“No,” he replied, with an effort, as if his mind had been wandering.
“Lamarra’s exhibits are the best, Signora Sanna,” said the Cantelmo, stopping to talk to her. “We will award the prize to him. Just look at this flower-carpet.”
She passed on. Andrea and Lucia crossed to the extreme end of the great conservatory, where the flower-carpet was. Stretched on the ground was a long rectangular rug, entirely composed of heartsease in varied but funereal shades of velvety violet and yellow, streaked with black; some of them large, with luscious petals, and others no bigger than your nail: no leaves. This funereal carpet was divided down its centre by a large cross formed of snowy gardenias which stood out in bold relief.
“It looks like the covering of a tomb,” she said. “I remember a picture of Morelli’s: 'The Daughter of Jairus.’ The carpet which is stretched on the ground and cuts the picture in two runs across the whole canvas.”
“You take too much delight in sadness,” said he, wearily.
“Because the world is sad. These Neapolitan Lamarras are uneducated people, yet they have a feeling for art; they understand that a flower may express joy, but that it often expresses sorrow. Gardenias are refined flowers; they remind me of double, or rather of glorified, jasmin. The gardenia might almost have a soul, it certainly is not devoid of individuality. Sometimes it is small and insignificant, with tightly curled petals; at others as tall and delicate as an eighteen-year old maiden, and of transparent purity; or it is full and nobly developed and of a passionate whiteness. And when it fades it turns yellow, and when it dies it looks as if it had been consumed by fire.”
She was drawn to her full height before the mortuary carpet when she said this to him, absently and in an undertone, as if telling herself the story of the flowers. She was very pale, but her eyes were suffused with tenderness. A strong perfume rose from the gardenias so pungent that Andrea felt it prick his nostrils, mount to his brain and beat in his temples, where it seemed to him that the blood rushed heavily and swiftly.
“Here,” he said, wishing to get away from the funereal carpet and the sight of the cross that stood out in such dazzling whiteness on its dark background of pansies; “here is a beautiful bouquet.”
“Yes, yes, it is pretty,” said Lucia, approaching to examine it critically, and then moving away the better to observe its effect; “really charming, with a discreet virginal charm of its own. Don’t you think so? It is composed of the most delicate and youthful-looking of exotics: the heart of the bouquet of minute fragrant mignonette; then a broad band of heliotrope, contrasting the pale lilac of its lace-like blossoms with the green of the mignonette, and over all cloud-like sprays of heather which give an effect of distance to the whole. Heather is a northern flower, lacking perfume and brilliancy, but reposeful and grateful.... Here at least is a group of pure and innocuous flowers.”
Yet Andrea felt ill at ease while inhaling the delicate fragrance of mignonette and heliotrope. He felt as if his breath were failing him, with an unwonted oppression and a sensation of fatigue as if he had passed the night at a ball.