That she had offered herself was beyond question, and bitter, humiliated, he knew now just what he was, and she knew it, too. And if there was any mercy left for him, Guido and the Contessa would come soon to tell him that he was going to Rome, where he would never see her again.
He had fallen asleep, fully dressed, the blanket over his shoulder, before Guido came. He awoke to see Guido and the Contessa standing over him and the Contessa said:
“Sit up, beautiful child, you must make me a promise.”
Guido didn’t even look at him. He moved about the room as if dreaming, his lips pressed together and then slack in a secret monologue.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Tonio said sleepily. He saw his blond-haired girl for an instant, and then she was gone.
He felt he could endure this waiting no longer.
“Tell me,” he said. “Now.”
“Ah, but first, beautiful child,” she was saying in that measured and polite way of hers, “promise me, promise me, that when you are very famous you will tell everyone that it was in my house in Naples that you first sang.”
“Famous?” He sat up, as the Contessa nestled beside him and pressed her lips to his cheek.
“My beautiful child,” she said, “I have just written to my cousin, the Cardinal Calvino in Rome; he will be expecting you, and you will live with him as long as you like.
“Guido wants to leave immediately. He wants to get to know the audiences; he wants to do the work there. And I will come, too, of course, on opening night to see you both. Oh, but beautiful child, it is all arranged now; you are to make your first appearance as principal singer in Guido’s opera in the Teatro Argentina in Rome on the first of the year.”
16
IT WAS WELL OVER a fortnight before the day of departure arrived.
Everything was packed. Tonio’s rooms were empty save for the magnificent harpsichord which he was leaving as a gift for the Maestro di Cappella, and the carriages, laden with trunks, were waiting in the stable yard.
Tonio stood alone at his window, looking out through the dusty cloister into the garden, for the last time.
He had dreaded the moment of parting with Paolo, and it had been as bad as he expected. Paolo had been mute, spiritless. There was no substance to the words he uttered. That Tonio and Guido were leaving him was more than he could bear, and though he was gone now, Tonio knew that he could not leave Paolo like this.
In fact, a little scheme was forming in Tonio’s mind, but he was afraid the scheme would not work. And he lapsed for a moment into a confusion of thoughts just as Maestro Cavalla came into the empty room.
“Well, this is the painful moment,” sighed the Maestro.
Tonio’s glance was full of affection, but he didn’t speak. He watched the Maestro run his fingers over the delicately painted case of the harpsichord. It gave Tonio deep pleasure to know the Maestro treasured this gift.
“Has it been easier for the little trick we played on you at the Contessa’s?” the Maestro asked. “I had hoped it would be.”
Tonio only smiled. Easier, yes, it had been easier.
But there was a little spasm in his face now that meant pain and he wondered if the Maestro could see it. He had an uneasy feeling about the Maestro suddenly. The Maestro was deep in thought; something more than a farewell was pressing on his mind.
“What are you thinking?” the Maestro asked him. “Tell me.”
“It’s nothing as complex as you might suppose,” Tonio answered softly. “I’m thinking what they all think when they leave you.” And when he saw the question still in the Maestro’s face, Tonio confessed, “I’m afraid I’m going to fail in Rome.”
His eyes shifted to the garden again, and he was conscious of having said something that was not entirely true. A greater confusion was pressing on him. It had to do with life and all that life had to offer him, and how much he wanted it, and how much he would have liked to forget.
Once three years ago he’d told himself he would sing for his own pleasure, and how simple that had sounded, how simple that had seemed.
Now he wanted to be the greatest singer in Italy. He wanted Guido to write the finest opera anyone had ever heard. And he was