United States or Yemen ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
This was enough to exalt the artist. But she had distinguished nothing, she had not been moved. And then she confessed that Dante did not attract her. Dechartre, accustomed to her sharing all his ideas of art and poetry, felt astonishment and some discontent. He said, aloud: "There are many grand and strong things which you do not feel."
Therese and Jacques, returning from an early promenade in the Boboli Gardens, were passing before the illustrious loggia. Therese looked at the Sabine by John of Bologna with that interested curiosity of a woman examining another woman. But Dechartre looked at Therese only.
He took his luggage and went out. She saw his long, rustic form disappear behind the bushes of the garden. In the afternoon she went to San Marco, where Dechartre was waiting for her. She desired yet she feared to see him again so soon. She felt an anguish which an unknown sentiment, profoundly soft, appeased.
I have noticed that children, when they are handsome, look, when they pout, like Napoleon at Waterloo. You have made me feel the profound reasons for this similarity." Then, turning toward Dechartre: "Do you like Napoleon?" "Madame, I do not like the Revolution. And Napoleon is the Revolution in boots." "Monsieur Dechartre, why did you not say this at dinner?
And it is true that Dechartre had wished to be there with Madame Martin. Now all four walked among the Guidos and the Albanos. Miss Bell babbled to the Prince her usual prattle about those old men and those Virgins whose blue mantles were agitated by an immovable tempest.
An hour later, in the aesthetic room hung with tapestry, whereon citron-trees loaded with golden fruit formed a fairy forest, Therese, her head on the pillow, and her handsome bare arms folded under her head, was thinking, seeing float confusedly before her the images of her new life: Vivian Bell and her bells, her pre-Raphaelite figures, light as shadows, ladies, isolated knights, indifferent among pious scenes, a little sad, and looking to see who was coming; she thought also of the Prince Albertinelli, Professor Arrighi, Choulette, with his odd play of ideas, and Dechartre, with youthful eyes in a careworn face.
Dechartre remained sombre and distant during the rest of the dinner: and when, at the moment of leaving, Therese extended her hand to him, she felt that he avoided pressing it in his. By ANATOLE FRANCE The next day, in the hidden pavilion of the Via Alfieri, she found him preoccupied. She tried to distract him with ardent gayety, with the sweetness of pressing intimacy, with superb humility.
His thought had brought together the hand that dropped a letter in the post-box before the bronze San Marco and the dreadful unknown who had been seen at the station. Now Jacques Dechartre gave a face and a name to the cause of his suffering.
And it is true that Dechartre had wished to be there with Madame Martin. Now all four walked among the Guidos and the Albanos. Miss Bell babbled to the Prince her usual prattle about those old men and those Virgins whose blue mantles were agitated by an immovable tempest.
The one who first thought of pasting a canvas on a panel, in order that the painting should not be broken when the wood was split, passed for a marvellous man. Every master had his secret formulae." "Happy time," said Dechartre, "when nobody troubled himself about that originality for which we are so avidly seeking to-day. The apprentice tried to work like the master.
Word Of The Day