At about a quarter to eight my guests began to arrive, and one by one
they all came in save two—the brothers Respetti. While we were awaiting
them, Ferrari entered in evening-dress, with the conscious air of a
handsome man who knows he is looking his best. I readily admitted his
charm of manner; had I not myself been subjugated and fascinated by it
in the old happy, foolish days? He was enthusiastically greeted and
welcomed back to Naples by all the gentlemen assembled, many of whom
were his own particular friends. They embraced him in the
impressionable style common to Italians, with the exception of the
stately _Duca_ di Marina, who merely bowed courteously, and inquired if
certain families of distinction whom he named had yet arrived in Rome
for the winter season. Ferrari was engaged in replying to these
questions with his usual grace and ease and fluency, when a note was
brought to me marked “Immediate.” It contained a profuse and elegantly
worded apology from Carlo Respetti, who regretted deeply that an
unforeseen matter of business would prevent himself and his brother
from having the inestimable honor and delight of dining with me that
evening. I thereupon rang my bell as a sign that the dinner need no
longer be delayed; and, turning to those assembled, I announced to them
the unavoidable absence of two of the party.
“A pity Francesco could not have come,” said Captain Freccia, twirling
the ends of his long mustachios. “He loves good wine, and, better
still, good company.”
“_Caro Capitano_!” broke in the musical voice of the _Marchese_
Gualdro, “you know that our Francesco goes nowhere without his beloved
Carlo. Carlo _cannot_ come—_altro_! Francesco _will not_. Would that
all men were such brothers!”
“If they were,” laughed Luziano Salustri, rising from the piano where
he had been playing softly to himself, “half the world would be thrown
out of employment. You, for instance,” turning to the Marquis
D’Avencourt, “would scarce know what to do with your time.”
The marquis smiled and waved his hand with a deprecatory gesture—that
hand, by the by, was remarkably small and delicately formed—it looked
almost fragile. Yet the strength and suppleness of D’Avencourt’s wrist
was reputed to be prodigious by those who had seen him handle the
sword, whether in play or grim earnest.
“It is an impossible dream,” he said, in reply to the remarks of
Gualdro and Salustri, “that idea of all men fraternizing together in
one common pig-sty of equality. Look at the differences of caste!
Birth, breeding and education make of man that high-mettled, sensitive
animal known as gentleman, and not all the socialistic theories in the
world can force him down on the same level with the rough boor, whose
flat nose and coarse features announce him as plebeian even before one
hears the tone of his voice. We cannot help these things. I do not
think we _would_ help them even if we could.”
“You are quite right,” said Ferrari. “You cannot put race-horses to
draw the plow. I have always imagined that the first quarrel—the Cain
and Abel affair—must have occurred through some difference of caste as
well as jealousy—for instance, perhaps Abel was a negro and Cain a
white man, or vice versa; which would account for the antipathy
existing between the races to this day.”
The Duke di Marina coughed a stately cough, and shrugged his shoulders.
“That first quarrel,” he said, “as related in the Bible, was
exceedingly vulgar. It must have been a kind of prize-fight. _Ce
n’etait pas fin_.”
Gualdro laughed delightedly.
“So like you, Marina!” he exclaimed, “to say that! I sympathize with
your sentiments! Fancy the butcher Abel piling up his reeking carcasses
and setting them on fire, while on the other side stood Cain the
green-grocer frizzling his cabbages, turnips, carrots, and other
vegetable matter! What a spectacle! The gods of Olympus would have
sickened at it! However, the Jewish Deity, or rather, the well-fed
priest who represented him, showed his good taste in the matter; I
myself prefer the smell of roast meat to the rather disagreeable odor
of scorching vegetables!”
We laughed—and at that moment the door was thrown open, and the
head-waiter announced in solemn tones befitting his dignity—
“_Le dîner de Monsieur le Conte est servi!_”
I at once led the way to the banqueting-room—my guests followed gayly,
talking and jesting among themselves. They were all in high good humor,
none of them had as yet noticed the fatal blank caused by the absence
of the brothers Respetti. I had—for the number of my guests was now
thirteen instead of fifteen. Thirteen at table! I wondered if any of
the company were superstitious? Ferrari was not, I knew—unless his
nerves had been latterly shaken by witnessing the death of his uncle.
At any rate, I resolved to say nothing that could attract the attention
of my guests to the ill-omened circumstance; if any one should notice
it, it would be easy to make light of it and of all similar
superstitions. I myself was the one most affected by it—it had for me a
curious and fatal significance. I was so occupied with the
consideration of it that I scarcely attended to the words addressed to
me by the Duke di Marina, who, walking beside me, seemed disposed to
converse with more familiarity than was his usual custom. We reached
the door of the dining-room; which at our approach was thrown wide
open, and delicious strains of music met our ears as we entered. Low
murmurs of astonishment and admiration broke from all the gentlemen as
they viewed the sumptuous scene before them. I pretended not to hear
their eulogies, as I took my seat at the head of the table, with Guido
Ferrari on my right and the Duke di Marina on my left. The music
sounded louder and more triumphant, and while all the company were
seating themselves in the places assigned to them, a choir of young
fresh voices broke forth into a Neapolitan “madrigale”—which as far as
I can translate it ran as follows:
“Welcome the festal hour!
Pour the red wine into cups of gold!
Health to the men who are strong and bold!
Welcome the festal hour!
Waken the echoes with riotous mirth—
Cease to remember the sorrows of earth
In the joys of the festal hour!
Wine is the monarch of laughter and light,
Death himself shall be merry to-night!
Hail to the festal hour!”
An enthusiastic clapping of hands rewarded this effort on the part of
the unseen vocalists, and the music having ceased, conversation became
general.
“By heaven!” exclaimed Ferrari, “if this Olympian carouse is meant as a
welcome to me, _amico_, all I can say is that I do not deserve it. Why,
it is more fit for the welcome of one king to his neighbor sovereign!”
“_Ebbene_!” I said. “Are there any better kings than honest men? Let us
hope we are thus far worthy of each other’s esteem.”
He flashed a bright look of gratitude upon me and was silent, listening
to the choice and complimentary phrases uttered by the Duke di Marina
concerning the exquisite taste displayed in the arrangement of the
table.
“You have no doubt traveled much in the East, _conte_,” said this
nobleman. “Your banquet reminds me of an Oriental romance I once read,
called ‘Vathek.’”
“Exactly,” exclaimed Guido. “I think Oliva must be Vathek himself.”
“Scarcely!” I said, smiling coldly. “I lay no claim to supernatural
experiences. The realities of life are sufficiently wonderful for me.”
Antonio Biscardi the painter, a refined, gentle-featured man, looked
toward us and said modestly:
“I think you are right, _conte_. The beauties of nature and of humanity
are so varied and profound that were it not for the inextinguishable
longing after immortality which has been placed in every one of us, I
think we should be perfectly satisfied with this world as it is.”
“You speak like an artist and a man of even temperament,” broke in the
_Marchese_ Gualdro, who had finished his soup quickly in order to be
able to talk—talking being his chief delight. “For me, I am never
contented. I never have enough of anything! That is my nature. When I
see lovely flowers, I wish more of them—when I behold a fine sunset, I
desire many more such sunsets—when I look upon a lovely woman—”
“You would have lovely women ad infinitum!” laughed the French
_Capitaine_ de Hamal. “_En vérité_, Gualdro, you should have been a
Turk!”
“And why not?” demanded Gualdro. “The Turks are very sensible
people—they know how to make coffee better than we do. And what more
fascinating than a harem? It must be like a fragrant hot-house, where
one is free to wander every day, sometimes gathering a gorgeous lily,
sometimes a simple violet—sometimes—”
“A thorn?” suggested Salustri.
“Well, perhaps!” laughed the _Marchese_. “Yet one would run the risk of
that for the sake of a perfect rose.”
Chevalier Mancini, who wore in his button-hole the decoration of the
_Legion d’Honneur_, looked up—he was a thin man with keen eyes and a
shrewd face which, though at a first glance appeared stern, could at
the least provocation break up into a thousand little wrinkles of
laughter.
“There is undoubtedly something _entrainant_ about the idea,” he
observed, in his methodical way. “I have always fancied that marriage
as we arrange it is a great mistake.”
“And that is why you have never tried it?” queried Ferrari, looking
amused.
“_Certissimamente_!” and the chevalier’s grim countenance began to work
with satirical humor. “I have resolved that I will never be bound over
by the law to kiss only one woman. As matters stand, I can kiss them
all if I like.”
A shout of merriment and cries of “Oh! oh!” greeted this remark, which
Ferrari, however, did not seem inclined to take in good part.
“All?” he said, with a dubious air. “You mean all except the married
ones?”
The chevalier put on his spectacles, and surveyed him with a sort of
comic severity.
“When I said _all_, I meant all,” he returned—“the married ones in
particular. They, poor things, need such attentions—and often invite
them—why not? Their husbands have most likely ceased to be amorous
after the first months of marriage.”
I burst out laughing. “You are right, Mancini,” I said; “and even if
the husbands are fools enough to continue their gallantries they
deserve to be duped—and they generally are! Come, _amico_,” I added,
turning to Ferrari, “those are your own sentiments—you have often
declared them to me.”
He smiled uncomfortably, and his brows contracted. I could easily
perceive that he was annoyed. To change the tone of the conversation I
gave a signal for the music to recommence, and instantly the melody of
a slow, voluptuous Hungarian waltz-measure floated through the room.
The dinner was now fairly on its way; the appetites of my guests were
stimulated and tempted by the choicest and most savory viands, prepared
with all the taste and intelligence a first rate chef can bestow on his
work, and good wine flowed freely.
Vincenzo obediently following my instructions, stood behind my chair,
and seldom moved except to refill Ferrari’s glass, and occasionally to
proffer some fresh vintage to the Duke di Marina. He, however, was an
abstemious and careful man, and followed the good example shown by the
wisest Italians, who never mix their wines. He remained faithful to the
first beverage he had selected—a specially fine Chianti, of which he
partook freely without its causing the slightest flush to appear on his
pale aristocratic features. Its warm and mellow flavor did but brighten
his eyes and loosen his tongue, inasmuch that he became almost as
elegant a talker as the _Marchese_ Gualdro. This latter, who scarce had
a _scudo_ to call his own, and who dined sumptuously every day at other
people’s expense for the sake of the pleasure his company afforded, was
by this time entertaining every one near him by the most sparkling
stories and witty pleasantries.
The merriment increased as the various courses were served; shouts of
laughter frequently interrupted the loud buzz of conversation, mingling
with the clinking of glasses and clattering of porcelain. Every now and
then might be heard the smooth voice of Captain Freccia rolling out his
favorite oaths with the sonority and expression of a _primo tenore_;
sometimes the elegant French of the Marquis D’Avencourt, with his high,
sing-song Parisian accent, rang out above the voices of the others; and
again, the choice Tuscan of the poet Luziano Salustri rolled forth in
melodious cadence as though he were chanting lines from Dante or
Ariosto, instead of talking lightly on indifferent matters. I accepted
my share in the universal hilarity, though I principally divided my
conversation between Ferrari and the duke, paying to both, but
specially to Ferrari, that absolute attention which is the greatest
compliment a host can bestow on those whom he undertakes to entertain.
We had reached that stage of the banquet when the game was about to be
served—the invisible choir of boys’ voices had just completed an
enchanting _stornello_ with an accompaniment of mandolines—when a
stillness, strange and unaccountable, fell upon the company—a pause—an
ominous hush, as though some person supreme in authority had suddenly
entered the room and commanded “Silence!” No one seemed disposed to
speak or to move, the very footsteps of the waiters were muffled in the
velvet pile of the carpets—no sound was heard but the measured plash of
the fountain that played among the ferns and flowers. The moon, shining
frostily white through the one uncurtained window, cast a long pale
green ray, like the extended arm of an appealing ghost, against one
side of the velvet hangings—a spectral effect which was heightened by
the contrast of the garish glitter of the waxen tapers. Each man looked
at the other with a sort of uncomfortable embarrassment, and somehow,
though I moved my lips in an endeavor to speak and thus break the
spell, I was at a loss, and could find no language suitable to the
moment. Ferrari toyed with his wine-glass mechanically—the duke
appeared absorbed in arranging the crumbs beside his plate into little
methodical patterns; the stillness seemed to last so long that it was
like a suffocating heaviness in the air. Suddenly Vincenzo, in his
office of chief butler, drew the cork of a champagne-bottle with a
loud-sounding pop! We all started as though a pistol had been fired in
our ears, and the _Marchese_ Gualdro burst out laughing.
“_Corpo di Bacco_!” he cried. “At last you have awakened from sleep!
Were you all struck dumb, _amici_, that you stared at the table-cloth
so persistently and with such admirable gravity? May Saint Anthony and
his pig preserve me, but for the time I fancied I was attending a
banquet on the wrong side of the Styx, and that you, my present
companions, were all dead men!”
“And that idea made _you_ also hold your tongue, which is quite an
unaccountable miracle in its way,” laughed Luziano Salustri. “Have you
never heard the pretty legend that attaches to such an occurrence as a
sudden silence in the midst of high festivity? An angel enters,
bestowing his benediction as he passes through.”
“That story is more ancient than the church,” said Chevalier Mancini.
“It is an exploded theory—for we have ceased to believe in angels—we
call them women instead.”
“_Bravo, mon vieux gaillard_!” cried Captain de Hamal. “Your sentiments
are the same as mine, with a very trifling difference. You believe
women to be angels—I know them to be devils—_mas il n’y a qu’un pas
entre les deux_? We will not quarrel over a word—_à votre santé, mon
cher_!”
And he drained his glass, nodding to Mancini, who followed his example.
“Perhaps,” said the smooth, slow voice of Captain Freccia, “our silence
was caused by the instinctive consciousness of something wrong with our
party—a little inequality—which I dare say our noble host has not
thought it worth while to mention.”
Every head was turned in his direction. “What do you mean?” “What
inequality?” “Explain yourself!” chorused several voices.
“Really it is a mere nothing,” answered Freccia, lazily, as he surveyed
with the admiring air of a gourmet the dainty portion of pheasant just
placed before him. “I assure you, only the uneducated would care two
_scudi_ about such a circumstance. The excellent brothers Respetti are
to blame—their absence to-night has caused—but why should I disturb
your equanimity? I am not superstitious—_ma, chi sa_?—some of you may
be.”
“I see what you mean!” interrupted Salustri, quickly. “We are thirteen
at table!”