and forth again, and her whole little body rocked back and forth, and a low, lustrous voice came out of her with such richness and such intoxicating sweetness that Tonio felt himself emptied of all thought. Her eyes left the music She looked up at him and at that moment he could not resist a long slow smile.
Now she was beaming at him, her plump little cheeks like bellows, and she was singing to him, she was singing to him that she loved him and that he would be her lover when he commenced to sing.
Then she came to the end of her opening songs. The inevitable silence had fallen, and over the thinnest ripple of the harpsichord, Tonio began to sing.
His eyes held to the Contessa’s, and he saw the little press of her smile and the tiniest nod of her head. But it was the soft high flute intertwined with his voice that he saw and felt as he sang along with it, going up and down, higher and higher and then down again, and now it led him in a series of passages which he matched with ease.
Yet it was as if he wanted the Contessa’s voice, and she knew it, and when she answered him, he felt himself actually falling in love. With a surge of the strings he went into a stronger and faster aria to her, and it seemed even the lovely poetry he was singing to her was all of it perfectly true.
His voice was seducing her voice, not merely for its answers but for that moment when the two would come together in one song. Even his softest, most languid notes told her that, and her slow passages so full of dark color echoed the same vibrant desire.
At last they were together in the first duet with such a gentle exhilaration that he commenced that same little rocking with her, her little black eyes full of the radiance of laughter, her deep notes blending perfectly with his soaring protestations of love. A third sound seemed to emerge from the edge of the two voices, the brilliance of the instruments surging and dying again and again to let them fly free.
It was an agony when he had to back away from her, sing to her, and her voice answered him with the same exquisite pain.
Finally the strings were prancing again and a horn was leading him and this was his final summons to her, his last challenge to her to come with him, join him, be carried up with him. It seemed the Contessa leaned forward, that she rose on the balls of her feet, that every fiber of her moved with his dizzying rises, until with the fastest pace, they plunged into the final duet.
Her voice was wed to his voice. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes had the gleam of tears. Her little body heaved with the fullness of her voice, his own winding up and up out of his immense lungs and this languid slender frame that seemed the flesh left behind in stillness and grace as the voice went free.
It was over.
It was finished.
The room shimmered. Caffarelli leapt to his feet and with a grand gesture was the first to break into the rapid thunder of applause.
The little Contessa rose on tiptoe to kiss Tonio; she put her hands to his face and then she saw the look of unspeakable sadness in him, and she threw her arms about him and laid her head on his chest.
Everything happened so quickly. It seemed Caffarelli had clasped him by the shoulder and, nodding to everyone, gestured with his right hand to bring up the applause again and again. And all around him came the soft passionate compliments—he had sung so beautifully, and he had gotten the Contessa to sing with him, which was no small feat, and his voice was extraordinary, and why had they not heard of him before, all these years at the San Angelo, where was the Maestro! (He couldn’t have written this libretto better himself!)
But why was it so hard for him to listen to this, why did he have the irrepressible urge to get away? Guido’s pupil, yes, Guido’s pupil, and what a divine composition, that Guido, where was he? It was all too perfect and yet he found this almost unendurable. Maybe, if only Guido were here!
“Where is he?” he whispered to the Contessa. Maestro Cavalla loomed over him for an instant, but before