However, the situation was becoming more difficult to handle every day. Alexis’ passion, increased by possession, tantalized by infrequent and stolen meetings, had become an obsession both rapturous and tragic. The thought that he had no claim upon Anne beyond that of tenderness, tortured him. Although he was careful not to mention it to her as a definite fact, Anne felt that he was doing all in his power to bring about an annulment of his marriage to Claire, and she secretly hoped that he would be unsuccessful. At his vague hints, she always laughed and told him she was not a marrying woman. That if he wanted a wife, he must look elsewhere. But she could see that it made almost no impression upon him at all. He desired their union so ardently himself that it was impossible for him to believe that Anne could refuse to marry him, once he were free. He even went so far as to depict their future life in terms both ecstatic and impractical. A patient smile upon her lips, Anne would shudder inwardly. She had neither the desire nor the intention of becoming Alexis’ wife. There were almost ten years between their ages and she could imagine nothing more tragic, nor more difficult, than to be the elderly wife of a young genius. It would take endless courage to live up to his exactions, to respond to his demand. She would have to be eternally beautiful, a very river of sympathy and understanding, upon whose bosom he could float in perfect serenity and peace. In other words, mother as well as companion, not to mention accompanist, fellow traveler, and perfect hostess. If she were sufficiently unfortunate to continue to love him, there would be scores of other women to combat, especially after the first glamour had worn off, and he had commenced to realize the difference in their ages. Even now, when he was supposedly in retirement, he received countless letters from hysterical women and girls, endless demands for interviews and photographs, which kept his newly-acquired secretary occupied most of the day. No, marriage with Alexis would not only be unspeakably wearing, but very probably spell tragedy for them both.
Meanwhile, there were precious moments to be garnered.
With renewed serenity and rested nerves, she bade farewell to the gentle little aunt, who would probably have succumbed if she had suspected to what Anne was returning. Reluctantly, but with suppressed excitement, Anne wended her way northwards.
There were only ten days left before the first recital, and she found Alexis more engrossed in his work than ever. Her little absence had in some measure restored his former independence. Almost automatically, the situation adjusted itself. They saw less and less of each other, meeting sometimes for lunch, sometimes for tea at a quiet restaurant. Anne made only one trip to Long Island. She found Alexis absent-minded, more erratic than ever. His eyes, brilliantly hard, seemed to be focussed entirely upon the future. His manner toward herself was less apologetic, more assured.
Anne took up her customary life with indifference. Seeing as little as possible of Ellen and her friends, she treated the former with a cold cordiality which if not an actual declaration of war, constituted a challenge. Gerald Boynton frequented the house as usual, however. A tame cat is a great convenience to a woman like Anne. A necessary escort, he was at her beck and call at all moments, to secure theater tickets, and even to run errands. Caldenas came to see her once or twice, and Anne found herself liking him well enough to promise to sit for her portrait.
But all this was merely artificial, a stuffing of cotton into the void of time. Weary of New York as never before, Anne longed for her villa in Florence, her sun-baked terrace, the pungent smell of the black earth awakening in anticipation of spring. Nothing but Alexis and his need could have kept her in New York another day.
Later, when the New York concerts would be over, and Alexis had gone on tour, she, too, would flit. Then he could follow her if he desired, and they might meet somewhere on the Continent. But not in Florence. No, not there, where her memories were all of Vittorio. She could not receive Alexis within a stone’s throw of Vittorio’s mother, that beautiful old lady, who had so often joined her pleas to his. Indeed, she could not find it in her heart to return to Florence at all, if it were not that she was so sure that Vittorio would be in Sicily. Ah, Vittorio! There was a man, if you please! A Grand Seigneur, and yet a worker. One of the best. Where was he now? Still in Mexico digging up Aztec relics, or had the ocean already separated them?
Arrived here, Anne would sigh and push the rebellious thought back into her teeming subconscious, much as a careless housemaid sweeps undesirables beneath the bed. By her own action, she had closed the door between Vittorio and all of his forever. Was she not above peeking through the keyhole?
She fixed her eyes resolutely upon the actualities of the present.