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"What! are you going to grieve me too, dear?" replied Celia. "I love Attilio and mean to have him. Yes, him and not another! I want him and I'll have him, because I love him and he loves me. It's simple enough." Pierre glanced at her, thunderstruck. With her gentle virgin face she was like a candid, budding lily.
"Ah! the dear girl!" said Victorine, whose tears were again flowing. "You saw that she kissed them, and nobody had yet thought of that, not even the poor young Prince's mother. Ah! the dear little heart, she surely thought of her Attilio."
It makes the figures seem life-like. The work reminds me of the figure of The Outcast, by the sculpter's brother, Attilio Piccirilli, that we shall see in the colonade of the Fine Arts Palace. So many sculptors like to secure these smooth, meaningless surfaces that excite admiration among those people who care for mere prettiness.
The season of 1723 began in November with Buononcini's Farnace and Handel's Ottone; in January 1724 a new opera, Vespasiano, by Attilio Ariosti, was given, and ran for nine successive nights. Ariosti was never a very troublesome rival to Handel; he was a man of amiable character, and apparently quite content to remain aloof from the party politics of the opera-house.
This epic figure, "An Outcast," compelling by its earnestness and the tragedy of its motive idea, is handled with firmness, assurance and a perfect sense of volume and sculptural mass values. It is exhibited by Attilio Piccirilli, the artist who designed the Maine Memorial in New York City. The appeal of "An Outcast" is too direct to need any illumination.
And in all this there was not merely the usual curiosity to see uniforms go by and ladies in rich attire alight from their carriages, for Pierre soon gathered from what he heard that the crowd had come to witness the arrival of the King and Queen, who had promised to appear at the ball given by Prince Buongiovanni, in celebration of the betrothal of his daughter Celia to Lieutenant Attilio Sacco, the son of one of his Majesty's ministers.
On her side, Benedetta was all gaiety during the repast, laughing at everything, and speaking of Celia and Attilio with the passionate affection of a woman whose own happiness delights in that of her friends. Then, just as the dessert had been served, she turned to the servant with an air of surprise: "Well, and the figs, Giacomo?" she asked.
When Pierre at last succeeded in reaching the door of the Hall of the Antiques, where the buffet was installed, he found Prada there, motionless, gazing despite himself on the galling spectacle which he desired to flee. A power stronger than his will had kept him there, forcing him to turn round and look, and look again. And thus, with a bleeding heart, he still lingered and witnessed the resumption of the dancing, the first figure of a quadrille which the orchestra began to play with a lively flourish of its brass instruments. Benedetta and Dario, Celia and Attilio were vis-
"Priestess of Culture," Herbert Adams, of New York; female figure surmounting columns within rotunda. Coloring of dome, burnt orange, turquoise green, Sienna columns. Youth, by Charles Carey Rumsey. An Outcast, by Attilio Piccirilli. Idyl, by Olga Popoff Muller. Dancing Nymph, by Olin L. Warner. Boy and Frog, by Edward Berge. Eurydice, by Furio Piccirilli. Wild Flower, by Edward Berge.
But in that brief passage he had opened our souls to everlasting things the freshness, and the darkness, and the kindness of the brooding, all-enfolding night above the sea. The night before the wedding we had a supper-party in my rooms. We were twelve in all. My friend Eustace brought his gondolier Antonio with fair-haired, dark-eyed wife, and little Attilio, their eldest child.
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