artists I had under my banner, and who are to-day recognised as being some of the best, it is only necessary to point out the names of a few who were there during that season. First and foremost, Jean de Reszke, his brother Edouard, and De Lucia, amongst the tenors; Paroli, Maurel, Arnoldson, Borelli, Torezella, Mancinelli, etc.

We hear a great deal about the performances given abroad—one might imagine from the way they are spoken about that perfection was to be found even in the most unimportant theatres in the smallest Continental towns. In most cases these musical articles are written on very much the same lines as are the descriptions of those war correspondents who never get nearer the seat of war than the Cheshire Cheese in Fleet-street; but anyone who has had the misfortune to sit out some of these so-called artistic representations cannot help wondering that such articles should appear in any newspaper at the end of the nineteenth century. To give an instance of one of these performances, I cannot do better than recall a representation of the Trovatore that I saw in Florence. It is true I did not have the advantage of sitting out the entire opera, but I saw the last act. What should have been the exterior of the prison was represented by a very small thatched cottage painted on a pair of flats-the door of which must have been some five feet high. Leonora was represented by a lady in a very modern black satin evening dress, and when the Count de Luna came out of the cottage which on this occasion stood for the powerful fortress, in consequence of the enormous big plume stuck in the top of a sort of modern Life Guardsman's helmet he had to bend down almost on his knees and get his head through first. Anything more ludicrous could not be imagined. The singing was on a par with the mise-en-scène; and yet the public seemed entirely satisfied, and evidently, from their applause, did not expect anything better.

AUGUSTUS HARRIS.

ΤΗ

A LAST SCENE.

HE garden was loaded with flowers, Chinese mistletoe, orange-trees, plantains, cypresses, glimmering laburnums, dark green myrtles, camelias, whose sappy green was almost hidden by the profusion of blossoms. Heliotrope, soft velvet pansies, whole beds of autumn violets were mingled together promiscuously, and here and there appeared, as if scattered by chance, whole armfuls of roses. Half-ripe lemons glittered on the walls, and from a little slanting ledge the vine peeped curiously out. The air within would have been overpowering, had not reviving gales come continually from the sea, which bounded the horizon.

Like a card in a bouquet of flowers stood a studio in the midst of luxuriant splendour. It was an ugly, flat, uninteresting building, which, however, looked picturesque, thanks to the surroundings, and above all thanks to the uncommon background formed by various palms, which rose terrace-like, and through whose fine pointed leaves the sunlight fell upon the unattractive building and made it radiant.

The studio was built by a German merchant, who had been so enchanted with the natural beauty of the place that he had thrown business and everything aside to devote himself to Art.

He did not succeed, was ruined, and had at last to be sent home mad. After that the studio came into discredit amongst the superstitious Italians. Its present owner bought it for a trifle and afterwards did good business by letting it to travelling artists who visited the place, and to whom a furnished studio naturally was a great boon. Therefore thehut," as the studio was commonly called, scarcely ever stood empty.

In the large, lofty drawing-room, whose warm, red walls were surmounted by a Bacchanalian frieze, a woman in a cool white dress was sitting this evening, sewing nervously, as if the work were a penance to her and had to be finished with all speed.

Her pale, soft irregular profile, which stood out boldly against the

dark blue fantastic drapery of the high window, showed traces of both health and folly. A cluster of pale roses, clinging to the window, almost touched her bent head, whose golden locks were gathered into a careless knot on her neck.

At the first glance one could hardly tell whether the face belonged to a woman already past her first bloom or to a girl on the borders of womanhood. But at the first opening of her eyes all doubt vanished. They were a woman's eyes, dark and sharply defined, that met onedangerous eyes, which promised something, one hardly knew what; clear young eyes, with deep shadows which told of sleepless nights, or perhaps the influence of narcotics. The complexion was unusually pale, but soft as velvet, the lips full and red-the lines round them marked and deep as on an aged woman.

Perhaps it was just that peculiar mixture of youth and age, of health and wear, of experience and inexperience, which gave Linnea Dal such powers of fascination over men. Wherever she travelled, they crowded round her like flies around a piece of sugar. The narrow enclosed path leading to the studio had long been the favourite walk of the fashionable beaux of the place. People knew very little about her and her husband. They knew only that they came from a strange country and spoke a strange language and led a strange life. Seldom or never they were seen together. The man painted and took long solitary walks to the mountains, drank his bottle of wine every evening at old Beppo's shop-where he read the news of the place-but never spoke to anybody.

Linnea and her little girl, a pretty child about four years of age, were, on the contrary, seen daily on the great Promenade, and people said that she favourably accepted the warm homage offered her by manyespecially by one.

Partly from the difficulty of pronouncing her name, and partly because of the impression her unusual fairness created, the Italians called her "La Bianca," and her husband by contrast "Il Notte."

After some time strange reports began to spread from inside the four walls of the "hut." People talked of nightly orgies, in which "La Bianca" and her husband alternately were the leading spirits, of passionate scenes-occasional reconciliations-followed by breaches for days and for weeks.

The men one and all took "La Bianca's" part: "A man who does not understand how to take care of such a woman deserves his fate."

The women, on the other hand, defended the husband, whose melancholy look and beautiful smile went straight to their hearts.

How much of the gossip was true and how much was false, nobody succeeded in finding out. They tried to find out from Babette, the little girl's old French nurse, but it was of no use. She answered either with a shrug of her shoulders or by taking the child away by the hand —that was all they could gain. But the want of certainty kept up the interest more keenly, and so the present inhabitants of the "hut" were an inexhaustible material for wonder and gossip in the little town. whose colony of strangers was otherwise looked upon with such calm indifference.

In the drawing-room the sewing continued with the same restless eagerness. At last the little sleeve of a child's frock was mended. Linnea put her head on one side and looked critically at her work.

The patch was certainly put on a little crooked, and the stitches might have been neater, but nevertheless it was mended, and she had done it herself.

When Linnea had put the dress in a little box, already partly filled with the child's clothes, and pasted a new label over the old one, she began to walk backwards and forwards in the room. The figure was tall and handsome. The upper part of the body was, perhaps, a little too full and the hips rather narrow, but that gave a flexible rhythm to her walk which added greatly to the striking individuality of her charm.

On the table lay an open letter, just written.

Suddenly Linnea stopped and looked at the iong, ill-formed handwriting. It was signed " Mother's loving Linnea."

Linnea glanced in the looking-glass and shrugged her shoulders. Her name had always seemed to her such a parody, but perhaps never so much so as just now.

She looked like a gentle Linnea, she, with those deep marks between the eyebrows, and features which betrayed all kinds of Bohemian experiences. Then thought fled for a moment to Sweden, to the grave beneath the weeping willow in the beautiful churchyard of the little town, where her father, the fanatic botanist, slept. She had been named atter his favourite flower. She felt inclined to laugh at the romance. Romance and she!

Then she thought about her mother, the hearty, genuine woman, whose only fault was that she demanded the same sincerity in others

that the father never did. Therefore Linnea loved him best. Her mind was, however, too much occupied with the present to reflect upon the past.

After a short hesitation Linnea produced a key out of a chest of drawers. She paused, swinging the key backwards and forwards in her hand, but then she seemed to regain her resolution. With hurrying steps she passed along the narrow corridor and stopped before a door on which was written in bold sloping characters: "Herman Dal, artist."

Again she hesitated, but then she put the key into the lock, opened the door with some difficulty and entered. The studio was a very large. room, with curtains that could be drawn aside easily. In one corner stood a broken torso; and the walls were decorated with daring, vigorous studies in black and white-that was all. The arrangements were in other respects simple. One saw that the person who lived here considered himself a bird of passage; there was no comfort, only necessities. On a large easel, a little aside, stood a covered picture.

Without hesitation Linnea stepped forward and uncovered it with a quick movement. Her face bespoke vivid interest.

The picture represented a vampire, with a woman's beautiful body and luxuriant golden hair. She lay clinging closely to a man's heart. The full, unusually red lips were a little separated, and the small white teeth were fast set in his flesh. One saw that she sucked his life blood, and saw also that he knew it, though he had neither will nor power to free himself.

Underneath was written in firm, black letters: "La Femme."

The picture was boldly painted. The colours were perhaps a little crude, but brilliantly handled. The details were cynically realistic, but as a whole the work bore the unmistakable mark of genius.

Linnea examined the work from all sides, drew aside the window curtain in order to get more light, and stood for some minutes lost in deep contemplation. Suddenly she left the room, but returned soon, bringing photographic apparatus, which she used so quickly and skilfully that in a few minutes she possessed a good copy of the picture.

Again she covered the picture, then drew down the blinds and returned to the drawing-room.

She looked tired to death, and one could almost fancy that she had taken a long journey in this short time. But in her eyes flashed a new light of strife and strong determination.

She produced a small flask, and filling the little cup which served as