However, apart from this fault of _preciosità_ which De Vogüé does not appear to have perceived, but which seems to many Italians incontestable, the style of D'Annunzio is very fine; finest of all when it is spent on the portraiture of natural scenes, and of characters unhampered by conventionality. Read this brief episode of the simplest kind; how alive with actuality it is! It is taken from the earlier part of the residence of Aurispa and Ippolita at the Hermitage.
'Hearing a rattle of plates, he asked, "Are you hungry?" And the question suggested by the little homely sound, put eagerly, with childlike insistence, made Ippolita smile.
'"Yes, a little," she answered, smiling; and both of them looked at the table ready spread under the oak tree. In a few minutes more their dinner was ready.
'"You must be content with what there is," said Giorgio. "It is very humble fare."
'And with a gay air she drew near the table, examined curiously the tablecloth, the silver, the glass, the plates, finding everything charming, delighted like a child with the blue flowers which ornamented the fine white pottery.
'She bent over the big, round loaf, which was still warm under its golden and crisp crust.
'"Ah! what a good smell it has!" And, as if impelled by her childlike joy in the fresh bread, she broke off a piece of its crust.
'Her strong, white teeth shone as they bit and closed, and all the movements of her curving lip expressed the pleasure which she felt; and from her whole person there seemed to emanate a rare, fresh grace, which attracted and amazed her lover with a new and unexpected charm.
What can be more graphic, more simple, more radiant, than this picture painted in words so few?
Take this landscape, so true to the scenery of the Veneto:--
'It was afternoon. He explored the winding paths which went, now up, now down, leading towards the point of the Penna, on the seashore. He looked before him and around him with curiosity, but, perhaps, with some forced attention, as if he wished to understand obscure meanings hidden in these simple scenes, to wrest from them some unseizable secret. Rising in the heart of these hills of the coast the water of a brook, directed by a homely aqueduct made of hollowed trees, crossed the low-lying land between the two slopes. Other little rivulets were caught and guided by concave tiles to water the tilled earth grown with rich vegetation, and above these streams, ever bright and rippling, there leaned some beautiful purple flowers;[2] all these humble things seemed to him pregnant with profound life. All the merry waters ran down along the incline towards the pebbly beach, and passed under a little bridge. In the shadow of its arch some women were washing linen, and their gestures were mirrored in the stream. On the shingle other linen was already outspread, whitening in the sun. Along the path a man walked with bare feet, carrying his shoes swinging in his hand. Two children, laden with linen, ran along laughing and playing. An old woman hung up on a line a blue mattress.