Of all the Roman houses in which Irene visited, she most liked that
of Count Primoli, who, during the season, entertained the whole of
cosmopolitan Rome in his luxurious villa. Count Primoli was only half
an Italian. Through his mother, a Princess Bonaparte, he was French,
of which fact he was very proud. He was a delightful mixture of French
wit and Italian gaiety and hospitality. Absolutely everyone went to his
Wednesdays and Saturdays! The diplomatic world, famous Italian writers,
French painters and journalists, celebrated singers, Indian princes,
American millionaires, Russians, Swedes, and Englishmen. Romans of the
higher circles visited him with pleasure, even though they disapproved of
his cosmopolitanism. Count Primoli was undismayed by this disapproval,
for he well knew what a service he was rendering to society.
Gloomy dullards never see anything in receptions and other social
gatherings but frivolous distractions, necessary, perhaps, to youth, but
positively reprehensible when indulged in by older people. In truth,
however, balls and parties of every description are indispensable to all
human beings and to the maintenance of their moral and mental health.
A man who leads a solitary confined existence loses his equilibrium.
He ceases to see things in their just perspective, exaggerates and
misunderstands everything, looks at life tragically, and makes mountains
out of mole-hills.
As soon as he leaves off isolating himself, comes in contact with other
people, exchanges ideas with them, laughs and talks a little, his mental
balance is restored, and the mountains become mole-hills again. Also,
the more various are the people he meets, the more his mind broadens and
develops. People who exclusively frequent their own immediate circles, be
they aristocratic or otherwise, invariably grow dull and stupid. That
is why the hospitable host who receives very mixed gatherings renders a
great service to society—though society itself is short-sighted enough
not to recognize this service.
To receive on a large scale is not as easy as people think. It by no
means suffices to be rich and to issue invitations broadcast. The
principal thing is to know how to receive one’s guests, an accomplishment
attainable only on the two following conditions: Aristocratic extraction
and love of humanity. At least three or four generations of well-born
and wealthy people accustomed to social surroundings are needed for
the production of a good host. Everyone who has been in the house of a
_nouveau riche_ knows that he felt, on that occasion, as though he were
in a restaurant. The hosts did not know how to greet their visitors, nor
how to introduce or unite them, so the latter ate and drank, and having
witnessed what entertainment was provided for them, left, sometimes
even forgetting to say good-bye to the hosts. A love of humanity is as
indispensable to a good host as blue blood, and Count Primoli may be
said to have been richly endowed with both these qualifications. He was
a true “Grand Seigneur,” and knew how to make his guests feel at home.
He sincerely loved them all, and wished to give them pleasure. There
were some vulgar people who made fun of his charming cordiality. Had he
forgotten to invite them, or had he treated them with lofty disdain, they
would immediately have begun to respect him. Nice people, however, valued
his kind heart, and took no notice of the silly anecdotes that rumour
spread about him.
Like all ideal hosts, Count Primoli loved his beautiful villa, and never
tired of improving it.
“Je veux que ma maison ne ressemble à nulle autre,” he said to his
friends.
This was not easy to attain, since, in our day, it is hardly possible
to invent anything really new or original. Thanks to railways,
steamships, newspapers, and journals, life grows every day more level and
commonplace. Almost all the world lives, eats, and dresses alike. The
women of Greenland know the latest fashions as well as their Parisian
sisters. The cannibals of Central Asia, imitating English lords, put on
smoking-suits when they sit down to eat their roasted neighbours. The
aristocratic drawing-rooms of Pekin are furnished like those of Madrid.
Dinners, balls, receptions, are alike everywhere, and people travel from
one end of the earth to the other noticing hardly any difference.
Count Primoli, however, managed to attain his object, and his receptions,
once witnessed, were not easily forgotten.
Already, on driving up to the entrance of his villa, one felt a sense
of gaiety and pleasure. The small covered courtyard was carpeted for
the occasion and was decorated with flowers and the Bonaparte arms. A
majestic outdoor servant, theatrically attired, received the carriages as
they drove up. In the square hall, on each side of the door, stood rows
of footmen, in long gold-embroidered satin tail-coats, knee breeches,
white silk stockings, and buckled shoes, an original, old, and now
extinct French fashion of dressing house-servants.
The costumes of these footmen, indeed, were so splendid, that many people
were sure they must be original ancient liveries of the Bonaparte family,
and ought to be in glass cases in a museum. Perhaps this was true; but
it is nevertheless a fact that the liveries were much more effective and
much more clearly remembered on the shoulders of footmen than they would
have been had they been hidden in a museum. The guests, on arrival, felt
that they had left their humdrum daily existence outside the door, and
that they had entered the enchanted realms of fairyland. Like children
who expect a Christmas-tree and surprises, they crossed the hall, with
its wonderful arm-chairs of velvet and cloth of gold, and its enormous
sofa, covered with fur rugs and decorated with masks from Greek tragedy.
Then up the staircase, over the balustrade of which were thrown priceless
brocades of all shades and colours, the walls being hung with Chinese
embroideries and fans of peacock-feathers.
Upstairs, the elegant drawing-rooms, with their pink curtains and
gilt furniture, were wonderful and interesting museums of Napoleonic
souvenirs. Count Primoli honoured the memory of his famous great-uncle,
Napoleon I., and carefully preserved all Napoleonic relics. There were
masks and miniatures of the great Emperor, and other ancient family
treasures, jewelled combs, fans, lace, snuff-boxes, letters, seals, and
silhouettes. In a prominent place stood a large glass case, brilliantly
illuminated, containing two dresses: one of green velvet, embroidered
with gold, from the wardrobe of the Empress Josephine, and the other of
lace over a pink foundation, the priceless robe of Marie Louise. At the
side lay fans and satin slippers, to match the dresses. On the walls of
the room were shelves, and on them signed photographs of the present-day
members of the Bonaparte family.
Another remarkable and charming peculiarity of the villa was the wealth
of flowers with which it was always decorated. Magnificent azaleas of all
shades stood about everywhere, garlands of lilac were suspended from
one chandelier to the other, and other garlands of hyacinths, roses, and
violets, surrounded the glass cases, wound themselves round the shelves,
and framed the looking-glasses.
“Quella fantasmorgia dei fiore!” laughed Roman Princesses and Countesses,
as they entered. It is strange that Roman women, who are surrounded by
flowers that grow in the open air all the year round, do not really care
for them, and only decorate their rooms with them because it is the
fashion, and because it pleases foreigners. Count Primoli, however, was a
great lover of flowers, and so completely filled his villa with them that
one grew faint with the sweetness of their overpowering fragrance. The
air, indeed, was full of something romantic and reminiscent—one thought
of old Italy and the Renaissance.
“Quand je vais chez le Comte Primoli,” said a foreign lady once,
“j’ai toujours envie de parler en vers, et de demander un sorbet aux
domestiques”—and there were many who shared this impression.
The crowd at these receptions was always composed of the most varied
cosmopolitan elements. There was the Chinese Ambassador, who, having
but yesterday cut off his “pigtail,” had thrown off his flowered robe,
and wore European dress clothes with the ease and _chic_ of a London
clubman. There was the American Ambassador, whose quiet dignity stood out
in relief against the noisy vulgarity of his numerous compatriots. There
were members of all the Embassies with their wives, the latter attired,
according to the custom of luxurious Rome, in beautiful Paris dresses,
low-necked, and even in some cases set off by wonderful diamond ornaments
or tiaras. All Western women consider themselves queens, and by no means
object to sometimes wearing crowns, as a sign of their high rank.
Loveliest of all, however, was the Russian singer L⸺, recently arrived in
Rome to fulfil an engagement at the Costanzi theatre. Perfectly dressed,
and wearing wonderful pearls, she was modest, dignified, and charming.
The arrival of the famous French painter, Carolus Duran, was greeted
by exclamations from all sides: “Comment allez-vous, cher maître? Quel
bonheur de vous voir!” But, as was to be expected from a painter, the
great Frenchman was immediately attracted by the beautiful singer; and
the latter, having previously announced that she never sang in private
houses, offered, on learning that the charming and universally beloved
old man had never heard her, to make an exception for his benefit. The
painter was so sympathetic and irresistible, that no one was surprised at
her wish to sing to him. He was, indeed, the personification of all that
is best in France: industrious democracy, firm principles, and profound
belief in God and in the triumph of right and justice.
An excellent tenor and an experienced accompanist, never very far away
in Rome, were immediately forthcoming. They disappeared for a moment
with Madame L⸺, and then returned to the principal drawing-room, into
which all the visitors crowded to admire and enjoy what was sure to be an
exquisite performance.
The artists sang excerpts from “Traviata” and “Tosca,” and, as her last
number, Madame L⸺ gave some Russian melodies.
The applause was rapturous. With remarkable warmth and kindness, many of
the listeners congratulated not only L⸺ herself, but also all the other
Russians who happened to be present. For the first time in her life,
Irene realized that it was possible to be proud of someone else’s success.
“These foreigners,” observed the Bulgarian Minister to Irene, in perfect
Russian, “always imagine that we Slavs live on tallow candles. It is good
to be able to show them what our songs are like, and our singers and our
national Slavonic genius.”
While listening to L⸺, Irene had observed the public, and had noticed
many envious glances levelled at the singer. “Why should she have
everything?” they seemed to say—“beauty, talent, splendid dresses, and
jewels!”
Irene would have liked to console them with the answer that every singer,
every actress, indeed every great talent is endowed by fate not only
with wealth and success, but also with a profound capacity for suffering.
No one can sing well, play well, or write well, without living through
moments of the deepest pain and anguish. Every real talent has known
times of torturing depression when the heart in its agony has cried out
to God: “Why hast Thou forsaken me? What have I done that I should suffer
so?”
And then, at the very darkest moment, suddenly, the veil is torn from
their eyes! Truth, with her flaming torch, stands before them, and they
understand that God sends them suffering to strengthen and ennoble their
talent, that it may touch men’s hearts and show to tired wanderers on
earth glimpses of heaven.
Having once grasped this fact, men and women of talent humbly bow
their heads before God’s will. Uncomplainingly and nobly they bear the
insatiable yearning that tears their souls, accepting success with
indifference, since they know that their own personal fame is but a
secondary matter, and plays but a minor part in their mission on earth.
Irene felt that there comes a moment in the life not only of every
artist, writer, or musician, but also in that of every thinking human
being, when nature asks him her great question: “Canst thou relinquish
personal interests and help me in my work for humanity?” On his answer
depends his soul’s serenity, the peace of his old age, and his faith in
God and the justice of God’s ways. For should he indeed refuse, should
he harden his heart against his brothers, a despair so boundless will
take possession of his soul that there will be no escape or loophole
but—suicide.
Irene wondered, with a shudder, what her own answer to the fateful
question would be.