In his dedication of these works to her, Elena felt herself deified by
her lover as was Isotta di Rimini by the medals which Sigismondo
Malatesta caused to be struck in her honour; and yet, on those days when
Andrea was at work, she would become moody and taciturn, as if under the
influence of some secret grief, or she would give way to such sudden
bursts of tenderness, mingled with tears and half-suppressed sobs, that
the young man was startled and, not understanding her, became
suspicious.
One evening, they were returning on horseback from the Aventine down the
Via di Santa Sabina, their eyes still filled with a vision of imperial
palaces flaming under the setting sun that burned red through the
cypresses and seemed to cover them with golden dust. They rode in
silence, for Elena seemed out of spirits, and her depression had
communicated itself to her lover. As they passed the church of Santa
Sabina, Andrea reined up his horse.
'Do you remember?' he said.
Some fowls, picking about peacefully in the grass, skurried away at the
barking of Famulus. The whole place was as quiet and unassuming as the
purlieus of a village church, but the walls had that singular luminous
glow which the buildings of Rome seem to give out at 'Titian's hour.'
Elena drew up beside him.
'That day--how long ago it seems now!' she said with a little tremor in
her voice.
Pages:
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90