It was Christmas Day, on which occasion the Marchesa Belloni
entertained her boarders with a Christmas-tree in the drawing-room,
followed by a dance in the old Guercino dining-room. To give a ball and
a Christmas-tree was a custom with many hotel-keepers; and the pensions
that gave no dance or Christmas-tree were known and numbered and were
greatly blamed by the foreigners for this breach of tradition. There
were instances of very excellent pensions to which many travellers,
especially ladies, never went, because there was neither a dance nor
a Christmas-tree at Christmas.
The marchesa realized that her tree was expensive and that her
dance cost money too and she would gladly have found an excuse for
avoiding both, but she dared not: the reputation of her pension,
as it happened, depended on its worldliness and smartness, on the
table-d'hôte in the handsome dining-room, where people dressed for
dinner, and also on the brilliant party given at Christmas. And it
was amusing to see how keen all the ladies were to receive gratis in
their bill for a whole winter's stay a trashy Christmas present and the
opportunity of dancing without having to pay for a glass of orgeade
and a bit of pastry, a sandwich and a cup of soup. Giuseppe, the old
nodding major-domo, looked down contemptuously on this festivity:
he remembered the gala pomp of his archducal evenings and considered
the dance inferior and the tree paltry. Antonio, the limping porter,
accustomed to his comparatively quiet life--fetching a visitor or
taking him to the station; sorting the post twice a day at his ease;
and for the rest pottering around his lodge and the lift--hated the
dance, because of all the guests of the boarders, each of whom was
entitled to invite two or three friends, and because of all that tiring
fuss about carriages, when a good many of the visitors skipped into
their vettura without tipping him. Round about Christmas, therefore,
relations between the marchesa and her two principal dignitaries
became far from harmonious; and a hail of orders and abuse would
patter down on the backs of the old cameriere, crawling wearily up
and downstairs with their hot-water-cans in their trembling hands,
and of the young greenhorns of waiters, colliding with one another
in their undisciplined zeal and smashing the plates. And it was only
now, when the whole staff was put to work that people saw how old the
cameriere were and how young the waiters and qualified as disgraceful
and shocking the thrifty method of the marchesa in employing none but
wrecks and infants in her service. The one muscular facchino, who was
essential for hauling the luggage, cut an unexpected figure of virile
maturity and robustness. But above everything the visitors detested the
marchesa because of the great number of her servants, reflecting that
now, at Christmas-time, they would have to tip every one of them. No,
they never imagined that the staff was so large! Quite unnecessarily
large too! Why couldn't the marchesa engage a couple of strong young
maids and waiters instead of all those old women and little boys? And
there was much hushed plotting and confabulating in the corners of the
passages and at meals, to decide on the tips to be given: they didn't
want to spoil the servants, but still they were staying all the winter;
and therefore one lira was hardly enough and they hesitated between
one lira twenty-five and one lira fifty. But, when they counted on
their fingers that there were fully five-and-twenty servants and
that therefore they were close on forty lire out of pocket, they
thought it an awful lot and they got up subscription-lists. Two
lists went round, one of one lira and one of twelve lire a visitor,
the latter subscription covering the whole staff. On this second list
some, who had arrived a month before and who had arranged to leave,
entered their names for ten lire and some for six lire. Five lire
was by general consent considered too little; and, when it became
known that the grimy æsthetic ladies intended to give five lire,
they were regarded with the greatest contempt.
It all meant a lot of trouble and excitement. As Christmas drew nearer,
people streamed to the presepii set up by painters in the Palazzo
Borghese: a panorama of Jerusalem and the shepherds, the angels,
the Magi and Mary and the Child in the manger with the ox and the
ass. They listened in the Ara Coeli to the preaching of little boys
and girls, who by turns climbed the platform and told the story of the
Nativity, some shyly reciting a little poem, prompted by an anxious
mother; others, girls especially, declaiming and rolling their eyes
with the dramatic fervour of little Italian actresses and ending up
with a religious moral. The people and countless tourists stood and
listened to the preaching; a pleasant spirit prevailed in the church,
where the shrill young children's voices were lifted up in oratory;
there was laughter at a gesture or a point driven home; and the
priests strolling round the church wore an unctuous smile because it
was all so pretty and so satisfactory. And in the chapel of the Santo
Bambino the miraculous wooden doll was bright with gold and jewels;
and the close-packed multitude thronged to gaze at it.
All the visitors at Belloni's bought bunches of holly in the Piazza
di Spagna to adorn their rooms with; and some, such as the Baronin
van Rothkirch, set up a private Christmas-tree in their own rooms. On
the evening before the great party one and all went to admire these
private trees, going in and out of one another's rooms; and all the
boarders wore a kind, festive smile and welcomed everybody, however
much at other times they might quarrel and intrigue against one
another. It was universally agreed that the Baronin had taken great
pains and that her tree was magnificent. Her bedroom had been cleverly
metamorphosed into a boudoir, the beds draped to look like divans,
the wash-hand-stands concealed; and the tree was radiant with candles
and tinsel. And the Baronin, a little sentimentally inclined, for the
season reminded her of Berlin and her lost domesticity, opened her
doors wide to everybody and was even offering the two æsthetic ladies
sweets, when the marchesa, also smiling, appeared at the door, with
her bosom moulded in sky-blue satin and with even larger crystals than
usual in her ears. The room was full: there were the Van der Staals,
Cornélie, Rudyard, Urania Hope and other guests going in and out,
so that it became impossible to move and they stood packed together
or sat on the draped beds of the mother and daughter. The marchesa
led in beside her an unknown young man, short, slender, with a pale
olive complexion and with dark, bright, witty, lively eyes. He wore
dress-clothes and displayed the vague good manners of a beloved and
careless viveur, distinguished and yet conceited. And she proudly
went up to the Baronin, who kept prettily wiping her moist eyes,
and with a certain arrogance presented:
"My nephew, Duca di San Stefano, Principe di Forte-Braccio...."
The well-known Italian name sounded from her lips in the small,
crowded room with deliberate distinctness; and all eyes went to the
young man, who bowed low before the Baronin and then looked round
the room with a vague, ironical glance. The marchesa's nephew had not
yet been seen at the hotel that winter, but everybody knew that the
young Duke of San Stefano, Prince of Forte-Braccio, was a nephew of
the marchesa's and one of the advertisements for her pension. And,
while the prince talked to the Baronin and her daughter, Urania Hope
stared at him as a miraculous being from another world. She clung
tight to Cornélie's arm, as though she were in danger of fainting at
the sight of so much Italian nobility and greatness. She thought him
very good-looking, very imposing, short and slender and pale, with
his carbuncle eyes and his weary distinction and the white orchid
in his button-hole. She would have loved to ask the marchioness to
introduce her to her chic nephew, but she dared not, for she thought
of her father's stockinet-factory at Chicago.
The Christmas-tree party and the dance took place the following
night. It became known that the marchesa's nephew was coming that
evening too; and a great excitement reigned throughout the day. The
prince arrived after the presents had been taken down from the tree
and distributed and made a sort of state entry by the side of his
aunt, the marchesa, into the drawing-room, where the dancing had not
yet begun, though the guests were sitting about the room, all fixing
their eyes on the ducal and princely apparition.
Cornélie was strolling with Duco van der Staal, who to his mother's
and sisters' great surprise had fished out his dress-clothes and
appeared in the big hall; and they both observed the triumphant entry
of la Belloni and her nephew and laughed at the fanatically upturned
eyes of the English and American ladies. They, Cornélie and Duco,
sat down in the hall on two chairs, in front of a clump of palms,
which concealed one of the doors of the drawing-room, while the dance
began inside. They were talking about the statues in the Vatican,
which they had been to see two days before, when they heard, as though
close to their ears, a voice which they recognized as the marchesa's
commanding organ, vainly striving to sink into a whisper. They looked
round in surprise and perceived the hidden door, which was partly open,
and through the open space they faintly distinguished the slim hand and
black sleeve of the prince and a piece of the blue bosom of la Belloni,
both seated on a sofa in the drawing-room. They were therefore back to
back, separated by the half-open door. They listened for fun to the
marchesa's Italian; the prince's answers were lisped so softly that
they could scarcely catch them. And of what the marchesa said they
heard only a few words and scraps of sentences. They were listening
quite involuntarily, when they heard Rudyard's name clearly pronounced
by the marchesa.
"And who besides?" asked the prince, softly.
"An English miss," said the marchesa. "Miss Taylor: she's sitting
over there, by herself in the corner. A simple little soul.... The
Baronin and her daughter.... The Dutchwoman: a divorcée.... And the
pretty American."
"And those two very attractive Dutch girls?" asked the prince.
The music boom-boomed louder; and Cornélie and Duco did not catch
the reply.
"And the divorced Dutchwoman?" the prince asked next.
"No money," the marchesa answered, curtly.
"And the young baroness?"
"No money," la Belloni repeated.
"So there's no one except the stocking-merchant?" asked the prince,
wearily.
La Belloni became cross, but Cornélie and Duco could not understand the
sentences which she rattled out through the boom-booming music. Then,
during a lull, they heard the marchesa say:
"She is very pretty. She has tons and tons of money. She could have
gone to a first-class hotel but preferred to come here because, as a
young girl travelling by herself, she was recommended to me and finds
it pleasanter here. She has the big sitting-room to herself and pays
fifty lire a day for her two rooms. She does not care about money. She
pays three times as much as the others for her wood; and I also charge
her for the wine."
"She sells stockings," muttered the prince, obstinately.
"Nonsense!" said the marchesa. "Remember that there's nobody at
the moment. Last winter we had rich English titled people, with a
daughter, but you thought her too tall. You're always discovering
some objection. You mustn't be so difficult."
"I think those two little Dutch dolls attractive."
"They have no money. You're always thinking what you have no business
to think."
"How much did Papa promise you if you...."
The music boomed louder.
" ... makes no difference.... If Rudyard talks to her.... Miss Taylor
is easy.... Miss Hope...."
"I don't want so many stockings as all that."
" ... very witty, I dare say.... If you don't care to...."
"No."
" ... then I retire.... I'll tell Rudyard so.... How much?"
"Sixty or seventy thousand: I don't know exactly."
"Are they urgent?"
"Debts are never urgent!"
"Do you agree?"
"Very well. But mind, I won't sell myself for less than ten
millions.... And then you get...."
They both laughed; and again the names of Rudyard and Urania were
pronounced.
"Urania?" he asked.
"Yes, Urania," replied la Belloni. "Those little Americans are
very tactful. Look at the Comtesse de Castellane and the Duchess of
Marlborough: how well they bear their husbands' honours! They cut
an excellent figure. They are mentioned in every society column and
always with respect."
" ... All right then. I am tired of these wasted winters. But not
less than ten millions."
"Five."
"No, ten."
The prince and the marchesa had stood up to go. Cornélie looked at
Duco. He laughed:
"I don't quite understand them," he said. "It's a joke, of course."
Cornélie was startled:
"A joke, you think, Mr. van der Staal?"
"Yes, they're humbugging."
"I don't believe it."
"I do."
"Have you any knowledge of human nature?"
"Oh, no, none at all!"
"I'm getting it, gradually. I believe that Rome can be dangerous and
that an hotel-keeping marchesa, a prince and a Jesuit...."
"What about them?"
"Can be dangerous, if not to your sisters, because they have no money,
but at any rate to Urania Hope."
"I don't believe it for a moment. It was all chaff. And it doesn't
interest me. What do you think of Praxiteles' Eros? I think it the most
divine statue that I ever saw. Oh, the Eros, the Eros! That is love,
the real love, the predestined, fatal love, begging forgiveness for
the suffering which it causes."
"Have you ever been in love?"
"No. I have no knowledge of human nature and I have never been in
love. You are always so definite. Dreams are beautiful, statues
are delightful and poetry is everything. The Eros expresses love
completely. The love of the Eros is so beautiful! I could never love
so beautifully as that.... No, it does not interest me to understand
human nature; and a dream of Praxiteles, lingering in a mutilated
marble torso, is nobler than anything that the world calls love."
She knitted her brows; her eyes were sombre.
"Let us go to the dancers," she said. "We are so out of it all here."