It was the old hall of the
Philharmonic concerts. The whiteness of the walls was unbroken by any
ornament, with only here and there a trace of former frescoes and its
meagre blue portieres threatening to come down at any moment. It had
all the air of a place that had been closed for a century and opened
again that day for the first time. But just this faded look of age, the
air of poverty, the nakedness of the walls lent a curious additional
flavour to the exquisite enjoyment of the audience, making their delight
seem more absorbing, loftier, purer by contrast. It was the 2nd of
February; at Montecitorio the Parliament was disputing over the massacre
of Dogali; the neighbouring streets and squares swarmed with the
populace and with soldiers.
Musical memories of Schifanoja came back to the lovers, a reflected
gleam from those fair autumn days illumined their thoughts.
Mendelssohn's Minuet called up before them a vision of the villa by the
sea, of rooms filled with the perfume of the terraced garden, of
cypresses lifting their dark heads into the soft sky, of flaming sails
upon a glassy sea.
Bending towards his companion, Andrea whispered softly: 'What are you
thinking about?'
With a smile so faint that he hardly caught it, she answered:
'Do you remember the 22nd of September?'
Andrea had no very clear recollection of this date, but he nodded his
head.
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