Chapter 17: The Adorer

II. Peacock Plumes

“Aria Serena, guand’apar l’albore
E bianca neve scender senza vento...
Ció passa la beltate...
De la mia donna...
... Non po’ ‘maginare
Ch’om d’esto monde l’ardisca amirare...
Ed i’ s’i’ la sguardasse, ne morira.”
Guido Cavalcanti.
It rained peacock plumes,
Pan, pan, pan,
The multicolored door glowed with flames.

The sky of the bed trembled towards an oarystis,
It rained peacock plumes,
Plumes of a white peacock.

The tower waved gracefully like a felucca undulating in the evening sea breeze. And it was truly raining peacock plumes: Guido was astonished and blew at them. He caught one in flight: it was white, with an orange eye and luminous spaces. Ah! they all seemed to be looking at him: they paused in front of him, they smiled, they fell, they died. As they neared the earth, the wind spun them around a little, some dust floated, then they disappeared; the passersby did not even raise their heads.

The tower leaned over until it touched the ground: Guido leaped into the street. He was not deceived. The peacock plumes had disappeared: from below they could no longer be seen. It was a pity, for they were pretty. He continued to walk in full liberty, his head high, full of joy, watching the women. He passed under the madonna without emotion, threw a glance towards the portal of the church, which he found as ugly as a wagoner’s gate, and of the Novella he only saw a madonna in trappings, wholly devoid of attractions. Nevertheless he bowed to her.

The door was gay with oriental robes: a negro in white was ordering some women into a curtained carriage; the women were caged like the Carmelites of Saint-Augustine when they go to get food. One was in blue, one in red, one in green, one in violet, and one in yellow. The first four climbed into the carriage, laughing like children and uttering rapid strange words. Guido, who had approached, saw that each one bore, pinned to her monkish cloak, a label behind her head. He deciphered the writing on the violet woman who was gesticulating a little less than the others: All eccellentissimo e nobilissimo signor Ricardo Caraccioli. So they had a certain destination! They were not to be let free in the country among the grass, the bluebottles, the poppies and crocuses? But what would the seigneur Caraccioli do with such flowerets? Guido knew him: he was a gentleman of exemplary habits, the son of a cardinal, and nephew of the late pope. What would he do with that young girl? A dialogue informed him:

“Are they all for the same most excellent seigneur?” asked a subordinate officer who held a large book in his hand.

“All for the same man,” the negro answered, “at least they are all bound for the same name. Does it surprise you? But he will share them with his friends. His only fear is that they will seek to quarrel with him.”