Part 51 (1/2)
Some statistician has a.s.serted that no less than a hundred thousand people awake every day in London, not one of whom knows where he will pa.s.s the night. Now, Florence is but a small city, and the lacquered-boot cla.s.s bear but a slight proportion to the shoeless herd of humanity. Yet there is a very tolerable sprinkling of well-dressed, well-got-up individuals, who daily arise without the very vaguest conception of who is to house them, fire them, light them, and cigar them for the evening. They are an interesting cla.s.s, and have this strong appeal to human sympathy, that not one of them, by any possible effort, could contribute to his own support.
They toil not, neither do they spin. They have the very fewest of social qualities; they possess no conversational gifts; they are not even moderately good reporters of the pa.s.sing events of the day. And yet, strange to say, the world they live in seems to have some need of them.
Are they the last relics of a once gifted cla.s.s,--worn out, effete, and exhausted,--degenerated like modern Greeks from those who once shook the Parthenon? Or are they what anatomists call ”rudimentary structures,”--the first abortive attempts of nature to fas.h.i.+on something profitable and good? Who knows?
Amidst this cla.s.s the Nina's arrival was announced as the happiest of all tidings; and speculation immediately set to work to imagine who would be the favorites of the house; what would be its habits and hours; would she again enter the great world of society, or would she, as her quiet, unannounced arrival portended, seek a less conspicuous position?
Nor was this the mere talk of the cafes and the Cascine. The _salons_ were eagerly discussing the very same theme.
In certain social conditions a degree of astuteness is acquired as to who may and who may not be visited, that, in its tortuous intricacy of reasons, would puzzle the craftiest head that ever wagged in Equity.
Not that the code is a severe one; it is exactly in its lenity lies its difficulty,--so much may be done, but so little may be fatal! The Countess in the present case enjoyed what in England is reckoned a great privilege,--she was tried by her peers--or ”something more.” They were, however, all nice discriminators as to the cla.s.s of case before them, and they knew well what danger there was in admitting to their ”guild”
any with a little more disgrace than their neighbors. It was curious enough that she, in whose behalf all this solicitude was excited, should have been less than indifferent as to the result; and when, on the third day of the trial, a verdict was delivered in her favor, and a shower of visiting-cards at the porter's lodge declared that the act of her recognition had pa.s.sed, her orders were that the cards should be sent back to their owners, as the Countess had not the honor of their acquaintance.
”Les grands coups se font respecter toujours,” was the maxim of a great tactician in war and politics; and the adage is no less true in questions of social life. We are so apt to compute the strength of resources by the amount of pretension that we often yield the victory to the mere declaration of force. We are not, however, about to dwell on this theme,--our business being less with those who discussed her, than with the Countess of Glencore herself.
In a large _salon_, hung with costly tapestries, and furnished in the most expensive style, sat two ladies at opposite sides of the fire. They were both richly dressed, and one of them (it was Lady Glencore), as she held a screen before her face, displayed a number of valuable rings on her fingers, and a ma.s.sive bracelet of enamel with a large emerald pendant. The other, not less magnificently attired, wore an imperial portrait suspended by a chain around her neck, and a small knot of white and green ribbon on her shoulder, to denote her quality of a lady in waiting at Court. There was something almost queenly in the haughty dignity of her manner, and an air of command in the tone with which she addressed her companion. It was our acquaintance the Princess Sabloukoff, just escaped from a dinner and reception at the Pitti Palace, and carrying with her some of the proud traditions of the society she had quitted.
”What hour did you tell them they might come, Nina?” asked she.
”Not before midnight, my dear Princess; I wanted to have a talk with you first. It is long since we have met, and I have so much to tell you.”
”_Cara mia_,” said the other, carelessly, ”I know everything already.
There is nothing you have done, nothing that has happened to you, that I am not aware of. I might go further, and say that I have looked with secret pleasure at the course of events which to your short-sightedness seemed disastrous.”
”I can scarce conceive that possible,” said the Countess, sighing.
”Naturally enough, perhaps, because you never knew the greatest of all blessings in this life, which is--liberty. Separation from your husband, my dear Nina, did not emanc.i.p.ate you from the tiresome requirements of the world. You got rid of _him_, to be sure, but not of those who regarded you as his wife. It required the act of courage by which you cut with these people forever, to a.s.sert the freedom I speak of.”
”I almost shudder at the contest I have provoked, and had you not insisted on it--”
”You had gone back again to the old slavery, to be pitied and compa.s.sionated, and condoled with, instead of being feared and envied,”
said the other; and as she spoke, her flas.h.i.+ng eyes and quivering brows gave an expression almost tiger-like to her features. ”What was there about your house and its habits distinctive before? What gave you any pre-eminence above those that surround you? You were better looking, yourself; better dressed; your _salons_ better lighted; your dinners more choice,--there was the end of it. _Your_ company was _their_ company,--_your_ a.s.sociates were _theirs_. The homage _you_ received to-day had been yesterday the incense of another. There was not a bouquet nor a flattery offered to _you_ that had not its _facsimile_, doing service in some other quarter. You were 'one of them,' Nina, obliged to follow their laws and subscribe to their ideas; and while _they_ traded on the wealth of your attractions, _you_ derived nothing from the partners.h.i.+p but the same share as those about you.”
”And how will it be now?” asked the Countess, half in fear, half in hope.
”How will it be now? I 'll tell you. This house will be the resort of every distinguished man, not of Italy, but of the world at large. Here will come the highest of every nation, as to a circle where they can say, and hear, and suggest a thousand things in the freedom of unauthorized intercourse. You will not drain Florence alone, but all the great cities of Europe, of its best talkers and deepest thinkers. The statesman and the author, and the sculptor and the musician, will hasten to a neutral territory, where for the time a kind of equality will prevail. The weary minister, escaping from a Court festival, will come here to unbend; the witty converser will store himself with his best resources for your _salons_. There will be all the freedom of a club to these men, with the added charm of that fascination your presence will confer; and thus, through all their intercourse, will be felt the '_parfum de femme_,' as Balzac calls it, which both elevates and entrances.”
”But will not society revenge itself on all this?” ”It will invent a hundred calumnious reports and shocking stories; but these, like the criticisms on an immoral play, will only serve to fill the house.
Men--even the quiet ones--will be eager to see what it is that const.i.tutes the charm of these gatherings; and one charm there is that never misses its success. Have you ever experienced, in visiting some great gallery, or, still more, some choice collection of works of art, a strange, mysterious sense of awe for objects which you rather knew to be great by the testimony of others, than felt able personally to appreciate? You were conscious that the picture was painted by Raphael, or the cup carved by Cellini, and, independently of all the pleasure it yielded you, arose a sense of homage to its actual worth. The same is the case in society with ill.u.s.trious men. They may seem slower of apprehension, less ready at reply, less apt to understand; but there they are, Originals, not Copies of greatness. They represent value.”
Have we said enough to show our reader the kind of persuasion by which Madame de Sabloukoff led her friend into this new path? The flattery of the argument was, after all, its success; and the Countess was fascinated by fancying herself something more than the handsomest and the best-dressed woman in Florence. They who const.i.tute a free port of their house will have certainly abundance of trade, and also invite no small amount of enterprise.
A little after midnight the _salons_ began to fill, and from the Opera and the other theatres flocked in all that was pleasant, fas.h.i.+onable, and idle of Florence. The old beau, painted, padded, and essenced, came with the younger and not less elaborately dressed ”fas.h.i.+onable,” great in watch-chains and splendid in waistcoat b.u.t.tons; long-haired artists and moustached hussars mingled with close-shaven actors and pale-faced authors; men of the world, of politics, of finance, of letters, of the turf,--all were there. There was the gossip of the Bourse and the cabinet, the green-room and the stable. The scandal of society, the events of club life, the world's doings in dinners, divorces, and duels, were all revealed and discussed, amidst the most profuse grat.i.tude to the Countess for coming back again to that society which scarcely survived her desertion.
They were not, it is but fair to say, all that the Princess Sabloukoff had depicted them; but there was still a very fair sprinkling of witty, pleasant talkers. The ease of admission permitted any former intimate to present his friend, and thus at once, on the very first night of receiving, the Countess saw her _salons_ crowded. They smoked, and sang, and laughed, and played ecarte, and told good stories. They drew caricatures, imitated well-known actors, and even preachers, talking away with a volubility that left few listeners; and then there was a supper laid out on a table too small to accommodate even by standing, so that each carried away his plate, and bivouacked with others of his friends, here and there, through the rooms.
All was contrived to impart a sense of independence and freedom; all, to convey an impression of ”license” special to the place, that made the most rigid unbend, and relaxed the gravity of many who seldom laughed.
As in certain chemical compounds a mere drop of some one powerful ingredient will change the whole property of the ma.s.s, eliciting new elements, correcting this, developing that, and, even to the eye, announcing by altered color the wondrous change accomplished, so here the element of womanhood, infinitely small in proportion as it was, imparted a tone and a refinement to this orgie which, without it, had degenerated into coa.r.s.eness. The Countess's beautiful niece, Ida Delia Torre, was also there, singing at times with all an artist's excellence the triumphs of operatic music; at others, warbling over those ”canzonettes” which to Italian ears embody all that they know of love of country. How could such a reception be other than successful; or how could the guests, as they poured forth into the silent street at daybreak, do aught but exult that such a house was added to the haunts of Florence,--so lovely a group had returned to adorn their fair city?
In a burst of this enthusiastic grat.i.tude they sang a serenade before they separated; and then, as the closed curtains showed them that the inmates had left the windows, they uttered the last ”felice Notte,” and departed.