Christmas Eve! The day had been extra chilly, with frequent showers of
stinging rain, but toward five o’clock in the afternoon the weather
cleared. The clouds, which had been of a dull uniform gray, began to
break asunder and disclose little shining rifts of pale blue and bright
gold; the sea looked like a wide satin ribbon shaken out and shimmering
with opaline tints. Flower girls trooped forth making the air musical
with their mellow cries of “_Fiori! chi vuol fiori_” and holding up
their tempting wares—not bunches of holly and mistletoe such as are
known in England, but roses, lilies, jonquils, and sweet daffodils. The
shops were brilliant with bouquets and baskets of fruits and flowers; a
glittering show of _etrennes_, or gifts to suit all ages and
conditions, were set forth in tempting array, from a box of bonbons
costing one franc to a jeweled tiara worth a million, while in many of
the windows were displayed models of the “Bethlehem,” with babe Jesus
lying in his manger, for the benefit of the round-eyed children—who,
after staring fondly at His waxen image for some time, would run off
hand in hand to the nearest church where the usual Christmas creche was
arranged, and there kneeling down, would begin to implore their “dear
little Jesus,” their “own little brother,” not to forget them, with a
simplicity of belief that was as touching as it was unaffected.
I am told that in England the principle sight on Christmas-eve are the
shops of the butchers and poulterers hung with the dead carcases of
animals newly slaughtered, in whose mouths are thrust bunches of
prickly holly, at which agreeable spectacle the passers-by gape with
gluttonous approval. Surely there is nothing graceful about such a
commemoration of the birth of Christ as this? nothing picturesque,
nothing poetic?—nothing even orthodox, for Christ was born in the East,
and the Orientals are very small eaters, and are particularly sparing
in the use of meat. One wonders what such an unusual display of vulgar
victuals has to do with the coming of the Saviour, who arrived among us
in such poor estate that even a decent roof was denied to Him. Perhaps,
though, the English people read their gospels in a way of their own,
and understood that the wise men of the East, who are supposed to have
brought the Divine Child symbolic gifts of gold, frankincense, and
myrrh, really brought joints of beef, turkeys, and “plum-pudding,” that
vile and indigestible mixture at which an Italian shrugs his shoulders
in visible disgust. There is something barbaric, I suppose, in the
British customs still—something that reminds one of their ancient
condition when the Romans conquered them—when their supreme idea of
enjoyment was to have an ox roasted whole before them while they drank
“wassail” till they groveled under their own tables in a worse
condition than overfed swine. Coarse and vulgar plenty is still the
leading characteristic at the dinners of English or American parvenus;
they have scarcely any idea of the refinements that can be imparted to
the prosaic necessity of eating—of the many little graces of the table
that are understood in part by the French, but that perhaps never reach
such absolute perfection of taste and skill as at the banquets of a
cultured and clever Italian noble. Some of these are veritable “feasts
of the gods,” and would do honor to the fabled Olympus, and such a one
I had prepared for Guido Ferrari as a greeting to him on his return
from Rome—a feast of welcome and—farewell!
All the resources of the hotel at which I stayed had been brought into
requisition. The chef, a famous _cordon bleu_, had transferred the work
of the usual _table d’hote_ to his underlings, and had bent the powers
of his culinary intelligence solely on the production of the
magnificent dinner I had ordered. The landlord, in spite of himself,
broke into exclamations of wonder and awe as he listened to and wrote
down my commands for different wines of the rarest kinds and choicest
vintages. The servants rushed hither and thither to obey my various
behests, with looks of immense importance; the head waiter, a superb
official who prided himself on his artistic taste, took the laying-out
of the table under his entire superintendence, and nothing was talked
of or thought of for the time but the grandeur of my proposed
entertainment.
About six o’clock I sent my carriage down to the railway station to
meet Ferrari as I had arranged; and then, at my landlord’s invitation,
I went to survey the stage that was prepared for one important scene of
my drama—to see if the scenery, side-lights, and general effects were
all in working order. To avoid disarranging my own apartments, I had
chosen for my dinner-party a room on the ground-floor of the hotel,
which was often let out for marriage-breakfasts and other purposes of
the like kind; it was octagonal in shape, not too large, and I had had
it most exquisitely decorated for the occasion. The walls were hung
with draperies of gold-colored silk and crimson velvet, interspersed
here and there with long mirrors, which were ornamented with crystal
candelabra, in which twinkled hundreds of lights under rose-tinted
glass shades. At the back of the room, a miniature conservatory was
displayed to view, full of rare ferns and subtly perfumed exotics, in
the center of which a fountain rose and fell with regular and melodious
murmur. Here, later on, a band of stringed instruments and a choir of
boys’ voices were to be stationed, so that sweet music might be heard
and felt without the performers being visible. One, and one only, of
the long French windows of the room was left uncurtained, it was simply
draped with velvet as one drapes a choice picture, and through it the
eyes rested on a perfect view of the Bay of Naples, white with the
wintery moonlight.
The dinner-table, laid for fifteen persons, glittered with sumptuous
appointments of silver, Venetian glass, and the rarest flowers; the
floor was carpeted with velvet pile, in which some grains of ambergris
had been scattered, so that in walking the feet sunk, as it were, into
a bed of moss rich with the odors of a thousand spring blossoms. The
very chairs wherein my guests were to seat themselves were of a
luxurious shape and softly stuffed, so that one could lean back in them
or recline at ease—in short, everything was arranged with a lavish
splendor almost befitting the banquet of an eastern monarch, and yet
with such accurate taste that there was no detail one could have wished
omitted.
I was thoroughly satisfied, but as I know what an unwise plan it is to
praise servants too highly for doing well what they are expressly paid
to do, I intimated my satisfaction to my landlord by a mere careless
nod and smile of approval. He, who waited on my every gesture with
abject humility, received this sign of condescension with as much
delight as though it had come from the king himself, and I could easily
see that the very fact of my showing no enthusiasm at the result of his
labors, made him consider me a greater man than ever. I now went to my
own apartments to don my evening attire; I found Vincenzo brushing
every speck of dust from my dresscoat with careful nicety—he had
already arranged the other articles of costume neatly on my bed ready
for wear. I unlocked a dressing-case and took from thence three studs,
each one formed of a single brilliant of rare clearness and lusters and
handed them to him to fix in my shirt-front. While he was polishing
these admiringly on his coat-sleeve I watched him earnestly—then I
suddenly addressed him.
“Vincenzo!” He started.
“_Eccellenza_?”
“To-night you will stand behind my chair and assist in serving the
wine.”
“Yes, _eccellenza_.”
“You will,” I continued, “attend particularly to _Sigor_ Ferrari, who
will sit at my right hand. Take care that his glass is never empty.”
“Yes, _eccellenza_.”
“Whatever may be said or done,” I went on, quietly, “you will show no
sign of alarm or surprise. From the commencement of dinner till I tell
you to move, remember your place is fixed by me.”
The honest fellow looked a little puzzled, but replied as before:
“Yes, _eccellenza_.”
I smiled, and advancing, laid my hand on his arm.
“How about the pistols, Vincenzo?”
“They are cleaned and ready for use, _eccellenza_,” he replied. “I have
placed them in your cabinet.”
“That is well!” I said with a satisfied gesture. “You can leave me and
arrange the salon for the reception of my friends.”
He disappeared, and I busied myself with my toilet, about which I was
for once unusually particular. The conventional dress-suit is not very
becoming, yet there are a few men here and there who look well in it,
and who, in spite of similarity in attire, will never be mistaken for
waiters. Others there are who, passable in appearance when clad in
their ordinary garments, reach the very acme of plebeianism when they
clothe themselves in the unaccommodating evening-dress. Fortunately, I
happened to be one of the former class—the sober black, the broad white
display of starched shirt-front and neat tie became me, almost too well
I thought. It would have been better for my purposes if I could have
feigned an aspect of greater age and weightier gravity. I had scarcely
finished my toilet when the rumbling of wheels in the court-yard
outside made the hot blood rush to my face, and my heart beat with
feverish excitement. I left my dressing-room, however, with a composed
countenance and calm step, and entered my private salon just as its
doors were flung open and “_Signor_ Ferrari” was announced. He entered
smiling—his face was alight with good humor and glad anticipation—he
looked handsomer than usual.
“_Eccomi qua_!” he cried, seizing my hands enthusiastically in his own.
“My dear _conte_, I am delighted to see you! What an excellent fellow
you are! A kind of amiable Arabian Nights genius, who occupies himself
in making mortals happy. And how are you? You look remarkably well!”
“I can return the compliment,” I said, gayly. “You are more of an
Antinous than ever.”
He laughed, well pleased, and sat down, drawing off his gloves and
loosening his traveling overcoat.
“Well, I suppose plenty of cash puts a man in good humor, and therefore
in good condition,” he replied. “But my dear fellow, you are dressed
for dinner—_quel preux chevalier_! I am positively unfit to be in your
company! You insisted that I should come to you directly, on my
arrival, but I really must change my apparel. Your man took my valise;
in it are my dress-clothes—I shall not be ten minutes putting them on.”
“Take a glass of wine first,” I said, pouring out some of his favorite
Montepulciano. “There is plenty of time. It is barely seven, and we do
not dine till eight.” He took the wine from my hand and smiled. I
returned the smile, adding, “It gives me great pleasure to receive you,
Ferrari! I have been impatient for your return—almost as impatient as—”
He paused in the act of drinking, and his eyes flashed delightedly.
“As _she_ has? _Piccinina_! How I long to see her again! I swear to
you, _amico_, I should have gone straight to the Villa Romani had I
obeyed my own impulse—but I had promised you to come here, and, on the
whole, the evening will do as well”—and he laughed with a covert
meaning in his laughter—“perhaps better!”
My hands clinched, but I said with forced gayety:
“_Ma certamente_! The evening will be much better! Is it not Byron who
says that women, like stars, look best at night? You will find her the
same as ever, perfectly well and perfectly charming. It must be her
pure and candid soul that makes her face so fair! It may be a relief to
your mind to know that I am the only man she has allowed to visit her
during your absence!”
“Thank God for that!” cried Ferrari, devoutly, as he tossed off his
wine. “And now tell me, my dear _conte_, what bacchanalians are coming
to-night? _Per Dio_, after all I am more in the humor for dinner than
love-making!”
I burst out laughing harshly. “Of course! Every sensible man prefers
good eating even to good women! Who are my guests you ask? I believe
you know them all. First, there is the _Duca_ Filippo Marina.”
“By Heaven!” interrupted Guido. “An absolute gentleman, who by his
manner seems to challenge the universe to disprove his dignity! Can he
unbend so far as to partake of food in public? My dear _conte_, you
should have asked him that question!”
“Then,” I went on, not heeding this interruption, “_Signor_ Fraschetti
and the _Marchese_ Giulano.”
“Giulano drinks deep,” laughed Ferrari, “and should he mix his wines,
you will find him ready to stab all the waiters before the dinner is
half over.”
“In mixing wines,” I returned, coolly, “he will but imitate your
example, _caro mio_.”
“Ah, but I can stand it!” he said. “He cannot! Few Neapolitans are like
me!”
I watched him narrowly, and went on with the list of my invited guests.
“After these, comes the _Capitano_ Luigi Freccia.”
“What! the raging fire-eater?” exclaimed Guido. “He who at every second
word raps out a pagan or Christian oath, and cannot for his life tell
any difference between the two!”
“And the illustrious gentleman Crispiano Dulci and Antonio Biscardi,
artists like yourself,” I continued.
He frowned slightly—then smiled.
“I wish them good appetites! Time was when I envied their skill—now I
can afford to be generous. They are welcome to the whole field of art
as far as I am concerned. I have said farewell to the brush and
palette—I shall never paint again.”
True enough! I thought, eying the shapely white hand with which he just
then stroked his dark mustache; the same hand on which my family
diamond ring glittered like a star. He looked up suddenly.
“Go on, _conte_ I am all impatience. Who comes next?”
“More fire-eaters, I suppose you will call them,” I answered, “and
French fire-eaters, too. _Monsieur le Marquis_ D’Avencourt, and _le
beau Capitaine_ Eugene de Hamal.”
Ferrari looked astonished. “_Per Bacco_!” he exclaimed. “Two noted
Paris duelists! Why—what need have you of such valorous associates? I
confess your choice surprises me.”
“I understood them to be _your_ friends,” I said, composedly. “If you
remember, _you_ introduced me to them. I know nothing of the gentlemen
beyond that they appear to be pleasant fellows and good talkers. As for
their reputed skill I am inclined to set that down to a mere rumor, at
any rate, my dinner-table will scarcely provide a field for the display
of swordsmanship.”
Guido laughed. “Well, no! but these fellows would like to make it
one—why, they will pick a quarrel for the mere lifting of an eyebrow.
And the rest of your company?”
“Are the inseparable brother sculptors Carlo and Francesco Respetti,
Chevalier Mancini, scientist and man of letters, Luziano Salustri, poet
and musician, and the fascinating _Marchese_ Ippolito Gualdro, whose
conversation, as you know, is more entrancing than the voice of Adelina
Patti. I have only to add,” and I smiled half mockingly, “the name of
_Signor_ Guido Ferrari, true friend and loyal lover—and the party is
complete.”
“_Altro_! Fifteen in all including yourself,” said Ferrari, gayly,
enumerating them on his fingers. “_Per la madre di Dio_! With such a
goodly company and a host who entertains _en roi_ we shall pass a merry
time of it. And did you, _amico_, actually organize this banquet,
merely to welcome back so unworthy a person as myself?”
“Solely and entirely for that reason,” I replied.
He jumped up from his chair and clapped his two hands on my shoulders.
“_A la bonne heure_! But why, in the name of the saints or the devil,
have you taken such a fancy to me?”
“Why have I taken such a fancy to you?” I repeated, slowly. “My dear
Ferrari, I am surely not alone in my admiration for your high
qualities! Does not every one like you? Are you not a universal
favorite? Do you not tell me that your late friend the Count Romani
held you as the dearest to him in the world after his wife? _Ebbene_!
Why underrate yourself?”
He let his hands fall slowly from my shoulders and a look of pain
contracted his features. After a little silence he said:
“Fabio again! How his name and memory haunt me! I told you he was a
fool—it was part of his folly that he loved me too well—perhaps. Do you
know I have thought of him very much lately?”
“Indeed?” and I feigned to be absorbed in fixing a star-like japonica
in my button-hole. “How is that?”
A grave and meditative look softened the usually defiant brilliancy of
his eyes.
“I saw my uncle die,” he continued, speaking in a low tone. “He was an
old man and had very little strength left,—yet his battle with death
was horrible—horrible! I see him yet—his yellow convulsed face—his
twisted limbs—his claw-like hands tearing at the empty air—then the
ghastly grim and dropped jaw—the wide-open glazed eyes—pshaw! it
sickened me!”
“Well, well!” I said in a soothing way, still busying myself with the
arrangement of my button-hole, and secretly wondering what new emotion
was at work in the volatile mind of my victim. “No doubt it was
distressing to witness—but you could not have been very sorry—he was an
old man, and, though it is a platitude not worth repeating—we must all
die.”
“Sorry!” exclaimed Ferrari, talking almost more to himself than to me.
“I was glad! He was an old scoundrel, deeply dyed in every sort of
social villainy. No—I was not sorry, only as I watched him in his
frantic struggle, fighting furiously for each fresh gasp of breath—I
thought—I know not why—of Fabio.”
Profoundly astonished, but concealing my astonishment under an air of
indifference, I began to laugh.
“Upon my word, Ferrari—pardon me for saying so, but the air of Rome
seems to have somewhat obscured your mind! I confess I cannot follow
your meaning.”
He sighed uneasily. “I dare say not! I scarce can follow it myself. But
if it was so hard for an old man to writhe himself out of life, what
must it have been for Fabio! We were students together; we used to walk
with our arms round each other’s necks like school-girls, and he was
young and full of vitality—physically stronger, too, than I am. He must
have battled for life with every nerve and sinew stretched to almost
breaking.” He stopped and shuddered. “By Heaven! death should be made
easier for us! It is a frightful thing!”
A contemptuous pity arose in me. Was he coward as well as traitor? I
touched him lightly on the arm.
“Excuse me, my young friend, if I say frankly that your dismal
conversation is slightly fatiguing. I cannot accept it as a suitable
preparation for dinner! And permit me to remind you that you have still
to dress.”
The gentle satire of my tone made him look up and smile. His face
cleared, and he passed his hand over his forehead, as though he swept
it free of some unpleasant thought.
“I believe I am nervous,” he said with a half laugh. “For the last few
hours I have had all sorts of uncomfortable presentiments and
forebodings.”
“No wonder!” I returned carelessly, “with such a spectacle as you have
described before the eyes of your memory. The Eternal City savors
somewhat disagreeably of graves. Shake the dust of the Caesars from
your feet, and enjoy your life, while it lasts!”
“Excellent advice!” he said, smiling, “and not difficult to follow. Now
to attire for the festival. Have I your permission?”
I touched the bell which summoned Vincenzo, and bade him wait on
_Signor_ Ferrari’s orders. Guido disappeared under his escort, giving
me a laughing nod of salutation as he left the room. I watched his
retiring figure with a strange pitifulness—the first emotion of the
kind that had awakened in me for him since I learned his treachery. His
allusion to that time when we had been students together—when we had
walked with arms round each other’s necks “like school-girls,” as he
said, had touched me more closely than I cared to realize. It was true,
we had been happy then—two careless youths with all the world like an
untrodden race-course before us. _She_ had not then darkened the heaven
of our confidence; she had not come with her false fair face to make of
ME a blind, doting madman, and to transform him into a liar and
hypocrite. It was all her fault, all the misery and horror; she was the
blight on our lives; she merited the heaviest punishment, and she would
receive it. Yet, would to God we had neither of us ever seen her! Her
beauty, like a sword, had severed the bonds of friendship that after
all, when it _does_ exist between two men, is better and braver than
the love of woman. However, all regrets were unavailing now; the evil
was done, and there was no undoing it. I had little time left me for
reflection; each moment that passed brought me nearer to the end I had
planned and foreseen.