Her fingers, tapering and
glittering with rings, looked very white as she drew off their delicate
covering. On the ring finger of her left hand blazed a great opal.
She played the two Sonata-Fantasias of Beethoven (Op. 27). The one,
dedicated to Giulietta Guicciardi, expressed a hopeless renunciation,
told of an awakening after a dream that had lasted too long. The other,
from the first bars of the _Andante_, described by its full smooth
rhythm the calm that comes after the storm; then, passing through the
disquietude of the second movement, opened out into an _Adagio_ of
luminous serenity, and ended in an _Allegro Vivace_ in which there was a
rising note of courage, almost of fervour.
Though surrounded by an attentive audience, Andrea felt that she was
playing for him alone. From time to time, his eyes wandering from the
fingers of the pianist to the long gloves hanging from the music stand,
which still retained the form of those hands, still preserved an
inexpressible charm in the small opening at the wrist where, but a short
time ago, a tiny morsel of her soft flesh had been visible.
Maria rose amidst a round of applause. She left the piano, but she did
not take away her gloves. Andrea was tempted to steal them.--Had she not
perhaps left them for him?--But he only wanted one. As a connoisseur in
amatory matters has said, a pair of gloves is a totally different thing
from a single one.
Pages:
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338