ours later, at nightfall, he
would slink home, downcast, dispirited, desperate, staggering along the
road under the star-light as if he were drunk, repressing the tears
burning in his eyes, longing for the peace of death, like a weary
explorer who must go on and on breaking his way over one ice-field after
another. She must have noticed, surely! She must have seen the untiring
efforts he made to please her!... Ignorant, humble, recognizing the vast
gulf that separated them because of the different lives they had led,
how he had worked to raise himself to a level with the men who had loved
and won her! If she spoke of the Russian count--a model of stylish
elegance--the next day, to the great astonishment of his mother, Rafael
would take out his best clothes and, all sweating in the hot sun and
nearly strangled by a high collar, he would set out along that same
road--his Road to Calvary--walking on his toes like a boarding-school
girl in order not to get his shoes dirty. If Hans Keller had come to
Leonora's mind, he would run through his histories of music, and
dressing up like some artist he had read about in novels, would come to
her house fully intending to deliver an oration on the immortal Master,
Wagner, whom he knew nothing at all about, but whom he adored as a
member of his family.... Good God! All that was ridiculous, he knew very
well; it would have been far better to present himself just as he was,
undisguised, in all his littleness. He knew that this pretending to
equality with the thousand or more figures flitting in Leonora's memory,
was grotesque. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing he would not do
to stir her heart a little, be loved for a day, a minute, a second--and
then die!...

There was a note of such real feeling in the youth's confession that
Leonora, more and more deeply moved, unconsciously drew closer to him,
almost grazing him as they walked along; and she smiled slightly, as she
repeated her previous phrase--a blend of motherly affection and
compassion:

"Poor Rafael!... My poor dear boy!"

They had reached the gate to the orchard. The walk inside was deserted.
In the little square some hens were scratching about.

Overwhelmed by the strain of that confession, in which he had vented the
anguish and dreams of many months, Rafael leaned against the trunk of an
old orange-tree. Leonora stood in front of him, listening to his words,
with head lowered, making marks on the ground with the t