The distance between such performances—­magic evocations of light and colour and melody—­and the gross buffoonery of the popular stage, still tainted with the obscenities of the old commedia dell’ arte, in a measure explains the different points from which at that period the stage was viewed in Italy:  a period when in such cities as Milan, Venice, Turin, actors and singers were praised to the skies and loaded with wealth and favours, while the tatterdemalion players who set up their boards in the small towns at market-time or on feast-days were despised by the people and flung like carrion into unconsecrated graves.  The impression Odo had gathered from Don Gervaso’s talk was of the provincial stage in all its pothouse license; but here was a spectacle as lofty and harmonious as some great religious pageant.  As the action developed and the beauty of the verse was borne to Odo on the light hurrying ripples of Caldara’s music he turned instinctively to share his pleasure with those about him.  Cantapresto, in a new black coat and ruffles, was conspicuously taking snuff from the tortoiseshell box which the Countess’s cicisbeo had given him; but Odo saw that he took less pleasure in the spectacle than in the fact of accompanying the heir-presumptive of Pianura to a gala performance at the royal theatre; and the lads about them were for the most part engaged either with their own dress and appearance, or in exchanging greetings with the royal pages and the older students.  A few of these sat near Odo, disdainfully superior in their fob-chains and queues; and as the boy glanced about him he met the fixed stare of one of the number, a tall youth seated at his elbow, and conspicuous, even in that modish company, for the exaggerated elegance of his dress.  This young man, whose awkward bearing and long lava-hued face crowned with flamboyant hair contrasted oddly with his finical apparel, returned Odo’s look with a gaze of eager comprehension.  He too, it was clear, felt the thrill and wonder, or at least re-lived them in the younger lad’s emotion; and from that moment Odo felt himself in mute communion with his neighbour.

The quick movement of the story—­the succession of devices by which the wily Ulysses lures Achilles to throw off his disguise, while Deidamia strives to conceal his identity; the scenic beauties of the background, shifting from sculpture-gallery to pleasance, from pleasance to banquet-hall; the pomp and glitter of the royal train, the melting graces of Deidamia and her maidens; seemed, in their multiple appeal, to develop in Odo new faculties of perception.  It was his first initiation into Italian poetry, and the numbers, now broken, harsh and passionate, now flowing into liquid sweetness, were so blent with sound and colour that he scarce knew through which sense they reached him.  Deidamia’s strophes thrilled him like the singing-girl’s kiss, and at the young hero’s cry—­

    Ma lo so ch’ io sono Achille,
    E mi sento Achille in sen—­