The Amouretta landscape, and other storiesAdams, Adeline
General
The Amouretta landscape, and other stories
Adams, Adeline
American fiction -- 20th century; Short stories, American
The young mother’s face, softly banded with dark hair, rose flower-like
above a lace collar, fastened at the throat by a large elliptical shell
cameo representing Ganymede teasing the eagles of Jupiter. To the
wearer that brooch was a pleasing and a precious thing. It had been her
mother’s, and had been bought in Rome by her father, our first American
translator of Tasso. Whether or not as an aid to his own understanding of
the Italian poet, the New England scholar had married a gentle Sicilian
girl, and Nancy herself had been born in Rome and christened Annunziata,
an outlandish name that American relatives, after the scholar’s return,
had promptly transformed into Nancy. And all her life Nancy had been
conscious, not without joy, of her twofold nature as a New Englander
and an Italian. Nancy and Annunziata were both of them under her skin.
She never knew which one triumphed the oftener. In the kitchen, Nancy,
perhaps; in the sitting-room, Annunziata.
That evening, as she sewed her fine seam, the ample roseate sleeves
of her gown and the white undersleeves flowing beneath them moved in
and out of the lamplight in a kind of stately melody as for a minuet.
Watching the child at his carving, she hoped and dreamed for him the
life beautiful, the life of a sculptor. Had Raphael been there, she
would have been a Madonna; a Madonna of the hoop-skirt, but not of
the rocking-chair. No, indeed! The chair she sat in was one that her
husband had made and carved for her, after a drawing in an ancient book
on Italian furniture; its beauty and strength were a constant delight
to her. And even without the chair, and the Ganymede, and the crimson
curtains, it would have been evident that this young pair were among the
aristocrats of the village; they felt that they belonged to the only
aristocracy the place permitted, the aristocracy of mind. They had more
books than the minister even. And no doubt Nancy’s birth in Rome, that
far-off city where the Pope lives, had added a secretly savored pagan
touch to the picture the hamlet had made of her.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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