rought within range
of the mob. In gallant phrases the Frenchmen, Massenet and Saint-Saens,
paid their respects to the greatest interpreter of the greatest of
composers; Rafael could decipher what was in Italian, scenting the sweet
perfume of Latin adulation despite the fact that he scarcely knew the
language. A sonnet by Illica moved him actually to tears. Other
inscriptions were meaningless to him--the lines from Hans Keller,
especially, the great orchestral conductor, disciple and confidant of
Wagner, the artistic executor, charged with watching over the master's
glory--that Hans Keller of whom Leonora was speaking all the time with
the fondness of a woman and the admiration of an artist--all of which
did not prevent her from adding that he was "a barbarian." Stanzas in
German, in Russian and in English, which, as the singer re-read them
brought a contented smile to her features, Rafael, to his great
despair, could not induce her to translate.

"Those are matters you wouldn't understand. Go on to the next page. I
mustn't make you blush."

And that was the only explanation she would give--as though he were a
child.

Some Italian verses, written in a tremulous hand and in crooked lines,
attracted Rafael's attention. He could half make their meaning out, but
Leonora would never let him finish reading them. It was an amorous,
desperate lament; a cry of racking passion condemned to disappointment,
writhing in isolation like a wild beast in its cage: Luigi Macchia.

"And who is Luigi Macchia?" asked Rafael. "Why such despair?"

"He was a young fellow from Naples," Leonora answered, at last, one
afternoon, in a sad voice, and turning her head, as if to conceal the
tears that had come to her eyes. "One day they found him under the pine
trees of Posilipo, with a bullet through his head. He wanted to die, you
see, and he killed himself.... But put all this aside and let's go down
to the garden. I need a breath of air."

They sauntered along the avenue that was bordered with rose-bushes, and
several minutes went by before either of them spoke. Leonora seemed
quite absorbed in her thoughts. Her brows were knitted and her lips
pressed tightly together, as if she were suffering the sting of painful
recollections.

"Suicide!" she said at last. "Doesn't that seem a silly thing to do,
Rafael? Kill yourself for a woman? Just as if we women were obliged to
love every man who thinks he's in love with us!... How stupid men are!