"Sometimes I am afraid of the vastness of my conceptions," he said. "I am afraid of being suffocated by them. You believe me to be a little mad, do you not? Do you remember that stormy evening when I returned from the Lido? How sweet you were that evening! A short time before that, standing on the Bridge of the Rialto, I found a Motive. I had translated the words of the Elements into notes. Do you know what a Motive is? It is a small spring, from which may be born many other springs, a tiny seed that may give birth to a crown of forests; a little spark that may kindle an endless chain of conflagration—a nucleus that produces infinite force. A few days ago I began to develop the Motive of that stormy evening, which I shall call the Pipes of Æolus. Listen to it."
He went to the piano, and struck a few notes with one hand.
"It contains no more than that, but you cannot imagine the generating force of those few notes. A tempest, a whirlwind of music has been born of them, but I have not yet been able to master it. I am almost vanquished, suffocated, constrained to fly."
He laughed a little; but his soul was swaying like the sea.
"The Pipes of Prince Æolus, opened by the companions of Ulysses. Do you remember it? The imprisoned winds arise and push back their vessel, and the men tremble with terror."
His spirit could not rest long, and nothing could divert him from his mental work. He kissed his friend's hand, paced to and fro, stopping before the piano that Donatella had played when she sang Claudio's melody. He wandered to the window, and gazed upon the leafless garden. His aspiration reached out toward the musical creature, toward her that must chant his hymns at the summit of his tragic symphonies.
In a low, clear voice the woman said:
"If Donatella were here with us!"
He turned, approached her, and gazed at her fixedly, silently. She smiled her slight, mask-like smile at seeing him so near her, yet so far removed. She felt that he loved no one at that moment—not herself, not Donatella, but that he regarded both simply as instruments of his art, forces to employ, bows to bend. He was on fire with poetry, and she, with her poor wounded heart, her secret torture, her mute plea—she was there, intent on nothing but her sacrifice, ready to pass beyond love and life, as the heroine of the future drama. Meanwhile, each day must make its mark on her face, discolor her lips, fade her hair; each day, in the service of old age, would hasten the work of destruction in her miserable flesh. And then?
She recognized that it was love, after all, unquenchable passion, that created all the illusions and all the hopes which seemed to aid her in accomplishing "what love alone cannot do."