The little Piazza of Trinità de' Monti was full of carriages, and Roma's
rooms were thronged. David Rossi entered with the calmness of a man who
is accustomed to personal observation, but Roma met him with an almost
extravagant salutation.
"Ah, you have come at last," she said in a voice that was intended to be
heard by all. And then, in a low tone, she added, "Stay near me, and
don't go until I say you may."
Her face had the expression that had puzzled him the day before, but
with the flushed cheeks, the firm mouth and the shining eyes, there was
now a strange look of excitement, almost of hysteria.
The company was divided into four main groups. The first of them
consisted of Roma's aunt, powdered and perfumed, propped up with
cushions on an invalid chair, and receiving the guests by the door, with
the Baron Bonelli, silent and dignified, but smiling his icy smile, by
her side. A second group consisted of Don Camillo and some ladies of
fashion, who stood by the window and made little half-smothered trills
of laughter. The third group included Lena and Olga, the journalists,
with Madame Sella, the modiste; and the fourth group was made up of the
English and American Ambassadors, Count Mario, and some other
diplomatists.
The conversation was at first interrupted by the little pauses that
follow fresh arrivals; and after it had settled down to the dull buzz of
a beehive, when the old brood and her queen are being turned out, it
consisted merely of hints, giving the impression of something in the air
that was scandalous and amusing, but could not be talked about.
"Have you heard that" ... "Is it true that" ... "No?" "Can it be
possible?" "How delicious!" and then inaudible questions and low
replies, with tittering, tapping of fans, and insinuating glances.
But Roma seemed to hear everything that was said about her, and
constantly broke in upon a whispered conversation with disconcerting
openness.
"That man here!" said one of the journalists at Rossi's entrance. "In
the same room with the Prime Minister!" said another. "After that
disgraceful scene in the House, too!"
"I hear that he was abominably rude to the Baron the other day," said
Madame Sella.
"Rude? He has blundered shockingly, and offended everybody. They tell me
the Vatican is now up in arms against him, and is going to denounce him
and all his ways."
"No wonder! He has made himself thoroughly disagreeable, and I'm only
surprised that the Prime Minister...."
"Oh, leave the Prime Minister alone. He has something up his sleeve....
Haven't you heard why we are invited here to-day? No? Not heard that...."
"Really! So that explains ... I see, I see!" and then more tittering and
tapping of fans.
"Certainly, he is an extraordinary man, and one of the first statesmen
in Europe."
"It's so unselfish of you to say that," said Roma, flashing round
suddenly, "for the Minister has never been a friend of journalists, and
I've heard him say that there wasn't one of them who wouldn't sell his
mother's honour if he thought he could make a sensation."
"Love?" said the voice of Don Camillo in the silence that followed
Roma's remark. "What has marriage to do with love except to spoil it?"
And then, amidst laughter, and the playful looks of the ladies by whom
he was surrounded, he gave a gay picture of his own poverty, and the
necessity of marrying to retrieve his fortunes.
"What would you have? Look at my position! A great name, as ancient as
history, and no income. A gorgeous palace, as old as the pyramids, and
no cook!"
"Don't be so conceited about your poverty, Gi-gi," said Roma. "Some of
the Roman ladies are as poor as the men. As for me, Madame Sella could
sell up every stick in my house to-morrow, and if the Municipality
should throw up my fountain...."
"Senator Palomba," said Felice's sepulchral voice from the door.
The suave, oily little Mayor came in, twinkling his eyes and saying:
"Did I hear my name as I entered?"
"I was saying," said Roma, "that if the Municipality should throw up my
fountain...."
The little man made an amusing gesture, and the constrained silence was
broken by some awkward laughter.
"Roma," said the testy voice of the Countess, "I think I've done my duty
by you, and now the Baron will take me back. Natalina! Where's
Natalina?"
But half-a-dozen hands took hold of the invalid chair, and the Baron
followed it into the bedroom.
"Wonderful man!" "Wonderful!" whispered various voices as the Minister's
smile disappeared through the door.
The conversation had begun to languish when the Princess Bellini
arrived, and then suddenly it became lively and general.
"I'm late, but do you know, my dear," she said, kissing Roma on both
cheeks, "I've been nearly torn to pieces in coming. My carriage had to
plough its way through crowds of people."
"Crowds?"
"Yes, indeed, and the streets are nearly impassable. Another
demonstration, I suppose! The poor must always be demonstrating."
"Ah! yes," said Don Camillo. "Haven't you heard the news, Roma?"
"I've been working all night and all day, and I have heard nothing,"
said Roma.
"Well, to prevent a recurrence of the disgraceful scene of yesterday,
the King has promulgated the Public Security Act by royal decree, and
the wonderful crisis is at an end."
"And now?"
"Now the Prime Minister is master of the situation, and has begun by
proclaiming the mass meeting which was to have been held in the
Coliseum."
"Good thing too," said Count Mario. "We've heard enough of liberal
institutions lately."
"And of the scandalous speeches of professional agitators," said Madame
Sella.
"And of the liberty of the press," said Senator Palomba. And then the
effeminate old dandy, the fashionable dressmaker, and the oily little
Mayor exchanged significant nods.
"Wait! Only wait!" said Roma, in a low voice, to Rossi, who was standing
in silence by her side.
"Unhappy Italy!" said the American Ambassador. "With the largest array
of titled nobility and the largest army of beggars. The one class
sipping iced drinks in the piazzas during the playing of music, and the
other class marching through the streets and conspiring against
society."
"You judge us from a foreign standpoint, dear friend," said Don Camillo,
"and forget our love of a pageant. The Princess says our poor are always
demonstrating. We are all always demonstrating. Our favourite
demonstration is a funeral, with drums beating and banners waving. If we
cannot have a funeral we have a wedding, with flowers and favours and
floods of tears. And when we cannot have either, we put up with a
revolution, and let our Radical orators tell us of the wickedness of
taxing the people's bread."
"Always their bread," said the Princess, with a laugh.
"In America, dear General, you are so tragically sincere, but in Italy
we are a race of actors. The King, the Parliament, the Pope himself...."
"Shocking!" said the little Princess. "But if you had said as much of
our professional agitators...."
"Oh, they are the most accomplished and successful actors, Princess.
But we are all actors in Italy, from the greatest to the least, and the
'curtain' is to him who can score off everybody else."
"So," began the American, "to be Prime Minister in Rome...."
"Is to be the chief actor in Europe, and his leading part is that in
which he puts an end to his adversary amidst a burst of inextinguishable
laughter."
"What is he driving at?" said the English to the American Ambassador.
"Don't you know? Haven't you heard what is coming?" And then some
further whispering.
"Wait, only wait!" said Roma.
"Gi-gi," said the Princess, "how stupid you are! You're all wrong about
Roma. Look at her now. To think that men can be so blind! And the Baron
is no better than the rest of you. He's too proud to believe what I tell
him, but he'll learn the truth some day. He is here, of course? In the
Countess's room, isn't he?... How do you like my dress?"
"It's perfect."
"Really? The black and the blue make a charming effect, don't they? They
are the Baron's favourite colours. How agitated our hostess is! She
seems to have all the world here. When are we to see the wonderful work?
What's she waiting for? Ah, there's the Baron coming out at last!"
"They're all here, aren't they?" said Roma, looking round with flushed
cheeks and flaming eyes at the jangling, slandering crew, who had
insulted and degraded David Rossi.
"Take care," he answered, but she only threw up her head and laughed.
Then the company went down the circular iron staircase to the studio.
Roma walked first with her rapid step, talking nervously and laughing
frequently.
The fountain stood in the middle of the floor, and the guests gathered
about it.
"Superb!" they exclaimed one after another. "Superb!" "Superb!"
The little Mayor was especially enthusiastic. He stood near the Baron,
and holding up both hands he cried:
"Marvellous! Miraculous! Fit to take its place beside the masterpieces
of old Rome!"
"But surely this is 'Hamlet' without the prince," said the Baron. "You
set out to make a fountain representing Christ and His twelve apostles,
and the only figure you leave unfinished is Christ Himself."
He pointed to the central figure above the dish, which was merely shaped
out and indicated.
"Not only one, your Excellency," said Don Camillo. "Here is another
unfinished figure--intended for Judas, apparently."
"I left them to the last on purpose," said Roma. "They were so
important, and so difficult. But I have studies for both of them in the
boudoir, and you shall give me your advice and opinion."
"The saint and the satyr, the God and the devil, the betrayed and the
betrayer--what subjects for the chisel of the artist!" said Don Camillo.
"Just so," said the Mayor. "She must do the one with all the emotions of
love, and the other with all the faculties of hate."
"Not that art," said Don Camillo, "has anything to do with life--that is
to say, real life...."
"Why not?" said Roma sharply. "The artist has to live in the world, and
he isn't blind. Therefore, why shouldn't he describe what he sees around
him?"
"But is that art? If so, the artist is at liberty to give his views on
religion and politics, and by the medium of his art he may even express
his private feelings--return insults and wreak revenge."
"Certainly he may," said Roma; "the greatest artists have often done
so." Saying this, she led the way upstairs, and the others followed with
a chorus of hypocritical approval.
"It's only human, to say the least." "Of course it is!" "If she's a
woman and can't speak out, or fight duels, it's a lady-like way, at all
events." And then further tittering, tapping of fans, and significant
nods at Rossi when his back was turned.
Two busts stood on pedestals in the boudoir. One of them was covered
with a damp cloth, the other with a muslin veil. Going up to the latter
first, Roma said, with a slightly quavering voice:
"It was so difficult to do justice to the Christ that I am almost sorry
I made the attempt. But it came easier when I began to think of some one
who was being reviled and humiliated and degraded because he was poor
and wasn't ashamed of it, and who was always standing up for the weak
and the down-trodden, and never returning anybody's insult, however
shameful and false and wicked, because he wasn't thinking of himself at
all. So I got the best model I could in real life, and this is the
result."
With that she pulled off the muslin veil and revealed the sculptured
head of David Rossi, in a snow-white plaster cast. The features
expressed pure nobility, and every touch was a touch of sympathy and
love.
A moment of chilling silence was followed by an under-breath of gossip.
"Who is it?" "Christ, of course." "Oh, certainly, but it reminds me of
some one." "Who can it be?" "The Pope?" "Why, no; don't you see who it
is?" "Is it really?" "How shameful!" "How blasphemous!"
Roma stood looking on with a face lighted up by two flaming eyes. "I'm
afraid you don't think I've done justice to my model," she said. "That's
quite true. But perhaps my Judas will please you better," and she
stepped up to the bust that was covered by the wet cloth.
"I found this a difficult subject also, and it was not until yesterday
evening that I felt able to begin on it."
Then, with a hand that trembled visibly, she took from the wall the
portrait of her father, and offering it to the Minister, she said:
"Some one told me a story of duplicity and treachery--it was about this
poor old gentleman, Baron--and then I knew what sort of person it was
who betrayed his friend and master for thirty pieces of silver, and
listened to the hypocrisy, and flattery, and lying of the miserable
group of parasites who crowded round him because he was a traitor, and
because he kept the purse."
With that she threw off the damp cloth, and revealed the clay model of a
head. The face was unmistakable, but it expressed every
baseness--cunning, arrogance, cruelty, and sensuality.
The silence was freezing, and the company began to turn away, and to
mutter among themselves, in order to cover their confusion. "It's the
Baron!" "No?" "Yes." "Disgraceful!" "Disgusting!" "Shocking!" "A
scarecrow!"
Roma watched them for a moment, and then said: "You don't like my Judas?
Neither do I. You're right--it _is_ disgusting."
And taking up in both hands a piece of thin wire, she cut the clay
across, and the upper part of it fell face downward with a thud on to
the floor.
The Princess, who stood by the side of the Baron, offered him her
sympathy, and he answered in his icy smile:
"But these artists are all slightly insane, you know. That is an evil
which must be patiently endured, without noticing too much the ludicrous
side of it."
Then, stepping up to Roma, and handing back the portrait, the Baron
said, with a slight frown:
"I must thank you for a very amusing afternoon, and bid you good-day."
The others looked after him, and interpreted his departure according to
their own feelings. "He is done with her," they whispered. "He'll pay
her out for this." And without more ado they began to follow him.
Roma, flushed and excited, bowed to them as they went out one by one,
with a politeness that was demonstrative to the point of caricature. She
was saying farewell to them for ever, and her face was lighted up with a
look of triumphant joy. They tried to bear themselves bravely as they
passed her, but her blazing eyes and sweeping curtseys made them feel as
if they were being turned out of the house.
When they were all gone, she shut the door with a bang, and then turning
to David Rossi, who alone remained, she burst into a flood of hysterical
tears, and threw herself on to her knees at his feet.