bow, flowed out, exquisitely twisting and coiling like the snake that covered the violin-top; and such fire, such triumphant bliss glowed and burned in this melody that Fabio and Valeria felt wrung to the heart and tears came into their eyes; … while Muzzio, his head bent, and pressed close to the violin, his cheeks pale, his eyebrows drawn together into a single straight line, seemed still more concentrated and solemn; and the diamond at the end of the bow flashed sparks of light as though it too were kindled by the fire of the divine song. When Muzzio had finished, and still keeping fast the violin between his chin and his shoulder, dropped the hand that held the bow, ‘What is that? What is that you have been playing to us?’ cried Fabio. Valeria uttered not a word—but her whole being seemed echoing her husband’s question. Muzzio laid the violin on the table—and slightly tossing back his hair, he said with a polite smile: ‘That—that melody … that song I heard once in the island of Ceylon. That song is known there among the people as the song of happy, triumphant love.’ ‘Play it again,’ Fabio was murmuring. ‘No; it can’t be played again,’ answered Muzzio. ‘Besides, it is now too late. Signora Valeria ought to be at rest; and it’s time for me too … I am weary.’ During the whole day Muzzio had treated Valeria with respectful simplicity, as a friend of former days, but as he went out he clasped her hand very tightly, squeezing his fingers on her palm, and looking so intently into her face that though she did not raise her eyelids, she yet felt the look on her suddenly flaming cheeks. She said nothing to Muzzio, but jerked away her hand, and when he was gone, she gazed at the door through which he had passed out. She remembered how she had been a little afraid of him even in old days … and now she was overcome by perplexity. Muzzio went off to his pavilion: the husband and wife went to their bedroom.

IV

Valeria did not quickly fall asleep; there was a faint and languid fever in her blood and a slight ringing in her ears … from that strange wine, as she supposed, and perhaps too from Muzzio’s stories, from his playing on the violin … towards morning she did at last fall asleep, and she had an extraordinary dream.

She dreamt that she was going into a large room with a low ceiling…. Such a room she had never seen in her life. All the walls were covered with tiny blue tiles with gold lines on them; slender carved pillars of alabaster supported the marble ceiling; the ceiling itself and the pillars seemed half transparent … a pale rosy light penetrated from all sides into the room, throwing a mysterious and uniform light on all the objects in it; brocaded cushions lay on a narrow rug in the very middle of the floor, which was smooth as a mirror. In the corners almost unseen were smoking lofty censers, of the shape of monstrous beasts; there was no window anywhere; a door hung with a velvet curtain stood dark and silent in a recess in the wall. And suddenly this curtain slowly glided, moved aside … and in came Muzzio. He bowed, opened his arms, laughed…. His fierce arms enfolded Valeria’s waist; his parched lips burned her all over…. She fell backwards on the cushions.

* * * * *

Moaning with horror, after long struggles, Valeria awaked. Still not realising where she was and what was happening to her, she raised herself on her bed, looked round…. A tremor ran over her whole body … Fabio was lying beside her. He was asleep; but his face in the light of the brilliant full moon looking in at the window was pale as a corpse’s … it was sadder than a dead face. Valeria waked her husband, and directly he looked at her. ‘What is the matter?’ he cried. ‘I had—I had a fearful dream,’ she whispered, still shuddering all over.

But at that instant from the direction of the pavilion came floating powerful sounds, and both Fabio and Valeria recognised the melody Muzzio had played to them, calling it the song of blissful triumphant love. Fabio looked in perplexity at Valeria … she closed her eyes, turned away, and both holding their breath, heard the song out to the end. As the last note died away, the moon passed behind a cloud, it was suddenly dark in the room…. Both the young people let their heads sink on their pillows without exchanging a word, and neither of them noticed when the other fell asleep.

V

The next morning Muzzio came in to breakfast; he seemed happy and greeted Valeria cheerfully. She answered him in confusion—stole a glance at him—and felt frightened at the sight of that serene happy face, those piercing and inquisitive eyes. Muzzio was beginning again to tell some story … but Fabio interrupted him at the first word.

‘You could not sleep, I see, in your new quarters. My wife and I heard you playing last night’s song.’

‘Yes! Did you hear it?’ said Muzzio. ‘I played it indeed; but I had been asleep before that, and I had a wonderful dream too.’

Valeria was on the alert. ‘What sort of dream?’ asked Fabio.

‘I dreamed,’ answered Muzzio, not taking his eyes off Valeria, ‘I was entering a spacious apartment with a ceiling decorated in Oriental fashion, carved columns supported the roof, the walls were covered with tiles, and though there were neither windows nor lights, the whole room was filled with a rosy light, just as though it were all built of transparent stone. In the corners, Chinese censers were smoking, on the floor lay brocaded cushions along a narrow rug. I went in through a door covered with a curtain, and at another door just opposite appeared a woman whom I once loved. And so beautiful she seemed to me, that I was all aflame with my old love….’

Muzzio broke off significantly. Valeria sat motionless, and only gradually she turned white … and she drew her breath more slowly.

‘Then,’ continued Muzzio, ‘I waked up and played that song.’

‘But who was that woman?’ said Fabio.

‘Who was she? The wife of an Indian—I met her in the town of Delhi…. She is not alive now—she died.’

‘And her husband?’ asked Fabio, not knowing why he asked the question.

‘Her husband, too, they say is dead. I soon lost sight of them both.’

‘Strange!’ observed Fabio. ‘My wife too had an extraordinary dream last night’—Muzzio gazed intently at Valeria—’which she did not tell me,’ added Fabio.

But at this point Valeria got up and went out of the room. Immediately after breakfast, Muzzio too went away, explaining that he had to be in Ferrara on business, and that he would not be back before the evening.

VI

A few weeks before Muzzio’s return, Fabio had begun a portrait of his wife, depicting her with the attributes of Saint Cecilia. He had made considerable advance in his art; the renowned Luini, a pupil of Leonardo da Vinci, used to come to him at Ferrara, and while aiding him with his own counsels, pass on also the precepts of his great master. The portrait was almost completely finished; all that was left was to add a few strokes to the face, and Fabio might well be proud of his creation. After seeing Muzzio off on his way to Ferrara, he turned into his studio, where Valeria was usually waiting for him; but he did not find her there; he called her, she did not respond. Fabio was overcome by a secret uneasiness; he began looking for her. She was nowhere in the house; Fabio ran into the garden, and there in one of the more secluded walks he caught sight of Valeria. She was sitting on a seat, her head drooping on to her bosom and her hands folded upon her knees; while behind her, peeping out of the dark green of a cypress, a marble satyr, with a distorted malignant grin on his face, was putting his pouting lips to a Pan’s pipe. Valeria was visibly relieved at her husband’s appearance, and to his agitated questions she replied that she had a slight headache, but that it was of no consequence, and she was ready to come to sit to him. Fabio led her to the studio, posed her, and took up his brush; but to his great vexation, he could not finish the face as he would have liked to. And not because it was somewhat pale and looked exhausted … no; but the pure, saintly expression, which he liked so much in it, and which had given him the idea of painting Valeria as Saint Cecilia, he could not find in it that day. He flung down the brush at last, told his wife he was not in the mood for work, and that he would not prevent her from lying down, as she did not look at all well, and put the canvas with its face to the wall. Valeria agreed with him that she ought to rest, and repeating her complaints of a headache, withdrew into her bedroom. Fabio remained in the studio. He felt a strange confused sensation incomprehensible to himself. Muzzio’s stay under his roof, to which he, Fabio, had himself urgently invited him, was irksome to him. And not that he was jealous—could any one have been jealous of Valeria!—but he did not recognise his former comrade in