so on until they knew all the parts of each other.
He began to laugh; and she as if given his assent then was laughing like a child, as all the parts of their bodies were contrasted. He felt that silken lower lip, her round smooth belly and the backs of her knees, and picking her up, carried her to the sheets again to find all those moist crevices, those downy folds, those warm and throbbing parts that were hers alone as the morning hovered at the windows.
It was dawn; the sun spilled in. He sat at the window, his hands folded on the sill, and he wondered that he thought silently of Domenico, or Raffaele, of the Cardinal Calvino, who still made pain in him and something like the zing of violins.
He had loved them all, that was the wonder. But nothing in this quiet time remained of those loves that could conceivably torment him. Guido, Guido he loved more now than ever, but that was full and quiet and no longer wanted passion.
And what was this?
He felt half crazed. And the peace of his dream of snow was beyond him.
He looked at Christina.
She lay deep asleep on her bed. He felt himself husband, brother, father to her. He wanted to carry her out of this place and far, far away from here, but to where? To some place where snow fell? Or back to that villa beyond the gates where they could live together forever? A terrible fatality came over him. What had he done in this? What had he truly wanted? He was not free to love anyone, not even to love life itself.
And he knew if he did not get away from her now he would be lost to her always. Yet feeling her unaccountable power he wanted to cry almost. Or to lie beside her again and just hold her.
Any cruelty she wished she could work on him soon, that was how desperately he loved her. And then he saw that in all his loves he’d never been afraid, not even of Guido had he ever been afraid. But he was afraid of her, afraid of her, and he did not know why, only that it was a measure of the power she had to wound him.
Yet she would never do this to him. He knew her. He knew her shadowy places. He sensed at the core of her some grand and simple goodness, for which he yearned with all his soul.
And moving swiftly to the bed, he slipped his arms under her and held her until slowly, very slowly, her eyes opened, and blindly she stared upward.
“Do you love me?” he whispered. “Do you love me?”
And as her eyes grew big and soft and full of sadness to see him like this, he felt himself open completely to her.
“Yes!” she whispered, and she said it as if she had just fully come to know it.
Days later, on an afternoon when half of Rome, it seemed, was gathered in her studio, the sun pouring through the naked windows, men and women chatting, sipping wine and English tea, reading the English papers, she bent over her easel, her cheek smudged with chalk, her hair held indifferently by a violet ribbon. And he from the sidelines gazed at her and realized he belonged to her. Such a fool you are, Tonio, he thought, you only add to your own pain. But it had not even really been a decision.
4
GUIDO KNEW that something was wrong, and he knew that Christina had nothing to do with it.
The Roman carnival was almost upon them, the opera had been running successfully for weeks, and yet Tonio would not discuss any future engagements. No matter how Guido pressed, Tonio begged to be let alone.
He claimed exhaustion, he claimed distraction; he claimed that he must go to Christina’s. He claimed that with both of them being received at three that afternoon by an electoress, it was impossible to think of anything.
There were excuses without end. And now and then when Guido did trap Tonio in the very back of his dressing room at the theater, Tonio’s face would stiffen, acquiring that coldness that had always struck a chord of muted terror in Guido, as he stammered angrily: “I can’t think of that now, Guido. Isn’t all of this enough!”
“Enough? It’s only the beginning, Tonio,” Guido would answer.
And at first, Guido did tell himself it was Christina.
After all, never had he seen Tonio as he