ROME.--THE BALLO PAPAYANI.
The party had been in Rome three weeks, they had all thoroughly enjoyed
themselves, and Georgie Haggard had made no objection whatever to her
husband's putting in an appearance at the Ballo Papayani. The great
Carnival ball had been for years one of the sights of Rome. Although the
red English guide-book merely discreetly remarked that "the scene at
Papayani's at Carnival time should on no account be missed," Baedeker
and the other foreign mentors devoted whole pages to glowing
descriptions of these more than Olympian revels.
An Italian, as a rule, in Carnival time is like an English boy on the
fifth of November--he is not happy unless he dresses up. In this
country, we are apt to think when any one dresses himself up, that he is
disguising a fool. In Italy, on the contrary, all the world is
continually occupied in masquerading in some way or other. Costume
balls, in all classes of society, are favourite entertainments.
Historical masques, though not got up with the elaborate attention to
minute detail which is bestowed upon them by the thoughtful
beer-drinking and sausage-devouring German, are yet of very frequent
occurrence. Every city, every town, nay every hamlet, in Italy, has its
long and glorious history, often written in letters of blood, always
deeply engraven on the hearts of the people. The mementoes of a bygone
time are cherished by the Italians. Consequently, dressing up in Italy
is universal, and even the man who dines upon a penny roll and a quarter
of a melon, can afford five centessimi, or one halfpenny, for a paper
nose, and it costs him nothing to flour his face and hair.
Let us take an instance. Ivrea is a little place, a small garrison town,
celebrated for its coolness and its cheapness; thither the Piedmontese
flock in crowds when the heat of the city is no longer bearable. There
is nothing remarkable about the place; it has its opera house, at which
ambitious young ladies, principally English and Americans, pupils of the
Conservatorio at Milan, make their _débuts_. Happy garrison, happy
sojourners in the little Italian town; they are provided with a
succession of interesting, though perhaps undeveloped, prima donnas, who
make their little successes or their tiny fiascoes at this nursery of
Art. But Ivrea, like all the other Italian towns, has its history, its
glorious legend, which is never allowed to die, and the Carnival of
Ivrea is the time chosen for representing the story and commemorating
the tragic history of the local heroine. In the Middle Ages, Ivrea had
its feudal lord. The Count Arduino, as may be fancied from his name, was
a bold, bad man; he possessed the terrible _Droit de Seigneur_, which
he rigorously exacted. The belle of the village was a miller's daughter:
"We never see such maidens now,
Such mill-wheels turn not round."
She was married. No sooner was the ceremony over than the wicked count
ordered her to present herself at the castle. The command of the feudal
lord could not be disobeyed. Bride and bridegroom, accompanied by the
weeping crowd, proceeded to the castle gate. Count Arduino advanced to
meet her with a smile, unarmed and unattended. He was but claiming his
rights. As he stepped forward to salute her, she presented her cheek to
him, and suddenly stabbed him dead at her feet. The mob of relatives and
friends wrecked and burned the castle, massacring the retainers to a
man. The brave young bride was safely escorted home, where the wedding
feast was triumphantly celebrated, and the miller's daughter lived to be
the happy mother of many children, and died at a good old age. From
that day the _Droit de Seigneur_ ceased to exist in Ivrea.
This is the origin of the yearly ceremony at the little Italian town. A
pretty boy of seven or eight years of age is chosen by each parish. The
boys are dressed in fancy costumes and mounted on horses, escorted by
the general of the Carnival, who wears a black uniform, and accompanied
by his officers, who are clothed in scarlet. During the Carnival the
town is under the rule of the general and his officers. The party are
received in state by the mayor, the bishop, and the personages of Ivrea.
A poetical address is given at each notable's house. On the second day,
the children, some eight or ten in number (they are called _Abba_), on
horseback, and escorted by the general and his officers, head a
procession, which passes through the town, and which is joined by all
the carriages of the place, filled with ladies in gala costume and men
in fancy dresses. Everybody dresses up. Then are thrown from windows and
balconies, oranges, flowers, and real _confetti_, not the chalk
_coriandoli_ of Milan, but good eatable sugar-plums. In the evening the
little theatre is illuminated regardless of expense, a fabulous sum
being expended on extra lamps. Between the acts the Carnival hymn is
sung by the whole strength of the company, the _Abba_ children, the
general and his officers, who appear upon the stage; and it is a _sine
quâ non_ that every one should wear the republican red cap, even the
_Abba_ children and the lady artists. The more enthusiastic among the
audience, male and female, also sport the red cap of liberty. Secreted
in the omnibus box has been seated the prettiest girl in the town. The
_Mugnaia_, as she is called, is carefully arrayed in the costume of the
bygone time when the tragedy took place, and now she is escorted by the
general of the Carnival to the footlights, a drum and fife band
preceding her, the Carnival hymn is sung, vociferously encored and
joined in by the audience. The _Mugnaia_ now returns to the box in which
she sits in royal state, the observed of all observers. Of course, she
is got up regardless of expense. She, too, wears the little red cap,
and, as has been said, has been chosen for her good looks. The opera is
concluded, a masked ball follows.
Next day, at seven a.m., in every parish the bride who was last married
proceeds in procession to the Piazza of that parish, and with a mallet
she indicates the place for the annual _scarlo_, or bonfire. She is
accompanied by her husband. The object of these _scarli_ is to manifest
the popular exultation at the annihilation of feudal tyranny. The pair
now return home, preceded by a drum and fife band, and escorted by an
enthusiastic crowd singing songs of liberty at the full pitch of their
voices.
At two o'clock, the general of the Carnival opens the public ball with
the _Mugnaia_. This is held in the Piazza Carlo Alberto, which is the
largest square in the town. The orchestra is placed in the centre of the
square. Then there is a procession headed by the _Mugnaia_, seated on a
scarlet velvet throne, and borne in a gilded car; then comes a military
band, then the carriages filled with shouting masqueraders and ladies in
elaborate toilettes; flowers, sweets, and oranges, are thrown with
amazing prodigality as before. In the evening, again the opera, again
the masquerade. Next day the procession takes place again, and there is
a public ball in the square till ten, then the _Abba_ of each parish
solemnly applies the light to his appointed _scarlo_. When the last
_scarlo_ is burned out a funeral march is played and all disperse to
their homes. It may be mentioned that the _scarlo_ is not literally a
bonfire in our sense of the word, but what we should call a Venetian
mast, bound with furze and inflammable material, decorated with gaudy
ribbons and surmounted by a flag.
It is not likely that the inhabitants of Ivrea, who thus commemorate her
heroic deed, will ever forget their _Mugnaia_.
But we have wandered away from Papayani's, where the door was
surrounded by an enthusiastic crowd of the poorer among the gay
pleasure-seekers of the Carnival. It was a rather trying thing for the
arrivals as they stepped from their carriages and passed into the
building through a double line of sarcastic or appreciative critics six
deep. A quiet brougham draws up at the entrance, the door is flung open
by a ragged masker, with an enormous paper nose, in a tattered _pierrot_
costume. As he opens the door he bows to the ground with an exaggerated
humility; and Haggard, in his faultless evening dress, steps out, with a
frown upon his face, his big form towering above the puny Italian crowd
as though he were a king of men in a horde of pigmies. He hands a lady
out; her pale blue silk domino hides her effectually from the
inquisitive gaze of the crowd. Her tiny gloved hand clutches Haggard's
arm as he hurries her into the building, which is one blaze of light,
and from which issue sounds of gay music and of the rhythmic tramp of
thousands of dancing feet. The lady is discreetly masked, but though her
personal identity is thoroughly disguised, she does not escape a fire of
compliment from the appreciative ragamuffins on the pavement. "_Ah! che
ragazza bellisima._" "_Che figlia incomparabile._" And as an antithesis
to this flowery Italian praise, said one British 'Arry to another
British 'Arry in the crowd, "Did you see her ankles, George? Do you know
who that lady is?" Certainly the white satin dress of the Watteau
costume that the lady whom Haggard was escorting wore, disclosed an
undeniable instep, and 'Arry's favourable criticism was not undeserved.
"I know one thing," said his friend, "there was no humbug in the single
stone brilliants she wore as ear-rings." The pair disappeared among the
glittering and gaily-dressed crowd that thronged the portico.
M. Barbiche, formerly of the French Embassy to the Court of St. James's,
his eyeglass tightly screwed into one of his wicked little eyes, was
lolling against one of the pillars of the _foyer_. He was criticizing
the arrivals to Lord Spunyarn, who yawned by his side, evidently
thinking the whole affair a bore.
"Our Haggard, my friend, is what you call an old fox, I fear. Who was
the charming girl in the blue domino he was dancing with? I failed to
recognize her. She is no _habitué_ here. He intrigues me, this Haggard
of ours."
"Pooh!" replied the philosophic lord, as he drove an unusually large
volume of cigarette smoke through both nostrils; "some milliner's
apprentice probably, got up regardless of expense."
"No, my friend, the shepherdess was too well _chausée_ for that;
besides, her mask hides her face too well. Your milliner would not be so
_farouche_ as to hide her face, unless, _ma foi_, she had perchance a
bad complexion; but our Haggard is too great a connoisseur for that.
However, he shall introduce me to this mystery, and we shall see."
"I wouldn't try if I were you, Barbiche."
"And why not, my friend? Why not, if you please? Is this Haggard, this
English Adonis of yours, with the manners of a prize-fighter, is he to
_croquer_ all to himself all the pretty girls of Rome? Is it not enough
that he shall have the prettiest wife in Rome? No, I wrong that angel,
the most beautiful and the most virtuous of her sex. Is it not enough
that this man shall every morning sit down to breakfast with the lovely
Mees Lucy? Ah! when I think of Mees Lucy, I remember myself once more,
and I think of those happy days in the Quartier Latin, before my uncle
does me the honour to die, and I embark myself in the diplomatic career.
I study your language in your Dickens, in your Thackeray; at last I
attain proficiency. You see it for yourself, no Englishman ever shall
suspect me, when we shall converse, of being other than a Briton. It is
the same thing with the charming Mees Lucy. I, a Frenchman, feel my
heart beat in sympathy with hers; she is to me a _compatriote_. We speak
to each other as I used to speak to Cascadette in those old happy times.
_Vlan ça y est._ This Haggard of yours he shall have his most beautiful
wife, her most lovely cousin, but what shall he want with this little
shepherdess in the blue domino. Bah," said the indignant man as he
stamps his foot and settles himself down into his enormous collar, "I
say he _shall_ introduce me. Think you, my friend, that I fear this
'la-out?' No, I am of the first force, my Shirtings, at the _savate_."
"What's that?" said Lord Spunyarn stolidly.
"My friend, _nous autres_, we do not box like you, but we use the
_savate_. Behold, then, what is the _savate_." And here M. Barbiche
suddenly threw himself into the attitude of an enraged and aggressive
monkey. "A ruffian, he strike me, P-r-r-r-r-r," and here M. Barbiche
sprang suddenly high in air, and with one adroit and well-directed kick
knocked off the hat of the astonished Spunyarn.
In the tohu bohu at Papayani's this singular action of M. Barbiche
excited not the slightest surprise; he simply received a vociferous
round of applause from the bystanders in his immediate neighbourhood.
Excited by the success of his achievement, Barbiche for the moment
forgot the Embassy, the Duc de la Houspignolle, and the proprieties; he
had been wound up by Papayani's music, and by more than one glass of
Papayani's champagne. The Frenchman became for the moment once more Le
petit Furibon, the darling of the Closerie de Lilas, the champion of the
Quartier Latin, the Elisha upon whose worthy shoulders had descended the
mantle of the prophet, the vanished Caouchouc.
At this moment the strains of Arditi's immortal waltz, "Il Bacio,"
resounded through the place. The head of M. Barbiche kept time to the
music, and he regarded the dancers with a scrutinizing gaze; his eye
evidently sought Haggard and the mysterious shepherdess. As the ring of
maskers which surrounded the space set apart for the dancers thinned, as
numerous couples joined in the waltz, the watchful Frenchman was
rewarded. "_La voila, mon ami_," he said, for Barbiche, when excited,
forgot the English of which he was so proud.
Directly opposite Lord Spunyarn and his French friend stood Haggard and
his shepherdess. She nestled at his side, clinging to his arm and gazing
up into his eyes. The hood of the pale blue silk domino was now thrown
back, disclosing a magnificent head of powdered hair; the complexion of
the lady's neck and shoulders was dazzling, and evidently natural; her
rounded arms had more of the Venus than the Juno about them; her
figure, as she gazed up into Haggard's face, was seen to be perfection.
The little foot beat time to the music of the waltz. But a black silk
mask with a heavy fall of lace hid every feature, save a rounded chin
and a pair of magnificent eyes, which seemed to be pleading to Haggard,
and the shell-like ears in which blazed the diamond solitaires which had
attracted the attention of the British "'Arry" in the street.
Haggard's face was suddenly lit up with pleasure, his arm slipped round
the little waist, the left hand of the shepherdess was confidingly
placed on the shoulder of her champion; they started and joined the
numerous pairs whirling round to the music of "Il Bacio." Soon the
couple excited attention, of which both seemed to be wholly unaware.
Haggard, though he was a married man, was still a good dancer, and even
here in a foreign ball-room, where, as a rule, the dancing Englishman
is an object of ridicule, he distinguished himself. For Haggard, unlike
most of the dancers present (at all events those of the male sex), was
perfectly sober; not that the proverbially moderate Italians had
exceeded in the use of their light but notoriously nasty wines, but an
Italian easily becomes intoxicated, exalted, exhilarated, beside himself
under the combined influences of a Carnival ball, the lights, the
perfumes, the music, the dancing, and above all the eyes of his
_inamorata_. Can we blame Petrarch for being cheerful when Laura smiles?
But no Italian present was in so exalted a state as M. Barbiche of the
French Embassy, once so well known as Le petit Furibon, of the Latin
Quarter.
As the pairs gradually dropped out, Haggard and his partner became the
cynosure of every eye. In vain did Pasquino whirl his Contadina with the
ruddled cheeks, varying his saltatory gymnastics with an occasional
scream; in vain did young Mr. Simon E. Brown, that very rough diamond
from New York city, who had come to Europe for polish, and was
undergoing the process (in the costume of one of the Wise Men of Gotham
who went to sea in a bowl) at the hands of the Signorina Esperanza, of
the Scala, or any of the motley crew, attempt to attract the public
gaze: every eye was riveted with admiration on the shepherdess, that is
to say, every male eye; the female organs of vision turned from her in
disgust, to admire or criticize her partner, and in the end to feel
dissatisfied with their own peculiar victims. For if the masked
shepherdess turned the heads of most of those present, Haggard was
undeniably the best-looking man in the vast arena. But even the
strength of a muscular English dancing man must give way at length to
the power of an Italian waltz played fast at past midnight. As for his
partner, I believe she could have gone on for ever, but she had
perceived that they were attracting attention; she discreetly drew the
hood of her pale blue silk domino over her head and hid herself in the
recesses of that mysterious garment. As ill luck would have it, the
pair pulled up close to the excited Furibon.
"_Ah, mon vieux_," cried the Frenchman, advancing with extended hands,
"you have rejoiced our eyes. _Ah, gredin_," whispered Furibon, as he
indiscreetly poked his friend in the ribs.
"Ta ta, old man, I must be off," replied Haggard with a frown, as the
shepherdess clung in evident trepidation to his arm. "For God's sake,
Shirtings, take him away, or there'll be a row," muttered Haggard to his
friend below his breath, his white teeth showing beneath his black
moustache in a menacing manner.
The crowd of revellers was thick around them. Barbiche was, as we know,
a gentleman, but our ideas of courtesy are not a Frenchman's, and, as
has been said before, he had ceased to be Mr. Barbiche the _viveur_, for
the moment he was Furibon, the daring Furibon of former days.
"_Saperlotte_," he hissed, and his out-stretched hand touched the pale
blue domino on the shoulder.
The domino shrank as to avoid him.
Crash!
With one cruel but well-aimed blow Haggard smote the Frenchman in the
mouth, and down he went among the feet of the crowd of indignant
maskers.
"Look to him, Spunyarn," cried Haggard, as he hustled his way through
the crowd, and in an instant disappeared, bearing in his arms the
fainting form of the shepherdess.
_Væ victis_, alas for poor Furibon, where was his boasted skill as a
kicker? Why had he not sprung high in air and delivered his unexpected
assault? We must say of the _savate_ respectfully, as our Gallic
neighbours said of the Balaclava charge, _c'est magnifique, mais ce
n'est pas la guerre_. Seated on the floor, the unfortunate Frenchman
presented a piteous appearance, as he shed mingled tears of pain and
rage, tore his hair, and wiped his cut lip. "_Insolente birbone!_"
"_Bestia!_" "_Cane!_" Such were the cries of the dancers on seeing the
blow struck, but they were levelled not so much at the assailant as at
his victim. In the eyes of the bystanders, Haggard was evidently looked
upon as the protector of beauty in distress. But as Valour bore off
fainting Beauty, and made his suddenly triumphant exit, everybody's
attention was directed to the unhappy Furibon. A gentleman tearing his
hair, in the eyes of Italians, is a common, interesting, and dignified
object. The cause of this performance is usually romantic, time and
place generally appropriate, but Italians do not tear their hair at
masked balls. As everywhere else, a foreigner in distress in Rome is
looked upon as a grotesque object, and poor Barbiche was no exception to
the rule. At first he sat and wept, now he sat and swore, but all the
time he tore hard at his hair. Haggard had disappeared with the celerity
of a harlequin who jumps through a trap.
Lord Spunyarn was somewhat bewildered; he, as a boxer, as an amateur
though unsuccessful athlete, knew what a good knock-down blow was; he
had seen them delivered, with varying degrees of energy, force, and
viciousness, but never in all his lordship's experience till now had he
seen a master-stroke which combined all the above qualities in the
superlative degree. At last he got poor Furibon upon his legs. The
Frenchman carefully felt his front teeth, doubtful if they were still
there, then he ceased to swear and to mutter in his own tongue; he
ceased to be Furibon, he became once more the correct M. Barbiche of the
French Embassy.
"Milor, you have seen the insult. Monsieur Haggard takes advantage of
his physique, of his brutal boxing skill, to maim me, perhaps, _Mon
Dieu_, for life, and to render me an object of contempt and ridicule to
these grimacing apes," here he glowered at the laughing crowd.
"But, my dear boy, it was your own fault, you know; what did you want
to lay hands on the domino for?"
"In that there is nothing, Lord Spunyarn. Black dominoes, pink dominoes,
blue dominoes. Bah! they are but public property, milor, but I shall
teach this Don Quixote a lesson, this chivalrous protector of dominoes.
Yes," he added solemnly, as he crossed himself, "please God."
Lord Spunyarn shook his head. There seemed no other way out of it; the
Frenchman had been struck, the insult was in a public place; an apology
or arrangement was impossible. Spunyarn was well aware that Barbiche was
by no means an antagonist to be despised. He had been a journalist, a
career which in France may enable a man to attain the highest positions;
from journalism he had drifted into diplomacy, as French journalists
sometimes do. This was after his accession to the fortune of a deceased
uncle. Of course, he was skilled with the small-sword, as all French
journalists are bound to be; his reputation with the pistol was equally
deadly.
"I shall send my friend to him in the morning," said M. Barbiche calmly,
as leaning on Lord Spunyarn's arm he left the ball-room. "I suppose you
will act for him?"
"Don't know, I'm sure. I'm not up to these things, but I don't see why
you should shoot each other over it."
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders as he stepped into his
perfectly-appointed but funereal-looking little brougham. As he drove
home he meditated on his wrongs, and in his heart of hearts he swore
that four-and-twenty hours should not elapse ere the insult should be
avenged by his own skilful hand.