A narrow band
of fur edged the low bodice and imparted an indescribable delicacy to
the tints of the skin. The line of the shoulders, from the neck to the
top of the arms, had that gracious slope which is such a sure mark of
physical aristocracy and so rare nowadays. In her magnificent hair,
arranged in the manner affected by Verocchio for his busts, there was
not one jewel, not one flower.
At two or three propitious moments, Andrea murmured words of passionate
admiration in her ear.
'This is the first time we have met in society,' he said to her. 'Give
me a glove as a souvenir.'
'No.'
'Why not, Maria?'
'No, no. Be quiet.'
'Oh, those hands of yours! Do you remember when I copied them at
Schifanoja? I feel as if I had a right to them; as if you ought to grant
them to me; of your whole person they are the part that is most
intimately connected with your soul, the most spiritualised, almost, one
might say, the purest--Oh, hands of kindness--hands of pardon. How
dearly I should love to possess at least a semblance of their form, some
token to which their delicate perfume still clings. You will give me a
glove before you leave?'
She did not answer. The conversation dropped. A short time afterwards,
on being asked to play, she consented, and drawing off her gloves laid
them on the music-stand in front of her.
Pages:
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337