made surely by the hands of a delicate fifteenth-century artist for a Mona Amorrosisca or for a Laldomine. 9 Very often during the happy times, Elena had put on her veil before that clouded, tarnished glass, which had the appearance of dark, slightly greenish water. This came to her mind again now.
When she saw her image appear in those depths, it gave her a strange impression. A wave of sadness, heavier than before, passed through her spirit. But she did not speak.
Andrea was watching her with intent eyes.
When she was ready, she said:
âIt must be very late.
âNot very. It must be around six, perhaps.
âI told my carriage to go, she added. âI would be very grateful if you could have a closed carriage called for me.
âWill you permit me to leave you alone here, for a moment? My manservant is out.
She nodded.
âWill you give the address to the coachman, please? Hotel Quirinale.
He went out, closing the door of the room behind him. She was left alone.
Rapidly, she cast her eyes about, encompassing the whole room with an indefinable gaze, and paused on the goblet of flowers. The walls seemed wider to her; the ceiling higher. Looking around, she had the sensation of the beginnings of dizziness. She no longer smelled the scent; but certainly the air had to be as warm and heavy as that of a greenhouse. The image of Andrea appeared to her in a kind of intermittent flash; in her ears some indistinct wave of his voice resounded. Was she about to faint? And yet, what a delight to close oneâs eyes and abandon oneself to that languor!
Shaking herself, she went toward the window, opened it, and breathed in the wind. Revived, she turned once again to the room. The dim flames of the candles oscillated, stirring delicate shadows on the walls. The fireplace no longer had any flames, but the embers partially illuminated the sacred figures in the fire screen, which was made of a fragment of ecclesiastical stained glass. The cup of tea had remained on the edge of the table, cold, untouched. The cushion on the armchair still retained the imprint of the body that had been pressed into it. All the things around her exhaled an indistinct melancholy that flowed into and crowded the womanâs heart. The weight was increasing on that weak heart, becoming a harsh oppression, an unbearable anguish.
âMy God! My God!
She would have liked to flee. A stronger gust of wind swelled the curtains, agitated the small candle flames, stirred up a rustling sound. She started, with a shiver; and almost involuntarily called:
âAndrea!
Her voice and that name, in the silence, gave her a strange jolt, as if her voice and that name had not come from her own mouth. Why was Andrea taking so long? She began to listen. Nothing came to her except for the dull, bleak, jumbled sound of urban life, on the eve of the New Year. No carriage was passing on the square of Trinità deâ Monti. As the wind was blowing hard in gusts, she closed the window again: she glimpsed the peak of the obelisk, black against the starry sky.
Perhaps Andrea had not immediately found a covered carriage in Piazza Barberini. She waited, sitting on the couch, trying to still the mad agitation within her, avoiding any examination of her soul, forcing her attention to external things. The glassy figures of the fire screen caught her eyes, barely lit by the half-dead coals. Higher up, on the mantelpiece, from one of the goblets, petals were falling from a huge white rose 10 that was falling apart slowly, languidly, softly, with something almost feminine, almost fleshlike about it. The concave petals were poised delicately on the marble, like falling flakes of snow.
How sweet, then, did that scented snow seem to the fingers!
she thought.
All shredded, the roses were scattered over the carpets, the couches, the chairs; and she laughed, happy, amid the devastation; and her lover, happy, was at her feet.
But she heard a coach stop before the
When she saw her image appear in those depths, it gave her a strange impression. A wave of sadness, heavier than before, passed through her spirit. But she did not speak.
Andrea was watching her with intent eyes.
When she was ready, she said:
âIt must be very late.
âNot very. It must be around six, perhaps.
âI told my carriage to go, she added. âI would be very grateful if you could have a closed carriage called for me.
âWill you permit me to leave you alone here, for a moment? My manservant is out.
She nodded.
âWill you give the address to the coachman, please? Hotel Quirinale.
He went out, closing the door of the room behind him. She was left alone.
Rapidly, she cast her eyes about, encompassing the whole room with an indefinable gaze, and paused on the goblet of flowers. The walls seemed wider to her; the ceiling higher. Looking around, she had the sensation of the beginnings of dizziness. She no longer smelled the scent; but certainly the air had to be as warm and heavy as that of a greenhouse. The image of Andrea appeared to her in a kind of intermittent flash; in her ears some indistinct wave of his voice resounded. Was she about to faint? And yet, what a delight to close oneâs eyes and abandon oneself to that languor!
Shaking herself, she went toward the window, opened it, and breathed in the wind. Revived, she turned once again to the room. The dim flames of the candles oscillated, stirring delicate shadows on the walls. The fireplace no longer had any flames, but the embers partially illuminated the sacred figures in the fire screen, which was made of a fragment of ecclesiastical stained glass. The cup of tea had remained on the edge of the table, cold, untouched. The cushion on the armchair still retained the imprint of the body that had been pressed into it. All the things around her exhaled an indistinct melancholy that flowed into and crowded the womanâs heart. The weight was increasing on that weak heart, becoming a harsh oppression, an unbearable anguish.
âMy God! My God!
She would have liked to flee. A stronger gust of wind swelled the curtains, agitated the small candle flames, stirred up a rustling sound. She started, with a shiver; and almost involuntarily called:
âAndrea!
Her voice and that name, in the silence, gave her a strange jolt, as if her voice and that name had not come from her own mouth. Why was Andrea taking so long? She began to listen. Nothing came to her except for the dull, bleak, jumbled sound of urban life, on the eve of the New Year. No carriage was passing on the square of Trinità deâ Monti. As the wind was blowing hard in gusts, she closed the window again: she glimpsed the peak of the obelisk, black against the starry sky.
Perhaps Andrea had not immediately found a covered carriage in Piazza Barberini. She waited, sitting on the couch, trying to still the mad agitation within her, avoiding any examination of her soul, forcing her attention to external things. The glassy figures of the fire screen caught her eyes, barely lit by the half-dead coals. Higher up, on the mantelpiece, from one of the goblets, petals were falling from a huge white rose 10 that was falling apart slowly, languidly, softly, with something almost feminine, almost fleshlike about it. The concave petals were poised delicately on the marble, like falling flakes of snow.
How sweet, then, did that scented snow seem to the fingers!
she thought.
All shredded, the roses were scattered over the carpets, the couches, the chairs; and she laughed, happy, amid the devastation; and her lover, happy, was at her feet.
But she heard a coach stop before the
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