She was not a delicate woman, but strong and majestic, with the form of a statue, as though made from one block by the energetic chisel of Michael Angelo.
Her beauty was equal to her voice. Everything was in harmony with her character; her head of a goddess, bosom of a nymph, hand of a Bacchante, figure of an Amazon, hands and feet of a princess, abundant black hair like the mane of an Arabian horse. In her face, notwithstanding the classical beauty of her features, there was more strength than womanly sweetness. Not infrequently her black eyebrows contracted in a frown, her nostrils dilated with anger, and behind her pink lips her white teeth gleamed angrily.
Her manner was that of a woman accustomed to command, to receive homage, fearing nought, daring even to hurl her thunderbolts at crowned heads.
The drawing-room was elegantly furnished with gold, the furniture upholstered with blue satin, and the dressing-table, covered with lace, was loaded with silver and china. The wardrobes for her dresses were ornamented with bronze, and from the ceiling descended a china chandelier like a basket of flowers.
Three servants stood at the door waiting for orders. One could recognise that two of them were Italian women, for they had not given up their national coifure. Faustina glanced at the clock, threw herself on the sofa, and, half leaning and half sitting, played with the silk sash of her large, silk robe de chambre.
The servants were silent.
There was a knock at the door. Faustina did not move, but glancing towards a good-looking young man who appeared in the doorway, greeted him with a smile.
It was the tenor, Angelo Monticelli. It was easy to see that he was also Italian; but while Faustina was the personification of Italian energy and liveliness, he was the embodiment of almost womanly charm. Young, remarkably handsome, with long black hair falling over his shoulders, he seemed to be born for the rôles of innamorati, of lovers and gods. The classical Apollo, playing the lute, could not have been more charming. Only he lacked the pride and energy of the god.
He bent to salute Faustina, who hardly nodded to him.
'Angelo!' said Faustina, 'you run after those horrid German women--you will lose your voice. Fie! How you can see a woman in those German girls! Look at their hands and feet!'