A fortnight later, the great event was Madame Fosca's fancy ball, to
which the guests were bidden to come in what was described as comic
costume. Some, however, craved leave to appear in their ordinary
apparel, and among these was Cecchino Bandini, who was persuaded,
moreover, that his old-fashioned swallow-tails, which he donned only
at weddings, constituted quite comic costume enough.
This knowledge did not interfere at all with his enjoyment. There was
even, to his whimsical mind, a certain charm in being in a crowd among
which he knew no one; unnoticed or confused, perhaps, with the waiters,
as he hung about the stairs and strolled through the big palace rooms.
It was as good as wearing an invisible cloak, one saw so much just
because one was not seen; indeed, one was momentarily endowed (it seemed
at least to his fanciful apprehension) with a faculty akin to that of
understanding the talk of birds; and, as he watched and listened he
became aware of innumerable charming little romances, which were
concealed from more notable but less privileged persons.
Little by little the big white and gold rooms began to fill. The ladies,
who had moved in gorgeous isolation, their skirts displayed as finely as
a peacock's train, became gradually visible only from the waist upwards;
and only the branches of the palm-trees and tree ferns detached
themselves against the shining walls. Instead of wandering among
variegated brocades and iridescent silks and astonishing arrangements of
feathers and flowers, Cecchino's eye was forced to a higher level by the
thickening crowd; it was now the constellated sparkle of diamonds on
neck and head which dazzled him, and the strange, unaccustomed splendour
of white arms and shoulders. And, as the room filled, the invisible
cloak was also drawn closer round our friend Cecchino, and the
extraordinary faculty of perceiving romantic and delicious secrets in
other folk's bosoms became more and more developed. They seemed to him
like exquisite children, these creatures rustling about in fantastic
dresses, powdered shepherds and shepherdesses with diamonds spirting
fire among their ribbons and top-knots; Japanese and Chinese embroidered
with sprays of flowers; mediaeval and antique beings, and beings hidden
in the plumage of birds, or the petals of flowers; children, but
children somehow matured, transfigured by the touch of luxury and
good-breeding, children full of courtesy and kindness. There were, of
course, a few costumes which might have been better conceived or better
carried out, or better--not to say best--omitted altogether. One grew
bored, after a little while, with people dressed as marionettes,
champagne bottles, sticks of sealing-wax, or captive balloons; a young
man arrayed as a female ballet dancer, and another got up as a wet
nurse, with baby _obligato_ might certainly have been dispensed with.
Also, Cecchino could not help wincing a little at the daughter of the
house being mummed and painted to represent her own grandmother, a
respectable old lady whose picture hung in the dining-room, and whose
spectacles he had frequently picked up in his boyhood. But these were
mere trifling details. And, as a whole, it was beautiful, fantastic.
So Cecchino moved backward and forward, invisible in his shabby black
suit, and borne hither and thither by the well-bred pressure of the
many-coloured crowd; pleasantly blinded by the innumerable lights,
the sparkle of chandelier pendants, and the shooting flames of jewels;
gently deafened by the confused murmur of innumerable voices, of
crackling stuffs and soughing fans, of distant dance music; and inhaling
the vague fragrance which seemed less the decoction of cunning perfumers
than the exquisite and expressive emanation of this exquisite bloom of
personality. Certainly, he said to himself, there is no pleasure so
delicious as seeing people amusing themselves with refinement: there is
a transfiguring magic, almost a moralising power, in wealth and elegance
and good-breeding.
He was making this reflection, and watching between two dances, a tiny
fluff of down sailing through the warm draught across the empty space,
the sort of whirlpool of the ball-room--when a little burst of voices
came from the entrance saloon. The multi-coloured costumes fluttered
like butterflies toward a given spot, there was a little heaping
together of brilliant colours and flashing jewels. There was much
craning of delicate, fluffy young necks and heads, and shuffle on
tiptoe, and the crowd fell automatically aside. A little gangway was
cleared; and there walked into the middle of the white and gold
drawing-room, a lumbering, hideous figure, with reddish, vacant face,
sunk in an immense, tarnished satin bonnet; and draggled, faded, lilac
silk skirts spread over a vast dislocated crinoline. The feet dabbed
along in the broken prunella boots; the mangy rabbit-skin muff bobbed
loosely with the shambling gait; and then, under the big chandelier,
there came a sudden pause, and the thing looked slowly round, a gaping,
mooning, blear-eyed stare.
It was the Sora Lena.
There was a perfect storm of applause.