Cavalier DÃ vila, a Neapolitan gentleman of gigantic proportions and almost feminine mannerisms, a celebrated collector and connoisseur of majolica ceramics, gave his judgment on each important piece. There were in truth three superior things in that cardinalitial sale: the
Story of Narcissus
,
the rock crystal chalice, and a helmet made of embossed silver by Antonio del Pollajuolo, which the Signoria of Florence gave the Count of Urbino in 1472 as reward for services rendered by him at the time of the conquest of Volterra.
âHere is the princess, Don Filippo del Monte said to Elena Muti.
Elena arose to greet her friend.
âAlready in the field! exclaimed the Princess of Ferentino.
âAlready.
âAnd Francesca?
âSheâs not here yet.
Four or five elegant gentlemen, the Duke of Grimiti, Roberto Casteldieri, Ludovico Barbarisi, Giannetto Rùtolo, approached. Others arrived. The pouring rain drowned the sound of speech.
Donna Elena held out her hand to Andrea Sperelli, matter-of-factly, as to everyone else. He felt himself distanced by that handshake. Elena seemed cold and serious to him. All his dreams froze and collapsed in one moment; the memories of the preceding evening became confused; his hopes died. What was the matter with her? She was no longer the same woman. She wore a kind of long tunic made of otter and a kind of mortarboard cap on her head, also of otter. In her facial expression there was something sour and almost scornful.
âThereâs still time before the goblet, she said to the princess; and sat down again.
Every object passed through her hands. A centaur engraved in chalcedony, a very fine piece of work, perhaps originating from the dispersed museum of Lorenzo il Magnifico, tempted her. And she took part in the contest. She communicated her bids to the auctioneer in a low voice, without raising her eyes to him. At a certain point her competitors withdrew: she obtained the stone at a good price.
âAn excellent purchase, said Andrea Sperelli, who was standing behind her chair.
Elena could not restrain a slight tremor. She picked up the chalcedony and gave it to him to look at, lifting her hand to shoulder height without turning around. It was truly a very beautiful thing.
âIt could be the centaur that Donatello copied, Andrea added.
And in his soul, together with his admiration for the beautiful object, admiration arose for the noble taste of the woman who now possessed it.
She is therefore, in everything, an
elect
spirit, he thought.
How much pleasure she could give a refined lover!
In his imagination she was growing in dimension; but in growing, she was escaping him. The great confidence of the evening before was changing into a kind of discouragement; and his original doubts rose up again. He had dreamed too much during the night; daydreaming, swimming in an endless happiness, while the memory of a gesture, a smile, a position of her head, a fold of her dress caught him and ensnared him like a net. Now, that entire imaginary world was collapsing miserably, coming into contact with reality. He had not seen in Elenaâs eyes the special greeting about which he had thought so much; he had not been singled out by her, from among the others, with any sign.
Why?
He felt humiliated. All those fatuous people around him made him angry; those things that attracted her attention made him angry; Don Filippo del Monte, who was leaning down toward her every now and then, perhaps to murmur some nasty gossip to her, made him angry. The Marchioness of Ateleta arrived. She was, as usual, cheerful. Her laughter, amid the men that already surrounded her, made Don Filippo turn around eagerly.
âThe Trinity is perfect, he said, and got up.
Andrea immediately occupied his chair, next to Elena Muti. When the subtle scent of violets reached his nostrils, he murmured:
âTheyâre not the ones from last night.
âNo, said Elena, coldly.
In her mutability,
Story of Narcissus
,
the rock crystal chalice, and a helmet made of embossed silver by Antonio del Pollajuolo, which the Signoria of Florence gave the Count of Urbino in 1472 as reward for services rendered by him at the time of the conquest of Volterra.
âHere is the princess, Don Filippo del Monte said to Elena Muti.
Elena arose to greet her friend.
âAlready in the field! exclaimed the Princess of Ferentino.
âAlready.
âAnd Francesca?
âSheâs not here yet.
Four or five elegant gentlemen, the Duke of Grimiti, Roberto Casteldieri, Ludovico Barbarisi, Giannetto Rùtolo, approached. Others arrived. The pouring rain drowned the sound of speech.
Donna Elena held out her hand to Andrea Sperelli, matter-of-factly, as to everyone else. He felt himself distanced by that handshake. Elena seemed cold and serious to him. All his dreams froze and collapsed in one moment; the memories of the preceding evening became confused; his hopes died. What was the matter with her? She was no longer the same woman. She wore a kind of long tunic made of otter and a kind of mortarboard cap on her head, also of otter. In her facial expression there was something sour and almost scornful.
âThereâs still time before the goblet, she said to the princess; and sat down again.
Every object passed through her hands. A centaur engraved in chalcedony, a very fine piece of work, perhaps originating from the dispersed museum of Lorenzo il Magnifico, tempted her. And she took part in the contest. She communicated her bids to the auctioneer in a low voice, without raising her eyes to him. At a certain point her competitors withdrew: she obtained the stone at a good price.
âAn excellent purchase, said Andrea Sperelli, who was standing behind her chair.
Elena could not restrain a slight tremor. She picked up the chalcedony and gave it to him to look at, lifting her hand to shoulder height without turning around. It was truly a very beautiful thing.
âIt could be the centaur that Donatello copied, Andrea added.
And in his soul, together with his admiration for the beautiful object, admiration arose for the noble taste of the woman who now possessed it.
She is therefore, in everything, an
elect
spirit, he thought.
How much pleasure she could give a refined lover!
In his imagination she was growing in dimension; but in growing, she was escaping him. The great confidence of the evening before was changing into a kind of discouragement; and his original doubts rose up again. He had dreamed too much during the night; daydreaming, swimming in an endless happiness, while the memory of a gesture, a smile, a position of her head, a fold of her dress caught him and ensnared him like a net. Now, that entire imaginary world was collapsing miserably, coming into contact with reality. He had not seen in Elenaâs eyes the special greeting about which he had thought so much; he had not been singled out by her, from among the others, with any sign.
Why?
He felt humiliated. All those fatuous people around him made him angry; those things that attracted her attention made him angry; Don Filippo del Monte, who was leaning down toward her every now and then, perhaps to murmur some nasty gossip to her, made him angry. The Marchioness of Ateleta arrived. She was, as usual, cheerful. Her laughter, amid the men that already surrounded her, made Don Filippo turn around eagerly.
âThe Trinity is perfect, he said, and got up.
Andrea immediately occupied his chair, next to Elena Muti. When the subtle scent of violets reached his nostrils, he murmured:
âTheyâre not the ones from last night.
âNo, said Elena, coldly.
In her mutability,
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