The actress felt the mystic chill steal over her once more, as if the soul of the blind woman reëntered her own soul.
"At the end of the Prelude, the impetuosity of the chromatic progressions expresses this growing joy, this fever of delight.... Listen, listen!... Ah, what a miracle! This morning, Fosca, this morning I was at work upon my melody, and now it is developing itself in the air! Are we not in a state of grace?"
A spirit of life seemed indeed running throughout the solitude; a vehement inspiration filled the silence with emotion. La Foscarina gave up her whole soul to it, as a leaf yields itself to the whirlwind, ravished to the very summit of love and faith.
But a feverish impatience to act, to work, to accomplish seized the young man. His capacity for work seemed multiplied. He thought of the plenitude of the hours to come; he saw his work in concrete form—the pages, the scores, the variety of needs, the richness of material adaptable to rhythm.
"In a week, Fosca, if grace assists me, my Prelude will be finished, and I should like to try it immediately with an orchestra. Perhaps I shall go to Rome to do this. Antimo della Bella is even more impatient than I; I receive a letter from him almost every day. I believe that my presence in Rome is necessary for a few days in order to prevent certain errors that may arise in the building of the theater. Antimo writes about the possibility of tearing down the old stone stairs leading from the Corsini Garden to the Janiculum. The street that will lead to the theater, after one passes the Arch of Septimius, will continue beside the Palazzo Corsini, cross the garden, and extend to the foot of the hill. The hill is green and mossy, covered with cypress, laurel, and flags. The Paulina fountain rises at the left. A flight of stone steps leads to a terrace from which open two paths bordered by Apollo-like laurels, and worthy of leading the people toward Poetry. Can anyone imagine a nobler entrance? Centuries have wrapped it in mystery; no sound is heard but the song of birds, the tinkling of fountains, the whisper of the forest. And I believe that poets and innocents can even hear there the fluttering of the Hamadryads and the breath of Pan!"
The ugly shores, crumbling stones, decaying roots, traces of ruined buildings, the odor of dissolution, the funereal cypresses, the black crosses, in vain recalled to him the words the statues beside the Brenta had spoken with their marble lips. Only the great song of victory and liberty, stronger than all other signs, now touched the heart of him who was to create with joy. "On! on! Higher! ever higher!"
And the heart of Perdita, purified from all cowardice, ready for any test, betrothed itself once more to Life! As in that distant hour of the delirious night, she repeated: "Let me serve! Let me serve!"