heedless of the despairing shrieks of the others.  All efforts of the red to recover their boat were vain; they were beaten back with oars and weapons.  Their futile rage and struggles, the cries and prayers of the maidens, the music—­now changed in tone—­the waters—­all made a scene beyond description, and the audience applauded wildly.  Then suddenly the sail was loosed, and out of it sprang to the bowsprit a rosy, silver-winged boy, with bow and arrows and quiver; the oars began to move, the sail filled, and the boat glided away, as if under the guidance of the god, to a little island.  Thither, after signals of truce had been exchanged, the red youths hastened after boarding the deserted boat.  The unhappy maidens were released, but the fairest one of all sailed away, of her own free will, with her lover.  And that was the end of the comedy.”

“I think,” whispered Eugenie to the Baron, in the pause that followed, “that we had there a complete symphony in the true Mozart spirit.  Am I not right?  Hasn’t it just the grace of Figaro?”

But just as the Baron would have repeated this remark to Mozart, the composer continued:  “It is seventeen years since I was in Italy.  But who that has once seen Italy, Naples especially, even with the eyes of a child, will ever forget it?  Yet I have never recalled that last beautiful day more vividly than today in your garden.  When I closed my eyes the last veil vanished, and I saw the lovely spot—­sea and shore, mountain and city, the gay throng of people, and the wonderful game of ball.  I seemed to hear the same music—­a stream of joyful melodies, old and new, strange and familiar, one after another.  Presently a little dance-song came along, in six-eighth measure, something quite new to me.  Hold on, I thought, that is a devilishly cute little tune!  I listened more closely.  Good Heavens!  That is Masetto, that is Zerlina!” He smiled and nodded at Madame Mozart, who guessed what was coming.

“It was this way,” he went on; “there was a little, simple number of my first act unfinished—­the duet and chorus of a country wedding.  Two months ago, when in composing my score I came to this number, the right theme did not present itself at the first attempt.  It should be a simple child-like melody, sparkling with joy—­a fresh bunch of flowers tucked in among a maiden’s fluttering ribbons.  So, because one should not force such a thing, and because such trifles often come of themselves, I left that number, and was so engrossed in the rest of the work that I almost forgot it.  Today, while we were driving along, just outside the village, the text came into my head; but I cannot remember that I thought much about it.  Yet, only an hour later, in the arbor by the fountain, I caught just the right motif, more happily than I could have found it in any other way, at any other time.  An artist has strange experiences now and then, but such a thing never happened to me be fore.  For to find a melody