front door, in the street; and she stood up, shaking her poor head, as if to chase away that kind of dullness that enveloped it. Immediately after, Andrea returned, panting.
âForgive me, he said. âBut I could not find the doorman, so I went right down to Piazza di Spagna. The coach is below, waiting.
âThank you, Elena said, looking at him timidly through the black veil.
He was serious and pale, but calm.
âMumps is arriving tomorrow, perhaps, she added, in a soft voice. âI will send you a note to tell you when I can see you.
âThanks! Andrea said.
âGood-bye, then, she continued, holding out her hand to him.
âWould you like me to accompany you down to the street? There is no one about.
âYes, come down with me.
She looked about, slightly hesitant.
âHave you forgotten anything? Andrea asked.
She looked at the flowers. But she answered.
âOh yes, my cardholder.
Andrea ran to pick it up from the tea table. Handing it out to her, he said:
â
A stranger hither!
11
â
No, my dear. A friend
.
Elena uttered this reply with a very animated, vivacious voice. Then, suddenly, with a smile halfway between suppliant and flattering, of mingled fear and tenderness, above which trembled the edge of her veil, which reached her upper lip, leaving her whole mouth free:
â
Give me a rose
.
Andrea went to each vase; and removed all the roses, pressing them together into a great bunch that he could barely hold in his hands. Some fell, others fell apart.
âThey were for you, all of them, he said, without looking at the woman he loved.
And Elena turned to go out, her head bent, in silence, followed by him.
They walked down the stairs still in silence. He saw the nape of her neck, so fresh and delicate, where below the knot of her veil the small black curls mingled with her ashen fur coat.
âElena! he called, in a low voice, no longer able to conquer the consuming passion that was swelling his heart.
She turned, placing her index finger on her lips to indicate to him to be silent, with a suffering, imploring gesture, her eyes glittering. She quickened her pace, climbed up into the coach, and felt the roses being placed on her lap.
âGood-bye! Good-bye!
And as soon as the coach moved forward she lay back in the farthest corner, overcome, bursting into unrestrained tears, shredding the roses to pieces with her poor convulsed hands.
CHAPTER II
Beneath todayâs gray democratic flood, which wretchedly submerges so many beautiful and rare things, that special class of ancient Italic nobility in which from generation to generation a certain family tradition of elect culture, elegance, and art was kept alive is also slowly disappearing.
To this class, which I would call Arcadian because it rendered its greatest splendor in the sweet life of the eighteenth century, the Sperelli family belonged. Urbanity, elegant writing skills, a love of delicacy, a predilection for unusual studies, a mania for archaeology, refined gallantry, were all hereditary qualities of the house of Sperelli. A certain Alessandro Sperelli, in 1466, had carried to Federigo dâAragona, the son of Ferdinando, King of Naples, and brother of Alfonso, Duke of Calabria, the codex in folio containing some âless coarseâ poems of the old Tuscan writers, which Lorenzo deâ Medici had promised in Pisa in â65; and that same Alessandro had written upon the death of the divine Simonetta, 1 in chorus with the sages of the time, a Latin elegy, melancholic and forsaken, in imitation of Tibullus. Another Sperelli, Stefano, in the same century, had been in Flanders amid a life of pomp, of exquisite elegance, of unparalleled Burgundian splendor; and he remained there at the court of Charles le Téméraire, marrying into a Flemish family. One of his sons, Giusto, studied painting under the instruction of Jan Gossaert; and together with his teacher he came to Italy in the retinue
âForgive me, he said. âBut I could not find the doorman, so I went right down to Piazza di Spagna. The coach is below, waiting.
âThank you, Elena said, looking at him timidly through the black veil.
He was serious and pale, but calm.
âMumps is arriving tomorrow, perhaps, she added, in a soft voice. âI will send you a note to tell you when I can see you.
âThanks! Andrea said.
âGood-bye, then, she continued, holding out her hand to him.
âWould you like me to accompany you down to the street? There is no one about.
âYes, come down with me.
She looked about, slightly hesitant.
âHave you forgotten anything? Andrea asked.
She looked at the flowers. But she answered.
âOh yes, my cardholder.
Andrea ran to pick it up from the tea table. Handing it out to her, he said:
â
A stranger hither!
11
â
No, my dear. A friend
.
Elena uttered this reply with a very animated, vivacious voice. Then, suddenly, with a smile halfway between suppliant and flattering, of mingled fear and tenderness, above which trembled the edge of her veil, which reached her upper lip, leaving her whole mouth free:
â
Give me a rose
.
Andrea went to each vase; and removed all the roses, pressing them together into a great bunch that he could barely hold in his hands. Some fell, others fell apart.
âThey were for you, all of them, he said, without looking at the woman he loved.
And Elena turned to go out, her head bent, in silence, followed by him.
They walked down the stairs still in silence. He saw the nape of her neck, so fresh and delicate, where below the knot of her veil the small black curls mingled with her ashen fur coat.
âElena! he called, in a low voice, no longer able to conquer the consuming passion that was swelling his heart.
She turned, placing her index finger on her lips to indicate to him to be silent, with a suffering, imploring gesture, her eyes glittering. She quickened her pace, climbed up into the coach, and felt the roses being placed on her lap.
âGood-bye! Good-bye!
And as soon as the coach moved forward she lay back in the farthest corner, overcome, bursting into unrestrained tears, shredding the roses to pieces with her poor convulsed hands.
CHAPTER II
Beneath todayâs gray democratic flood, which wretchedly submerges so many beautiful and rare things, that special class of ancient Italic nobility in which from generation to generation a certain family tradition of elect culture, elegance, and art was kept alive is also slowly disappearing.
To this class, which I would call Arcadian because it rendered its greatest splendor in the sweet life of the eighteenth century, the Sperelli family belonged. Urbanity, elegant writing skills, a love of delicacy, a predilection for unusual studies, a mania for archaeology, refined gallantry, were all hereditary qualities of the house of Sperelli. A certain Alessandro Sperelli, in 1466, had carried to Federigo dâAragona, the son of Ferdinando, King of Naples, and brother of Alfonso, Duke of Calabria, the codex in folio containing some âless coarseâ poems of the old Tuscan writers, which Lorenzo deâ Medici had promised in Pisa in â65; and that same Alessandro had written upon the death of the divine Simonetta, 1 in chorus with the sages of the time, a Latin elegy, melancholic and forsaken, in imitation of Tibullus. Another Sperelli, Stefano, in the same century, had been in Flanders amid a life of pomp, of exquisite elegance, of unparalleled Burgundian splendor; and he remained there at the court of Charles le Téméraire, marrying into a Flemish family. One of his sons, Giusto, studied painting under the instruction of Jan Gossaert; and together with his teacher he came to Italy in the retinue
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