"Maestro!" she shouted. "A gentleman to see you! A visitor!"
And she came back again, smoothing her skirts as though she had just descended a ladder.
The door groaned on its hinges, as it opened, and Spadoni appeared in the opening.
"Oh, your Highness!"
There was no expression of surprise in his smile. He greeted the Prince as though he had seen him the day before.
Then he guided him through corridors and drawing-rooms, which were sunk in deep multi-colored shadow, and smelled of dust and mold. It had been many months since the stained glass windows had been opened, or the curtains drawn. Spadoni lived his entire life in a single room. Lubimoff collided with furniture and curios, as he advanced, almost upsetting two huge Japanese vases, and nearly impaling himself on the numerous projections in the profuse decoration of a "romantic studio," which had been in style twenty-five years before.
They finally returned to the light, a dazzling light that entered by three open doors overlooking a terrace bordering the ravine. It was the "hall" of the villa, decorated with Hindustanee draperies and divans. The Prince saw that Spadoni had excellent quarters in his "tomb". A large grand-piano was the only piece of furniture kept clean in this dust-invaded room. On the music rack several albums of music in manuscript lay opened.
Seeing that Lubimoff noticed them, the pianist gave a look of despair.
His poverty was very great: he was forced to give concerts in order to live, and found himself obliged to study the new operas.
He spoke of this labor as though it represented the cruelest imposition of inexorable Reality, the greatest degradation in his life.