In one of the large reception-rooms of Casa Nerola, near a bank formed of an enormous group of Hortense roses, two young girls stand talking and smiling discreetly, slowly moving their little white fans. The one, Theresa Santacroce, is dressed in light blue, with a silver belt, her hair arranged high with a circlet of silver ivy leaves. The other, Stefania Farnese, is dressed in ivory silk, and two large red roses in her chestnut hair give her a Spanish appearance, although her beauty is delicate.
“We thought we were going to be late with mamma.”
“Oh, we dined at seven on purpose.”
“That is why you haven’t been to the tea-room?”
“Of course. Here it is the same as at Court, one has to come before the sovereigns arrive.”
“The most beautiful spectacle is, naturally, the entry of the Emperor.”
“Is it true that all the women are in love with him?”
“So they say. As for me I don’t like Germans.”
“O Stefania, let us be grateful to him. If he hadn’t come to Rome in December we shouldn’t have had the first ball now.”
“Long live the Kaiser, then! Since without him we should have had to wait till the end of February.”
“You are expecting Giovanni Altieri, aren’t you, Stefania?”
“Giovanni Altieri! I don’t want to hear him mentioned. No one is more voluble or frivolous.”
“Really!”
“Certainly. Just think, he has been in love this summer three or four times with foreigners—American, Russian, English. And now the wretch does nothing but speak badly of Italian girls.”
“How all our sweethearts take away these foreign women!”
“Let us give them an exchange. Let us go abroad with our mammas and marry Russian princes, English dukes and American millionaires.”
“A good idea; but our Italians are so sympathetic. Look at Marco Fiore over there; what a handsome youth! I would have married him very gladly.”
“And you would have done very badly.”
“Why?”
“Why ... do you know nothing? you are too simple.”
“Tell me why; tell me.”
“Another time. How late it is, and the ball can’t be opened till the Emperor comes!”
“Shall we see a state quadrille danced?”
“They say he dances beautifully.”
“Will he dance with the Principessa di Nerola?”
“Naturally. You know she is German, and a mediatised princess. That is why she is giving the ball and the Emperor is coming.”
“Are you engaged for the first waltz?”
“Yes, with De Goertz, of the Austrian Embassy.”
“Have you begun, then, with the foreigners?”
“Certainly; and you?”
“Oh, I am dancing with my cousin Roffredo.”
* * * * * * * *
Two old ladies are seated on a sofa of antique brocade in another of the rooms. Their age prohibits them from dancing. Their hair is white, their faces are furrowed with wrinkles, and their bodies bent with senility, so they seldom leave their patriarchal homes except on occasions of great state. They are the Princess of Anticoli and the Duchess of Sutri. Both are dressed in sumptuous dresses, trimmed with valuable lace; the most precious family jewels adorn their white hairs, giving them a certain majesty. Their necks, thin with age, wear scintillating diamond necklaces, and emeralds of old-fashioned style.
The Duchess of Sutri has magnificent eyes, black and vivid, which form a singular contrast to the old age depicted in her face and person. Both their fans are closed in their hands, now so tired of moving them after so many years of balls and festivities. They are talking together slowly, watching with wandering eyes the elegant crowd which is coming and going.
“It wanted an Emperor, Lavinia, to make me leave my home at night.”
“Oh, in other times I wouldn’t have come here at any cost; isn’t he a Lutheran? But all that is changed. My Fabrizio has absolutely stated his wish to enter the Italian army. How was I, a widow, to contradict him? You understand me.”
“You have done well, my poor Lavinia. In fact, perhaps our sons and nephews are more right to accustom themselves to the new state of things than we are to protest. Now I am tired and sorry even of the discussion. I look and smile; sometimes I even laugh.”
“As for me, on the other hand, so many things happen and cause my pity, Livia. But to whom am I to say it? I should offend people by remarking on certain misfortunes and losses.”
“What magnificence, do you remember, in our times?”
“We were all much richer then, Livia.”
“What a lot of us have fallen into the most terrible poverty; it is a real shame.”
“Giovanna della Marsiliana.”
“Poor, poor thing! She lives on her little property near Perugia, just a small house and a garden, I think.”
“Does she stay there summer and winter?”
“Always now.”
“It is a real exile then.”
“But her daughter-in-law, Carolina della Marsiliana, is here. I see her over there.”
“Look, look, she is wearing the Marsiliana pearls!”
“Yes, she has rescued them from the moneylender, Labanchi, for a large sum.”
“Naturally, her father has so many millions.”
“A wholesale boot-manufacturer!”
“Yes, it seems he wants to repurchase the whole of the Marsiliana properties.”
“Carolina is speaking with Arduina Fiore.”
“Why isn’t Arduina wearing her diadem or necklace?”
“She has given them to her two daughters-in-law, Beatrice and Vittoria.”
“They are fortunate, those Casalta girls.”
“Do you think so? This evening they are wearing the jewels of Casa Fiore. Do you notice the two daughters-in-law are following their mother-in-law side by side?”
“Beatrice is very charming.”
“The other is insignificant.”
“A little pale and supercilious. She doesn’t like society, I suppose. How long are you staying, Lavinia?”
“Don’t you know we can’t go away till this Emperor leaves?”
“I knew his grandfather very well at Berlin.”
“And I his father in London, when he came to fetch his bride, Victoria.”
“It is useless to remind him of that.”
“Oh dear, yes.”
Two gentlemen have withdrawn from the flow of people to an embrasure of a window. One is Carlo Savelli, of the great house of Savelli, tall, strong and nervous, looking as if he had dismounted from one of the well-limbed horses of the Campagna, and had changed his large round cow-boy cloak for the evening dress of society. The other is Guglielmo Morici, pale and delicate, of the best Roman bourgeoisie, but allied by business and relationship to the nobility. In the conversation of each the Roman accent is very marked.
“When is the meeting fixed for?”
“For Saturday evening, Guglielmo. You are going to take part if you can get off?”
“Yes, I can get off for two or three days, for the Monday or even till Tuesday morning.”
“Good; we must pray Heaven that it doesn’t rain!”
“I don’t mind a little rain when one is out shooting, a little, but not too much.”
“You are right. We train to Velletri, thence we drive for three hours to Campiglione.”
“Do we get there at midnight?”
“Yes, and go to bed at once. At six o’clock we are off. Breakfast is at a place called L’Æqua Morta, and at night we sleep at Fattino.”
“How I love these shooting trips, dear Carlo! For three days through fields and woods, eating here and there, sleeping here and there. One could believe oneself far away in Africa or Asia.”
“I swear to you, Guglielmo, that everything else is indifferent to me; I rave about the chase. At first it was a hobby, but now it is a passion.”
“Oh, I have had it since a boy.”
“People who do not understand it laugh at us.”
“Let them laugh. Who is coming with us?”
“The usual lot; Mario Colonna, Giovanni Santacroce, and Emilio Guasco.”
“Splendid; have you fixed up everything?”
“This evening we must all meet here to arrange the time-table.”
“Is Emilio coming here too this evening?”
“I believe he is coming with his wife.”
“A beautiful woman!”
“I have always liked her.”
“You are not the only one who has liked her.”
“What are we to do? It is a misfortune for us husbands.”
“However, they are together again now—man and wife!”
“Oh, Emilio is a splendid fellow.”
“I wouldn’t have done it.”
“So one says. But then one has to find oneself in certain predicaments. Watch if you can see them arriving.”
“I see him; Mario Colonna is there.”
“Beckon to him to look for us after the Emperor has entered.”
“He has winked ‘yes.’ Now I see Emilio Guasco.”
“Is he with his wife?”
“Yes, yes. She is more beautiful than ever this evening. Do you know that even I think in looking at her that he was right to have pardoned her.”
“Have you nodded to him?”
“Yes; but I suppose he hasn’t seen me.”
“We will find him as soon as the Emperor has passed. At that moment every one will flock into the ball-room.”
“Is there to be much dancing afterwards?”
“Certainly, on account of the festivities the ladies have been enthusiastic about the Kaiser. My daughter, Maria, will stop late.”
“I think my wife must be very late. She was still dressing when I went out.”
“Oh, these ladies and their toilette!”
“Oh, I leave mine every liberty of being late by setting out first. Thus there is no quarrelling.”
A telephone message from the German Embassy has warned the Principe di Nerola that the Emperor of Germany with his suite has started for the Palazzo di Nerola. It is half-past ten. Court ceremonial ordains that the host honoured by a royal visit, receives His Majesty in the courtyard of his palace, at the foot of the grand staircase. The December evening is very cold. A slight frost covers the roads. The Prince of Nerola is already seventy, and the waiting in the cutting night air worries him secretly, in spite of the high honour which is coming to him from the Imperial visit.
The Roman patrician descends the stairs of his majestic palace wrapped in a fur coat, with his hat on his head. His three sons, Don Marcontonio, Don Camillo, and Don Clemente follow him at a little distance. On every step of the staircase, on right and left, are valets of Casa Nerola in grand livery. At the foot of the staircase footmen, with large lighted candelabra, form a circle round the group formed by the Prince and his sons.
The Nerola palace, in the via Santi Apostoli, is imposing and solemn in its exterior architecture. The courtyard is immense, with a fountain in the middle with a green tiled circle round it. A portico opens on the four sides of the courtyard. The internal architecture resembles the Palazzo Borghese.
Paolo, fifteenth Prince of Nerola, is tall and thin, with flowing white beard. His sons, between twenty-five and thirty-five years of age, all resemble him, but their appearance is less aristocratic and proud than his. Some minutes pass in silence, and suddenly the janitor of Casa Nerola, a Colossus clothed in a livery resplendent with gold, strikes the asphalt three times with his great gold-headed baton, while a dull noise of carriage-wheels reaches from the street.
At once, with youthful agility, Don Paolo frees himself from his cape, and remains in evening dress, his breast covered with decorations. The first imperial carriage enters, containing the aides-de-camp, and stops in front of the grand staircase. The imperial master of ceremonies and three officials in German uniform descend. Salutes are exchanged, and all four group themselves behind the Prince, in waiting. The second carriage enters more slowly, the Prince advances to the door. The Emperor alights, and uncovers at once before the Roman patrician, who bows profoundly and thanks His Imperial Majesty for the honour he is doing to Casa Nerola. The Emperor smiles beneath his light moustaches, curled up proudly, and the procession is formed.
The footmen go slowly in front, holding the magnificent silver candelabra, lit with sweet-scented candles. Behind, at a certain distance, the Emperor. On his left the Prince walks a little apart, and a little behind him a group is formed by the Prince’s sons and the imperial suite. The procession mounts the stairs almost in silence, and with great solemnity. The sovereign is very calm, and talks to his host in German, looking around at the noble beauty of the house he is entering. Above, in the last ante-room, at the entrance to the suite of reception-rooms, the Princess of Nerola is waiting, born Princess Tekla di Salm-Salm. Dressed in white brocade, she wears the closed crown of a mediatised German princess; on her bodice is pinned a German order, which is only given to German ladies of high lineage. Her hair, which had been of the palest flaxen colour, is now quite white. She has that opaque whiteness of colouring, and the rosy cheeks of the descendants of Arminius. Though massive and big-boned, she looks quite the great lady. Immediately her Emperor appears at the door she goes towards him, and almost prostrates herself in profound reverence. Calmly, and almost jokingly, the Emperor takes her hand, kisses it gallantly, and gives her at once her title: “Your Serene Highness.”
The orchestra in the ante-room at once broke into the German National Anthem, in which all the ardent and mysterious power of the German soul is manifested. The procession is again formed, and William, King and Emperor, tall and erect in his uniform of a colonel of the Garde du Corps, gives his arm to the Princess to cross the rooms, glittering with light and magnificently decorated with plants and flowers, showing in all their refulgence the ancient beauty of their sculptural and pictorial decoration, in all the richness of their artistic furniture, an historic luxury, so calm and powerful. Behind the Emperor and the Princess come the Prince, his sons, and the suite. All walk slowly, regulating their step to his. He goes slowly, for he knows the secret of these appearances, and speaks smilingly to the Princess, looking around to right and left at the two lines of men and women who bow profoundly to him, and lower their eyes, if he fixes them with his clear, flashing eyes. It is a double hedge of women especially, in coloured and brilliant gowns, in white and soft gowns, with bare shoulders and arms. It is a double hedge of heads—blondes, brunettes, chestnuts, golden, white—on which feathers flap, on which jewelled stars and shining crescents tremble, on which strange flowers almost open: heads bowed beneath the weight of their thickly dressed hair, little heads almost childish beneath the wavy aureole of golden locks, heads which bow in a salute of reverence, of admiration, of mute feminine sympathy, for this Emperor of legend, of poesy, of ever-renewing self-will. He admires and greets the women with a slightly haughty smile, continuing his way. There is not a word or a whisper as he passes, nothing except the rustling of silk and velvet, or the jingling of the sabres of the suite. In this silence the passing of the Emperor-King acquires a more impressive and imposing character.
Crowded one against the other, dame and damsel had not spoken while he appeared and while he was passing, and indifferent to their surroundings had only thought of seeing him and being seen, of greeting him and receiving his greeting. Mixed among them are old men and young, also intent on bowing to the sovereign. In the famous tapestry-room of Casa Nerola, the room before the ball-room, in the great space cleared in the middle of it to allow the Emperor-King to pass, opposite but far off, divided by the big space and many people, a man and a woman have recognised each other with their eyes, and have remained immobile and silent to gaze at each other.
They are Maria Guasco Simonetti and Marco Fiore.
Since that sad autumn afternoon a year ago, when they had wept their last tears together without either being able to console the other, taking leave of each other for ever, and burying their dead dream of love, they had never seen each other. It is a year ago since, courageously and with broken hearts, they had separated, thinking in that terrible moment that they would never see each other again till death or old age; but so many singular circumstances had happened around them during this time, the change of events has been great, and their fate has changed all its course and aspect. Suddenly and unexpectedly on that December evening, amidst sumptuous and splendid surroundings, amidst flowers, women, jewels, music, and perfumes, the two who had lived their passion of love together, and had placed it desolately in its sepulchre, are face to face, divided by the crowd; but their glances, greedily and intensely attracted, seem as if they never could separate. For a long moment Maria Guasco and Marco Fiore gaze at each other. In their eyes there is only one beautiful, simple, strong expression, sadness free from every ardour, sadness free of every desire; sadness without remorse or hope; a sadness which neither invokes nor offers help. It is an incomparable and immeasurable sadness, which can only be supported by lofty human strength in its humility and innocence. Thus they look at each other and are only sad for that which was and is no more, for that which can never return to them, since nothing which is dead in the soul rises again.
Proud and smiling the Emperor passes, and a flock of people crowd behind the suite and increases near the door, to get near him and surround him. Marco and Maria are separated by the great crowd. But they do not seek each other. Everything has been said in one long glance, in one long moment of intimate understanding.