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ity of her dancing. . . . She is always graceful and captivating, and appears to dance as naturaily as a bird sings. . . "

And so, quïte simply, in one night, was created a mvthical figure—the figure of a Russian dancer. Rumor declared Rosing's wife to be the daughter of a musicmaster living in Moscow; it insisted that she had been for years a pupil at the Imperial School of Ballet of St. Petersburg; that her husband, fanatically jealous, kept her locked in her room with a giant Cossack to guard the door.

And in Naples she never appeared in public save on his arm; she dressed simply, in white, but wore a ruby pendant, like a drop of blood, upon her breast; she spoke fluent French, but no Italian; she seemed shy, childish almost, but she darkened her long eyes with mascara now, and always remembered to place her ikon in her dressingroom, where a candle burned reverently beneath it.

They lived, the two of them, in a state of bemusement during the period immediately succeeding her Neapolitan début. Their lives had been transformed with a dramatic swiftness into something sweeter, stranger, than any dream; every waking moment was colored by the brightness, so often bewildering, of this sudden fame; they moved, talked, ate and slept mechanically; when no one was looking they glanced at each other incredulously, but were themselves too impressed to indulge in gaiety or laughter, for this triumph, however splendid, was somehow more solemn than a grand salute of trumpets.

On her last night in Naples the hotel was surrounded by a crowd of enthusiasts who shouted her name—the name that was not even hers—until Rosing pushed her out on to the balcony, bidding her throw the flowers from her bouquets that these admirers might scramble for them

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