Buenos Aires, looking for new contracts.  They have trotted about the globe as though the whole world were home to them.  They have spent a week in a train or a month on a steamer, to get back to their corner in the Gallery.  Nothing has changed, for all of their distant rambles.  They take their usual table.  They renew their old intrigues, their old gossip, their old jealousies, as if they had been gone a day.  They stand around in front of the show-windows with an air of proud disdain, like princes traveling incognito, but unable quite to conceal their exalted station.  They tell about the ovations accorded them by foreign audiences.  They exhibit the diamonds on their fingers and in their neckties.  They hint at affairs with great ladies who offered to leave home and husband to follow them to Milan.  They exaggerate the salaries they received on their trip, and frown haughtily when some unfortunate “colleague” solicits a drink at the nearby Biffi.  And when the new contracts come in, the mercenary nightingales again take wing, indifferently, they care not whither.  Once more, trains and steamers distribute them, with their conceits and their petulances, all over the globe, to gather them in again some months later and bring them back to the Gallery, their real home the spot to which they are really tied, and on which they are fated to drag out their old age.

Meantime, the pariahs, those who never arrive, the “bohemians” of Milan when they are left alone console themselves with tales of famous comrades, of contracts they themselves refused to accept, pretending uncompromising hauteur toward imprésarios and composers to justify their idleness; and wrapped in fur coats that almost sweep the ground, with their “garibaldis” on the backs of their heads, they hover around Biffi’s, defying the cold draughts that blow at the crossing of the Gallery, talking and talking away to quiet the hunger that is gnawing at their stomachs; despising the humble toil of those who make their living by their hands, continuing undaunted in their poverty, content with their genius as artists, facing misfortune with a candor and an endurance as heroic as it is pathetic, their dark lives illumined by Hope, who keeps them company till she closes their eyes.

Of that strange world, Rafael had caught a glimpse, barely, during the few days he had spent in Milan.  His companion, the canon, had run across a former chorister from the cathedral of Valencia, who could find nothing to do but loiter night and day about the Gallery.  Through him Brull had learned of the life led by these journeymen of art, always on hand in the “marketplace”, waiting for the employer who never comes.

He tried to picture the early days of Leonora in that great city, as one of the girls who trot gracefully over the sidewalks with music sheets under their arms, or enliven the narrow side streets with all those trills and cadences that come streaming out through the windows.

He could see her walking through the Gallery at Doctor Moreno’s side:  a blonde beauty, svelte, somewhat thin, over-grown, taller than her years, gazing with astonishment through those large green eyes of hers at the cold, bustling city, so different from the warm orchards of her childhood home; the father, bearded, wrinkled, nervous, still irritated at the ruin of his Republican hopes; a veritable ogre to strangers who did not know his lamb-like gentleness.  Like exiles who had found a refuge in art, they two went their way through that life of emptiness, of void, a world of greedy teachers anxious to prolong the period of study, and of singers incapable of speaking kindly even of themselves.

They lived on a fourth floor on the Via Passarella a narrow, gloomy thoroughfare with high houses, like the streets of old Alcira, preempted by music publishers, theatrical agencies and retired artists.  Their janitor was a former chorus leader; the main floor was rented by an agency exclusively engaged from sun to sun in testing voices.  The others were occupied by singers who began their vocal exercises the moment they got out of bed, setting the house ringing like a huge music-box from roof to cellar.  The Doctor and his daughter had two rooms in the house of Signora Isabella, a former ballet-dancer who had achieved notorious “triumphs” in the principal courts of Europe, but was now a skeleton wrapped in wrinkled skin, groping her way through the corridors, quarreling over money in foul-mouthed language with the servants, and with no other vestiges of her past than the gowns of rustling silk, and the diamonds, emeralds and pearls that took their turns in her stiff, shrivelled ears.  This harpy had loved Leonora with the fondness of the veteran for the new recruit.

Every day Doctor Moreno went to a cafe of the Gallery, where he would meet a group of old musicians who had fought under Garibaldi, and young men who wrote libretti for the stage, and articles for Republican and Socialist newspapers.  That was his world:  the only thing that helped him endure his stay in Milan.  After a lonely life back there in his native land, this corner of the smoke-filled cafe seemed like Paradise to him.  There, in a labored Italian, sprinkled with Spanish interjections, he could talk of Beethoven and of the hero of Marsala; and for hour after hour he would sit wrapt in ecstasy, gazing, through the dense atmosphere, at the red shirt and the blond, grayish locks of the great Giuseppe, while his comrades told stories of this, the most romantic, of adventurers.

During such absences of her father, Leonora would remain in charge of Signora Isabella; and bashful, shrinking, half bewildered, would spend the day in the salon of the former ballet-dancer, with its coterie of the latter’s friends, also ruins surviving from the past, burned-out “flames” of great personages long since dead.  And these witches, smoking their cigarettes, and looking their jewels over every other moment to be sure they had not been stolen, would size up “the little girl,” as they called her, to conclude that she would “go very far” if she learned how to “play the game.”

“I had excellent teachers,” said Leonora, in speaking of that period of her youth.  “They were good souls at bottom, but they had very little still to learn about life.  I don’t remember just when I began to see through them.  I don’t believe I was ever what they call an ‘innocent’ child.”

Some evenings the Doctor would take her to his group in the cafe, or to some second balcony seat under the roof of La Scala, if a couple of complimentary tickets happened to come his way.  Thus she was introduced to her father’s friends, bohemians with whom music went hand in hand with the ideas and the ideals of revolution, curious mixtures of artist and conspirator; aged, bald-headed, near-sighted “professors,” their backs bent by a lifetime spent leaning over music stands; and swarthy youths with fiery eyes, stiff, long hair and red neckties, always talking about overthrowing the social order because their operas had not been accepted at La Scala or because no maestro could be found to take their musical dramas seriously.  One of them attracted Leonora.  Leaning back on a side-seat in the cafe, she would sit and watch him for hours and hours.  He was a fair-haired, extremely delicate boy.  His tapering goatee and his fine, silky hair, covered by a sweeping, soft felt hat, made her think of Van Dyck’s portrait of Charles I of England that she had seen in print somewhere.  They called him “the poet” at the cafe, and gossip had it that an old woman, a retired “star,” was paying for his keep and his amusements until his verses should bring him fame.  “Well,” said Leonora, simply, with a smile, “he was my first love a calf-and-puppy love, a schoolgirl’s infatuation which nobody ever knew about”; for though the Doctor’s daughter spent hours with her green golden eyes fixed upon the poet, the latter never suspected his good fortune; doubtless because the beauty of his patroness, the superannuated diva, had so obsessed him that the attractions of other women left him quite unmoved.  How vividly Leonora remembered those days of poverty and dreams!...  Little by little the modest capital the Doctor owned in Alcira vanished, what with living expenses and music lessons.  Dona Pepa, at her brother’s instance, sold one piece of land after another; but even such remittances were often long delayed; and then, instead of eating in the trattoria, near la Scala, with dancing students and the more successful of the young singers, they would stay at home; and Leonora would lay aside her scores and take a turn at cooking, learning mysterious recipes from the old danseuse.  For weeks at a time they would live on nothing but macaroni and rice served al burro, a diet that her father abhorred, the Doctor, meanwhile, pretending illness to justify his absence from the cafe.  But these periods of want and poverty were endured by father and daughter in silence.  Before their friends, they still maintained the pose of well-to-do people with plenty of income from property in Spain.

Leonora underwent a rapid transformation.  She had already passed her period of growth that preadolescent “awkward age” when the features are in constant change before settling down to their definitive forms and the limbs seem to grow longer and longer and thinner and thinner.  The long-legged spindling “flapper,” who was never quite sure where to stow her legs, became the reserved, well-proportioned girl with the mysterious gleam of puberty in her eyes.  Her clothes seemed, naturally, willingly, to curve to her fuller, rounding outlines.  Her skirts went down to her feet and covered the skinny, colt-like appendages that had formerly made the denizens of the Gallery repress a smile.

Her singing master was struck with the beauty of his pupil.  As a tenor, Signor Boldini had had his hour of success back in the days of the Statuto, when Victor Emmanuel was still king of Piedmont and the Austrians were in Milan.  Convinced that he could rise no higher, he had come to earth, stepping aside to let those behind him pass on, turning his stage experience to the advantage of a large class of girl-students whom he fondled with an affectionate, fatherly kindliness.  His white goatee would quiver with admiring enthusiasm, as, playfully, lightly, he would touch his fingers to those virgin throats, which, as he said, were his “property.”  “All for art, and art for all!” And this motto, the ideal of his life, he called it, had quite endeared him to Doctor Moreno.

“That fellow Boldini could not be fonder of my Leonora if she were his own daughter,” the Doctor would say every time the maestro praised the beauty and the talent of his pupil and prophesied great triumphs for her.

And Leonora went on with her lessons, accepting the light, the playful, the innocent caresses of the old singer; until one afternoon, in the midst of a romanza, there was a hateful scene:  the maestro, despite her horrified struggling, claimed a feudal right the first fruits of her initiation into theatrical life.

Through fear of her father Leonora kept silent.  What might he not do on finding his blind confidence in the maestro so betrayed?  She sank into resigned passivity at last, and continued to visit Boldini’s house daily, learning ultimately to accept, as a matter of professional course, the repulsive flattery of refined vice.

Poor Leonora entered on a life of wrong through the open door, learning, at a single stroke, all the turpitude acquired by that shrivelled maestro during his long career back-stage.  Boldini would have kept her a pupil forever.  He could never find her just well enough prepared to make her debut.  But hardly any money was coming from Spain now.  Poor dona Pepa had sold everything her brother owned and a good deal of her own land besides.  Only at the cost of painful stinting could she send him anything at all.  The Doctor, through connections with itinerant directors and imprésarios a l’aventure, “launched” his daughter finally.  Leonora began to sing in the small theatres of the Milan district two or three night engagements at country fairs.  Such companies were formed at random in the Gallery, on the very day of the performance sometimes, troupes like the strolling players of old, leaving at a venture in a third-class compartment on the train with the prospect of returning on foot if the impresario made off with the money.

Leonora began to know what applause was, what it meant to give encore after encore before crowds of rustic landowners, dressed in their Sunday clothes, and ladies with false rings and plated chains; and she had her first thrills of feminine vanity on receiving bouquets and sonnets from subalterns and cadets in small garrison towns.  Boldini followed her everywhere, neglecting his lessons, in pursuit of this, his last depraved infatuation.  “All for art, art for all!” He must enjoy the fruits of his creation, be present at the triumphs of his star pupil!  So he said to Doctor Moreno; and that unsuspecting gentleman, thankful for this added courtesy of the master, would leave her more and more to the old satyr’s care.

The escape from that life came when she secured a contract for a whole winter in Padua.  There she met the tenor Salvatti, a high and mighty divo, who looked down upon all his associates, though tolerated himself, by the public, only out of consideration for his past.

For years now he had been holding his own on the opera stage, less for his voice than for his dashing appearance, slightly repaired with pencil and rouge, and the legend of romantic love affairs that floated like a rainbow around his name noble dames fighting a clandestine warfare for him; queens scandalizing their subjects by blind passions he inspired; eminent divas selling their diamonds for the money to hold him faithful by lavish gifts.  The jealousy of Salvatti’s comrades tended to perpetuate and exaggerate this legend; and the tenor, worn out, poor, and a wreck virtually for all of his pose of grandeur, was able to make a living still from provincial publics, who charitably applauded him with the self-conceit of climbers pampering a dethroned prince.

Leonora, playing opposite that famous man, “starring,” singing duets with him, clasping hands that had been kissed by the queens of art, was deeply stirred.  This, at last, was the world she had dreamed of in her dingy garret in Milan.  Salvatti’s presence gave her just the illusion of aristocratic grandeur she had longed for.  Nor was he slow in perceiving the impression he had made upon that promising young woman.  With a cold calculating selfishness, he determined to profit by her naïve admiration.  Was it love that thrust her toward him?  As, so long afterwards, she analyzed her passion to Rafael, she was vehemently certain it had not been love:  Salvatti could never have inspired a genuine feeling in anyone.  His egotism, his moral corruptness, were too close to the surface.  No, he was a philanderer simply, an exploiter of women.  But for her it had been a blinding hallucination nevertheless, fraught, during the first days, at least, with the delicious exhiliration, the voluptuous abandonment of true love.  She became the slave of the decrepit tenor, voluntarily, just as she had become her maestro’s slave through fear.  And so complete had her infatuation been, so overpowering its intoxication, that, in obedience to Salvatti, she fled with him at the end of the season, and deserted her father, who had objected to the intimacy.

Then came the black page in her life, that filled her eyes with anguished tears as she went on with her story.  What folks said about her father’s end was not true.  Poor Doctor Moreno had not committed suicide.  He was altogether too proud to confess in that way the deep grief that her ingratitude had caused him.

“Don’t talk to me about that woman,” he would say fiercely to his landlady at Milan whenever the old danseuse would mention Leonora.  “I have no daughter:  it was all a mistake.”

Unbeknown to Salvatti, who became terribly grasping as he saw his power waning, Leonora would send her father a few hundred francs from London, from Naples, from Paris.  The Doctor, though in direst poverty, would at once return the checks “to the sender” and, without writing a word; where-upon Leonora paid an allowance every month to the housekeeper, begging her not to abandon the old man.

The unhappy Doctor needed, indeed, all the care the landlady and her old friends could give him.  The povero signor spagnuolo the poor Spanish gentleman spent his days locked up in his room, his violoncello between his knees, reading Beethoven, the only one “in his family” as he said “who had never played him false.”  When old Isabella, tired of his music, would literally put him out of the house to get a breath of air, he would wander like a phantom through the Gallery, distantly greeted by former friends, who avoided closer contact with that black despondency and feared the explosions of rage with which he received news of his daughter’s rising fame.

A rapid rise she was making in very truth!  The worldly old women who foregathered in the ballet-dancer’s little parlor, could not contain their admiration for their “little girl’s” success; and even grew indignant at the father for not accepting things “as things had to be.”  Salvatti?  Just the support she needed!  An expert pilot, who knew the chart of the opera world, who would steer her straight and keep her off the rocks.

The tenor had skilfully organized a world wide publicity for his young singer.  Leonora’s beauty and her artistic verve conquered every public.  She had contracts with the leading theatres of Europe, and though critics found defects in her singing, her beauty helped them to forget these, and one and all they contributed loyally to the deification of the young goddess.  Salvatti, sheltering his old age under this prestige which he so religiously fostered, was keeping in harness to the very end, and taking leave of life under the protecting shadow of that woman, the last to believe in him and tolerate his exploitation.

Applauded by select publics, courted in her dressing-room by celebrated men and women, Leonora began to find Salvatti’s tyranny unbearable.  She now saw him as he really was:  miserly, petulant, spoiled by praise.  Every bit of her money that came into his hands disappeared, she knew not where.  Eager for revenge, though really answering the lure of the elegant world she glimpsed in the distance but was not yet a part of, she began to deceive Salvatti in passing adventures, taking a diabolical pleasure in the deceit.  But no; as she looked back on that part of her life with the sober eye of experience, she understood that she had really been the one deceived.  Salvatti, she remembered, would always retire at the opportune moment, facilitating her infidelities.  She understood now that the man had carefully prepared such adventures for her with influential men whom he himself introduced to make certain profits out of the meeting profits that he never declared.

After three years of this sort of life, when Leonora had reached the full splendor of her beauty, she chanced to become the favorite of fashion for one whole summer at Nice.  Parisian newspapers, in their “society columns” referred, in veiled language, to the passion of an aged king, a democratic monarch, who had left his throne, much as a manufacturer of London or a stockbroker of Paris would leave his office, for a vacation on the Blue Coast.  This tall, robust gentleman with a patriarchal beard the very type of the good king in fairy tales had not hesitated to be seen in public with a beautiful artiste.

That conquest, fleeting though it had been, put the finishing touch on Leonora’s eminence!  “Ah!  La Brunna!” people would declare enthusiastically.  “The favorite of king Ernesto....  Our greatest artist.”  And troops of adorers began to besiege her under the keen, mercenary eyes of the tenor Salvatti.

About this time her father died in a hospital at Milan a very sad end, as Signora Isabella, the former ballet-dancer, explained in her letters.  Of what had he died?...  The old lady could not say, as the physicians had differed; but her own view of the matter was that the povero signor spagnuolo had simply grown tired of living a general collapse of that wonderful constitution, so strong, so powerful, in a way, yet strangely susceptible to moral and emotional influences.  He was almost blind when admitted to the hospital.  He seemed quite to have lost his mind sunk in an unbreakable silence.  Isabella had not dared to keep him in her house after he had fallen into that coma.  But the strange thing was, that as death drew near, his memory of the past suddenly cleared, and the nurses would hear him groan for nights at a time, murmuring in Spanish with tenacious persistency: 

“Leonora!  My darling!  Where are you?...  Little girl, where are you?”

Leonora wept and wept, and did not leave her hotel for more than a week, to the great disgust of Salvatti, who observed, in addition, that tears were not good for her complexion.

Alone in the world!...  Her own wrong-doing had killed her poor father!  No one was left now except her good old aunt, who was “existing” far away in Spain, like a vegetable in a garden, her stupid mind entirely on her prayer-book.  Leonora vented her anguish in a burst of hatred for Salvatti.  He was responsible for her abandonment of her father!  She deserted him, taking up with a certain count Selivestroff, a handsome and wealthy Russian, captain in the Imperial Guard.

So she had found her destiny!  Her life would always be like that!  She would pass from stage to stage, from song to song, belonging to everybody and to nobody!

That fair Russian, so strong, so manly, so thoroughly a gentleman, had loved her truly, with a passionate humble adoration.

He would kneel submissively at her feet, like Hercules in the presence of Adriadne, resting his chin on her knees, looking up into her face with his gray, kindly, caressing eyes.  Timidly, doubtfully, he would approach her every day as if he were meeting her for the first time and feared a repulse.  He would kiss her softly, delicately, with hushed reserve, as if she were a fragile jewel that might break beneath his tenderest caress.  Poor Selivestroff!  Leonora had wept at the thought of him.  In Russia and with princely Russian sumptuousness, they had lived for a year in his castle, in the country, among a population of sodden moujiks who worshipped that beautiful woman in the white and blue furs as devotedly as if she had been a Virgin stepping forth from the gilded background of an ikon.

But Leonora could not live away from stageland:  the ladies of the rural aristocracy avoided her, and she needed applause and admiration.  She induced Selivestroff to move to St. Petersburg, and for a whole winter she sang at the Opera there, like a grand dame turned opera singer out of love for the work.

Once more she became the reigning belle.  All the young Russian aristocrats who held commissions in the Imperial Guard, or high posts in the Government, spoke enthusiastically of the great Spanish beauty; and they envied Selivestroff.  The count yearned moodily for the solitude of his castle, which held so many loving memories for him.  In the bustling, competitive life of the capital, he grew jealous, sad, melancholy, irritable at the necessity of defending his love.  He could sense the underground warfare that was being waged against him by Leonora’s countless admirers.

One morning she was rudely awakened and leapt out of bed to find the count stretched out on a divan, pale, his shirt stained with blood.  A number of gentlemen dressed in black were standing around him.  They had just brought him in from a carriage.  He had been wounded in the chest.  The evening before, on leaving the theatre, the count had gone up for a moment to his Club.  He had caught an allusion to Leonora and himself in some words of a friend.  There had been blows then hasty arrangements for a duel, which had been fought at sunrise, with pistols.  Selivestroff died in the arms of his mistress, smiling, seeking those delicate, powerful, pearly hands for one last time with his bleeding lips.  Leonora mourned him deeply, truly.  The land where she had been so happy with the first man she had really loved became intolerable to her, and abandoning most of the riches that the count had given her, she went forth into the world again, storming the great theatres in a new fever of travel and adventure.

She was then just twenty-three, but already felt herself an old woman.  How she had changed!...  More affairs?  As she went over that period of her life in her talk with Rafael, Leonora closed her eyes with a shudder of modesty and remorse.  Drunk with fame and power she had rushed about the world lavishing her beauty on anyone who interested her for the moment.  The property of everybody and of nobody!  She could not remember the names, even, of all the men who had loved her during that era of madness, so many had been caught in the wake of her stormy flight across the world!  She had returned to Russia once, and been expelled by the Czar for compromising the prestige of the Imperial Family, through an affair with a grand duke who had wanted to marry her.  In Rome she had posed in the nude for a young and unknown sculptor out of pure compassion for his silent admiration; and she herself made his “Venus” public, hoping that the world-wide scandal would bring fame to the work and to its author.  In Genoa she found Salvatti again, now “retired,” and living on usury from his savings.  She received him with an amiable smile, lunched with him, treated him as an old comrade; and at dessert, when he had become hopelessly drunk, she seized a whip and avenged the blows she had received in her time of slavery to him, beating him with a ferocity that stained the apartment with gore and brought the police to the hotel.  Another scandal!  And this time her name bandied about in a criminal court!  But she, a fugitive from justice, and proud of her exploit, sang in the United States, wildly acclaimed by the American public, which admired the combative Amazon even more than the artist.

There she made the acquaintance of Hans Keller, the famous orchestra conductor, and a pupil and friend of Wagner.  The German maestro became her second love.  With stiff, reddish hair, thick-rimmed eyeglasses, an enormous mustache that drooped over either side of his mouth and framed his chin, he was certainly not so handsome as Selivestroff.  But he had one irresistible charm, the charm of Art.  With the tragic Russian in her mind and on her conscience, she felt the need of burning herself in the immortal flame of the ideal; and she adored the famous musician for the artistic associations that hovered about him.  For the first time, the much-courted Leonora descended from her lofty heights to seek a man’s attention and came with her amorous advances to disturb the placid calm of that artist so wholly engrossed in the cult of the sublime Master.

Hans Keller noticed the smile that fell like a sunbeam upon his music scrolls.  He closed them and let himself be drawn off on the by-paths of love.  Leonora’s life with the maestro was an absolute rupture with all her past.  Her one wish was to love and be loved to throw a cloak of mystery over her real self, ashamed as she now was of her previous wild career.  Her passion enthralled the musician and she in turn felt at once stirred and transfigured by the atmosphere of artistic fervor that haloed the illustrious pupil of Wagner.

The spirit of Him, the Master, as Hans Keller called Wagner with pious adoration, flashed before the singer’s eyes like the revealing glory that converted Paul on the road to Damascus.  Music, as she now saw clearly for the first time, was not a means of pleasing crowds, displaying physical beauty, and attracting men.  It was a religion the mysterious power that brings the infinite within us into contact with the infinite that surrounds us.  She became the sinner awakening to repentance, and yearning for the atoning peace of the cloister, a Magdalen of Art, touched on the high road of worldliness and frivolity by the mystic sublimity of the Beautiful; and she cast herself at the feet of Him, the supreme Master, as the most victorious of men, lord of the mystery that moves all souls.

“Tell me more about Him,” Leonora would say.  “How much I would give to have known him as you did!...  I did see him once in Venice:  during his last days ...he was already dying.”

And that meeting was, indeed, one of her most vivid and lasting memories.  The declining afternoon enlivening the dark waters of the Grand Canal with its opalescent spangles; a gondola passing hers in the opposite direction; and inside, a pair of blue, imperious eyes, shining, under thick eyebrows, with the cold glint of steel eyes that could never be mistaken for common eyes, for the divine fire of the Elect, of the demi-God, was bright within them!  And they seemed to envelop her in a flash of cerulean light.  It was He ill, and about to die.  His heart was wounded, bleeding, pierced, perhaps, by the shafts of mysterious melody, as hearts of the Virgin sometimes bleed on altars bristling with swords.

Leonora could still see him as if he were there in front of her.  He looked smaller than he really was, dwarfed, apparently, by illness, and by the wrack of pain.  His huge head, the head of a genius, was bent low over the bosom of his wife Cosima.  He had removed the black felt hat so as to catch the afternoon breeze full upon his loose gray locks.  His broad, high curved forehead, seemed to weigh down upon his body like an ivory chest laden full of unseen jewels.  His arrogant nose, as strong as the beak of a bird of prey, seemed to be reaching across the sunken mouth toward the sensuous, powerful jaw.  A gray beard ran down along the neck, that was wrinkled, wasted with age.  A hasty vision it had been, to be sure; but she had seen him; and his venerable figure remained in her memory like a landscape glimpsed at the flare of a lightning-flash.  She had witnessed his arrival in Venice to die in the peace of those canals, in that silence which is broken only by the stroke of the oar where many years before he had thought himself dying as he wrote his Tristan that hymn to the Death that is pure, to the Death that liberates!  She saw him stretched out in the dark boat; and the splash of the water against the marble of the palaces echoed in her imagination like the wailing, thrilling trumpets at the burial of Siegfried the hero of Poetry marching to the Valhalla of immortality and glory upon a shield of ebony motionless, inert as the young hero of the Germanic legend and followed by the lamentations of that poor prisoner of life, Humanity, that ever eagerly seeks a crack, a chink, in the wall about it, through which the inspiriting, comforting ray of beauty may penetrate.

And the singer gazed with tearful eyes at the broad boina of black velvet, the lock of gray hair, two broken, rusty steel pens souvenirs of the Master, that Hans Keller had piously preserved in a glass case.

“You knew him tell me how he lived.  Tell me everything:  talk to me about the Poet ... the Hero.”

And the musician, no less moved, described the Master as he had seen him in the best of health; a small man, tightly wrapped in an overcoat with a powerful, heavy frame, however, despite his slight stature as restless as a nervous woman, as vibrant as a steel spring, with a smile that lightly touched with bitterness his thin, colorless lips.  Then came his “genialities,” as people said, the caprices of his genius, that figure so largely in the Wagner legend:  his smoker, a jacket of gold satin with pearl flowers for buttons; the precious cloths that rolled about like waves of light in his study, velvets and silks, of flaming reds and greens and blues, thrown across the furniture and the tables haphazard, with no reference to usefulness for their sheer beauty only to stimulate the eye with the goad of color, satisfy the Master’s passion for brightness; and perfumes, as well, with which his garments always of oriental splendor were literally saturated; phials of rose emptied at random, filling the neighborhood with the fragrance of a fabulous garden, strong enough to overcome the hardiest uninitiate, but strangely exciting to that Prodigy in his struggle with the Unknown.

And then Hans Keller described the man himself, never relaxed, always quivering with mysterious thrills, incapable of sitting still, except at the piano, or at table for his meals; receiving visitors standing, pacing back and forth in his salon, his hands twitching in nervous uncertainty; changing the position of the armchairs, rearranging the furniture, suddenly stopping to hunt about his person for a snuff-box or a pair of glasses that he never found; turning his pockets inside out, pulling his velvet house-cap now down over one eye, now back over the crown of his head, or again, throwing it into the air with a shout of joy or crumpling it in his hand, as he became excited in the course of a discussion!

And Keller would close his eyes, imagining that he could still hear in the silence, the faint but commanding voice of the Master.  Oh, where was he now?  On some star, doubtless, eagerly following the infinite song of the spheres, a divine music that only his ears had been attuned to hear!  And to choke his emotion, the musician would sit down at the piano, while Leonora, responsive to his mood, would approach him, and standing as rigid as a statue, with her hands lost in the musician’s head of rough tangled hair, sing a fragment from the immortal Tetralogy.

Worship of Wagner transformed the butterfly into a new woman.  Leonora adored Keller as a ray of light gone astray from the glowing star now extinguished forever; she felt the joy of humbleness, the sweetness of sacrifice, seeing in him not the man, but the chosen representative of the Divinity.  Leonora could have grovelled at Keller’s feet, let him trample on her make a carpet of her beauty.  She willed to become a slave to that lover who was the repository of the Master’s thoughts; and who seemed to be magnified to gigantic proportions by the custody of such a treasure.

She tended him with the exquisite watchfulness of an enamored servant, following him, on his trips in the summer, the season of the great concerts, to Leipzig, Geneva, Paris; and she, the most famous living prima donna, would stay behind the scenes, with no jealousy for the applause she heard, waiting for Hans, perspiring and tired, to drop the baton amid the acclamations of the audience and come back-stage to have her dry his forehead with an almost filial caress.

And thus they traveled about Europe, spreading the light of the Master; Leonora, voluntarily in the background, like a patrician of old, dressed as a slave and following the Apostle in the name of the New Word.

The German musician let himself be adored, receiving all her caresses of enthusiasm and love with the absent-mindedness of an artist so preoccupied with sounds that at last he comes to hate words.  He taught his language to Leonora that she might some day realize a dream of hers and sing in Bayreuth; and he grounded her in the principles that had guided the Master in the creation of his great characters.  And so, when Leonora made her appearance on the stage one winter with the winged helmet and the lance of the Valkyrie, she attained an eminence in Wagnerian interpretation that was to follow her for the remainder of her career.  Hans himself was carried away by her power, and could never recover from his astonishment at Leonora’s complete assimilation of the spirit of the Master.

“If only He could hear you!” he would say with conviction.  “I am sure He would be content.”

And the pair traveled about the world together.  Every springtime she, as spectator, would watch him directing Wagnerian choruses in the “Mystic Abyss” at Bayreuth.  Winters it was he who went into ecstasies under her tremendous “Hojotoho!” the fierce cry of a Valkyrie afraid of the austere father Wotan; or at sight of her awakening among the flames for the spirited Siegfried, the hero who feared nothing in the world, but trembled at the first glance of love!

But artists’ passions are like flowers, fragrant, but quickly languishing.  The rough German musician was a simple person, unstable, fickle, ready to be amused at any new plaything.  Leonora admitted to Rafael that she could have lived to old age submissively at Keller’s side, pampering his whims and selfish caprices.  But one day Keller deserted her, as she had deserted others, to take up with a sickly, languid contralto, whose best charms could have been hardly comparable to the morbid delicacy of a hot-house flower.  Leonora, mad with love and jealousy, pursued him, knocking at his door like a servant.  For the first time she felt the voluptuous bitterness of being scorned, discarded, until reaction from despair brought her back to her former pride and self-control!

Love was over.  She had had enough of artists; though an interesting sort of folk they were in their way.  Far preferable were the ordinary, normal men she had known before Keller’s time!  The foolisher the more commonplace the better!  She would never fall in love again!

Wearied, broken in spirit, disillusioned, she went back into her old world.  But now the legend of her past beset her.  Again men came, passionately besieging her, offering her wealth in return for a little love.  They talked of killing themselves if she resisted, as if it were her duty to surrender, as if refusal on her part were treachery.  The gloomy Macchia committed suicide in Naples.  Why?  Because she did not capitulate to his melancholy sonnets!  In Vienna there had been a duel, in which one of her admirers was slain.  An eccentric Englishman followed her about, looming in her pathway everywhere like the shadow of a fatal Destiny, vowing to kill anybody she should prefer to him....  She had had enough at last!  She was wearied of such a life, disgusted at the male voracity that dogged her every step.  She longed to fall out of sight, disappear, find rest and quiet in a complete surrender to some boundless dream.  And the thought a comforting, soothing thought, it had been of the distant land of her childhood came back to her, the thought of her simple, pious aunt, the sole survivor of her family, who wrote to her twice every year, urging her to reconcile her soul with God to which end the good old Dona Pepa was herself aiding with prayer!

She felt, too, somehow, without knowing just why, that a visit to her native soil would soften the painful memory of the ingratitude that had cost her father’s life.  She would care for the poor old woman!  Her presence would bring a note of cheer into that gray, monotonous existence that had gone on without the slightest change, ever.  And suddenly, one night, after an “Isolde” in Florence, she ordered Beppa, the loyal and silent companion of her wandering life, to pack her things!

Home!  Home!  Off for her native land!  And might she find there something to keep her ever from returning to the troubled stirring world she was leaving!

She was the princess of the fairy tales longing to become a shepherdess.  There she meant to stay, in the shade of her orange-trees, now and then fondling a memory of her old life, perhaps, but wishing eternally to enjoy that tranquillity, fiercely repelling Rafael, therefore, because he had tried to awaken her, as Siegfried rouses Brunhilde, braving the flames to reach her side.

No; friends, friends, nothing else!  She wanted no more of love.  She already knew what that was.  Besides, he had come too late....

And Rafael tossed sleeplessly in his bed, rehearsing in the darkness the story he had been told.  He felt dwarfed, annihilated, by the grandeur of the men who had preceded him in their adoration of that woman.  A king, great artists, handsome and aristocratic paladins, Russian counts, potentates with vast wealth at their command!  And he, a humble country boy, an obscure junior deputy, as submissive as a child to his mother’s despotic ways, forced to beg for the money for his personal expenses even he was trying to succeed them!

He laughed with bitter irony at his own presumptuousness.  Now he understood Leonora’s mocking tone, and the violence she had used in repulsing all boorish liberties he had tried to take.  But despite the contempt he began to feel for himself, he lacked the strength to withdraw now.  He had been caught up in the wake of seduction, the maelstrom of love that followed the actress everywhere, enslaving men, casting them, broken in spirit and in will, to earth, like so many slaves of Beauty.