CHAPTER X.
ROME.--THE BALLO PAPAYANI.
The party had been in Rome three weeks, they had all thoroughly enjoyedthemselves, and Georgie Haggard had made no objection whatever to herhusband's putting in an appearance at the Ballo Papayani. The greatCarnival ball had been for years one of the sights of Rome. Although thered English guide-book merely discreetly remarked that "the scene atPapayani's at Carnival time should on no account be missed," Baedekerand the other foreign mentors devoted whole pages to glowingdescriptions of these more than Olympian revels.
An Italian, as a rule, in Carnival time is like an English boy on thefifth of November--he is not happy unless he dresses up. In thiscountry, we are apt to think when any one dresses himself up, that he isdisguising a fool. In Italy, on the contrary, all the world iscontinually occupied in masquerading in some way or other. Costumeballs, in all classes of society, are favourite entertainments.Historical masques, though not got up with the elaborate attention tominute detail which is bestowed upon them by the thoughtfulbeer-drinking and sausage-devouring German, are yet of very frequentoccurrence. Every city, every town, nay every hamlet, in Italy, has itslong and glorious history, often written in letters of blood, alwaysdeeply engraven on the hearts of the people. The mementoes of a bygonetime are cherished by the Italians. Consequently, dressing up in Italyis universal, and even the man who dines upon a penny roll and a quarterof a melon, can afford five centessimi, or one halfpenny, for a papernose, 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 Piedmonteseflock in crowds when the heat of the city is no longer bearable. Thereis nothing remarkable about the place; it has its opera house, at whichambitious young ladies, principally English and Americans, pupils of theConservatorio at Milan, make their _debuts_. Happy garrison, happysojourners in the little Italian town; they are provided with asuccession of interesting, though perhaps undeveloped, prima donnas, whomake their little successes or their tiny fiascoes at this nursery ofArt. But Ivrea, like all the other Italian towns, has its history, itsglorious legend, which is never allowed to die, and the Carnival ofIvrea is the time chosen for representing the story and commemoratingthe tragic history of the local heroine. In the Middle Ages, Ivrea hadits feudal lord. The Count Arduino, as may be fancied from his name, wasa bold, bad man; he possessed the terrible _Droit de Seigneur_, whichhe 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 countordered her to present herself at the castle. The command of the feudallord could not be disobeyed. Bride and bridegroom, accompanied by theweeping crowd, proceeded to the castle gate. Count Arduino advanced tomeet her with a smile, unarmed and unattended. He was but claiming hisrights. As he stepped forward to salute her, she presented her cheek tohim, and suddenly stabbed him dead at her feet. The mob of relatives andfriends wrecked and burned the castle, massacring the retainers to aman. The brave young bride was safely escorted home, where the weddingfeast was triumphantly celebrated, and the miller's daughter lived to bethe happy mother of many children, and died at a good old age. Fromthat day the _Droit de Seigneur_ ceased to exist in Ivrea.
This is the origin of the yearly ceremony at the little Italian town. Apretty boy of seven or eight years of age is chosen by each parish. Theboys are dressed in fancy costumes and mounted on horses, escorted bythe general of the Carnival, who wears a black uniform, and accompaniedby his officers, who are clothed in scarlet. During the Carnival thetown is under the rule of the general and his officers. The party arereceived 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_), onhorseback, and escorted by the general and his officers, head aprocession, which passes through the town, and which is joined by allthe carriages of the place, filled with ladies in gala costume and menin fancy dresses. Everybody dresses up. Then are thrown from windows andbalconies, oranges, flowers, and real _confetti_, not the chalk_coriandoli_ of Milan, but good eatable sugar-plums. In the evening thelittle theatre is illuminated regardless of expense, a fabulous sumbeing expended on extra lamps. Between the acts the Carnival hymn issung by the whole strength of the company, the _Abba_ children, thegeneral and his officers, who appear upon the stage; and it is a _sinequa non_ that every one should wear the republican red cap, even the_Abba_ children and the lady artists. The more enthusiastic among theaudience, male and female, also sport the red cap of liberty. Secretedin 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 thebygone time when the tragedy took place, and now she is escorted by thegeneral of the Carnival to the footlights, a drum and fife bandpreceding her, the Carnival hymn is sung, vociferously encored andjoined in by the audience. The _Mugnaia_ now returns to the box in whichshe sits in royal state, the observed of all observers. Of course, sheis 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 isconcluded, a masked ball follows.
Next day, at seven a.m., in every parish the bride who was last marriedproceeds in procession to the Piazza of that parish, and with a malletshe indicates the place for the annual _scarlo_, or bonfire. She isaccompanied by her husband. The object of these _scarli_ is to manifestthe popular exultation at the annihilation of feudal tyranny. The pairnow return home, preceded by a drum and fife band, and escorted by anenthusiastic crowd singing songs of liberty at the full pitch of theirvoices.
At two o'clock, the general of the Carnival opens the public ball withthe _Mugnaia_. This is held in the Piazza Carlo Alberto, which is thelargest square in the town. The orchestra is placed in the centre of thesquare. Then there is a procession headed by the _Mugnaia_, seated on ascarlet velvet throne, and borne in a gilded car; then comes a militaryband, then the carriages filled with shouting masqueraders and ladies inelaborate toilettes; flowers, sweets, and oranges, are thrown withamazing prodigality as before. In the evening, again the opera, againthe masquerade. Next day the procession takes place again, and there isa public ball in the square till ten, then the _Abba_ of each parishsolemnly applies the light to his appointed _scarlo_. When the last_scarlo_ is burned out a funeral march is played and all disperse totheir homes. It may be mentioned that the _scarlo_ is not literally abonfire in our sense of the word, but what we should call a Venetianmast, bound with furze and inflammable material, decorated with gaudyribbons and surmounted by a flag.
It is not likely that the inhabitants of Ivrea, who thus commemorate herheroic deed, will ever forget their _Mugnaia_.
But we have wandered away from Papayani's, where the door wassurrounded by an enthusiastic crowd of the poorer among the gaypleasure-seekers of the Carnival. It was a rather trying thing for thearrivals as they stepped from their carriages and passed into thebuilding through a double line of sarcastic or appreciative critics sixdeep. A quiet brougham draws up at the entrance, the door is flung openby 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 exaggeratedhumility; and Haggard, in his faultless evening dress, steps out, with afrown upon his face, his big form towering above the puny Italian crowdas though he were a king of men in a horde of pigmies. He hands a ladyout; her pale blue silk domino hides her effectually from theinquisitive gaze of the crowd. Her tiny gloved hand clutches Haggard'sarm 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 ofthousands of dancing feet. The lady is discreetly masked, but though herpersonal identity is thoroughly disguised, she does not escape a fire ofcompliment from the appreciative ragamuffins on the pavement. "_Ah! cheragazza bel
lisima._" "_Che figlia incomparabile._" And as an antithesisto this flowery Italian praise, said one British 'Arry to anotherBritish 'Arry in the crowd, "Did you see her ankles, George? Do you knowwho that lady is?" Certainly the white satin dress of the Watteaucostume that the lady whom Haggard was escorting wore, disclosed anundeniable instep, and 'Arry's favourable criticism was not undeserved."I know one thing," said his friend, "there was no humbug in the singlestone brilliants she wore as ear-rings." The pair disappeared among theglittering 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, waslolling against one of the pillars of the _foyer_. He was criticizingthe arrivals to Lord Spunyarn, who yawned by his side, evidentlythinking the whole affair a bore.
"Our Haggard, my friend, is what you call an old fox, I fear. Who wasthe charming girl in the blue domino he was dancing with? I failed torecognize her. She is no _habitue_ here. He intrigues me, this Haggardof ours."
"Pooh!" replied the philosophic lord, as he drove an unusually largevolume of cigarette smoke through both nostrils; "some milliner'sapprentice probably, got up regardless of expense."
"No, my friend, the shepherdess was too well _chausee_ 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 abad 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, thisEnglish 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 enoughthat 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 enoughthat this man shall every morning sit down to breakfast with the lovelyMees 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 uncledoes 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 Iattain proficiency. You see it for yourself, no Englishman ever shallsuspect me, when we shall converse, of being other than a Briton. It isthe same thing with the charming Mees Lucy. I, a Frenchman, feel myheart beat in sympathy with hers; she is to me a _compatriote_. We speakto each other as I used to speak to Cascadette in those old happy times._Vlan ca y est._ This Haggard of yours he shall have his most beautifulwife, her most lovely cousin, but what shall he want with this littleshepherdess in the blue domino. Bah," said the indignant man as hestamps his foot and settles himself down into his enormous collar, "Isay 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. Barbichesuddenly threw himself into the attitude of an enraged and aggressivemonkey. "A ruffian, he strike me, P-r-r-r-r-r," and here M. Barbichesprang suddenly high in air, and with one adroit and well-directed kickknocked off the hat of the astonished Spunyarn.
In the tohu bohu at Papayani's this singular action of M. Barbicheexcited not the slightest surprise; he simply received a vociferousround of applause from the bystanders in his immediate neighbourhood.Excited by the success of his achievement, Barbiche for the momentforgot the Embassy, the Duc de la Houspignolle, and the proprieties; hehad been wound up by Papayani's music, and by more than one glass ofPapayani's champagne. The Frenchman became for the moment once more Lepetit Furibon, the darling of the Closerie de Lilas, the champion of theQuartier Latin, the Elisha upon whose worthy shoulders had descended themantle 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 themusic, and he regarded the dancers with a scrutinizing gaze; his eyeevidently sought Haggard and the mysterious shepherdess. As the ring ofmaskers which surrounded the space set apart for the dancers thinned, asnumerous couples joined in the waltz, the watchful Frenchman wasrewarded. "_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 andhis shepherdess. She nestled at his side, clinging to his arm and gazingup into his eyes. The hood of the pale blue silk domino was now thrownback, disclosing a magnificent head of powdered hair; the complexion ofthe lady's neck and shoulders was dazzling, and evidently natural; herrounded arms had more of the Venus than the Juno about them; herfigure, 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 silkmask with a heavy fall of lace hid every feature, save a rounded chinand a pair of magnificent eyes, which seemed to be pleading to Haggard,and the shell-like ears in which blazed the diamond solitaires which hadattracted the attention of the British "'Arry" in the street.
Haggard's face was suddenly lit up with pleasure, his arm slipped roundthe little waist, the left hand of the shepherdess was confidinglyplaced on the shoulder of her champion; they started and joined thenumerous pairs whirling round to the music of "Il Bacio." Soon thecouple excited attention, of which both seemed to be wholly unaware.Haggard, though he was a married man, was still a good dancer, and evenhere in a foreign ball-room, where, as a rule, the dancing Englishmanis an object of ridicule, he distinguished himself. For Haggard, unlikemost of the dancers present (at all events those of the male sex), wasperfectly sober; not that the proverbially moderate Italians hadexceeded in the use of their light but notoriously nasty wines, but anItalian easily becomes intoxicated, exalted, exhilarated, beside himselfunder the combined influences of a Carnival ball, the lights, theperfumes, 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 theFrench Embassy, once so well known as Le petit Furibon, of the LatinQuarter.
As the pairs gradually dropped out, Haggard and his partner became thecynosure of every eye. In vain did Pasquino whirl his Contadina with theruddled cheeks, varying his saltatory gymnastics with an occasionalscream; in vain did young Mr. Simon E. Brown, that very rough diamondfrom New York city, who had come to Europe for polish, and wasundergoing the process (in the costume of one of the Wise Men of Gothamwho went to sea in a bowl) at the hands of the Signorina Esperanza, ofthe Scala, or any of the motley crew, attempt to attract the publicgaze: every eye was riveted with admiration on the shepherdess, that isto say, every male eye; the female organs of vision turned from her indisgust, to admire or criticize her partner, and in the end to feeldissatisfied with their own peculiar victims. For if the maskedshepherdess turned the heads of most of those present, Haggard wasundeniably the best-looking man in the vast arena. But even thestrength of a muscular English dancing man must give way at length tothe power of an Italian waltz played fast at past midnight. As for hispartner, I believe she could have gone on for ever, but she hadperceived that they were attracting attention; she discreetly drew thehood of her pale blue silk domino over her head and hid herself in therecesses of that mysterious garment. As ill luck would have it, thepair 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 heindiscreetly poked his friend in the ribs.
"Ta ta, old man, I must be off," replied Haggard with a frown, as theshepherdess clung in evident trepidation to his arm. "For God's sake,Shirtings, take him away, or there'll be a row," muttered Haggard to hisfriend below his breath, his white teeth showing beneath his blackmoustache in a menacing manner.
The crowd of reve
llers was thick around them. Barbiche was, as we know,a gentleman, but our ideas of courtesy are not a Frenchman's, and, ashas been said before, he had ceased to be Mr. Barbiche the _viveur_, forthe moment he was Furibon, the daring Furibon of former days.
"_Saperlotte_," he hissed, and his out-stretched hand touched the paleblue domino on the shoulder.
The domino shrank as to avoid him.
Crash!
With one cruel but well-aimed blow Haggard smote the Frenchman in themouth, and down he went among the feet of the crowd of indignantmaskers.
"Look to him, Spunyarn," cried Haggard, as he hustled his way throughthe crowd, and in an instant disappeared, bearing in his arms thefainting form of the shepherdess.
_Vae victis_, alas for poor Furibon, where was his boasted skill as akicker? Why had he not sprung high in air and delivered his unexpectedassault? We must say of the _savate_ respectfully, as our Gallicneighbours said of the Balaclava charge, _c'est magnifique, mais cen'est pas la guerre_. Seated on the floor, the unfortunate Frenchmanpresented a piteous appearance, as he shed mingled tears of pain andrage, tore his hair, and wiped his cut lip. "_Insolente birbone!_""_Bestia!_" "_Cane!_" Such were the cries of the dancers on seeing theblow struck, but they were levelled not so much at the assailant as athis victim. In the eyes of the bystanders, Haggard was evidently lookedupon as the protector of beauty in distress. But as Valour bore offfainting Beauty, and made his suddenly triumphant exit, everybody'sattention was directed to the unhappy Furibon. A gentleman tearing hishair, in the eyes of Italians, is a common, interesting, and dignifiedobject. The cause of this performance is usually romantic, time andplace generally appropriate, but Italians do not tear their hair atmasked balls. As everywhere else, a foreigner in distress in Rome islooked upon as a grotesque object, and poor Barbiche was no exception tothe rule. At first he sat and wept, now he sat and swore, but all thetime he tore hard at his hair. Haggard had disappeared with the celerityof a harlequin who jumps through a trap.
Lord Spunyarn was somewhat bewildered; he, as a boxer, as an amateurthough unsuccessful athlete, knew what a good knock-down blow was; hehad seen them delivered, with varying degrees of energy, force, andviciousness, but never in all his lordship's experience till now had heseen a master-stroke which combined all the above qualities in thesuperlative degree. At last he got poor Furibon upon his legs. TheFrenchman carefully felt his front teeth, doubtful if they were stillthere, then he ceased to swear and to mutter in his own tongue; heceased to be Furibon, he became once more the correct M. Barbiche of theFrench Embassy.
"Milor, you have seen the insult. Monsieur Haggard takes advantage ofhis physique, of his brutal boxing skill, to maim me, perhaps, _MonDieu_, for life, and to render me an object of contempt and ridicule tothese grimacing apes," here he glowered at the laughing crowd.
"But, my dear boy, it was your own fault, you know; what did you wantto 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 shallteach 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; theFrenchman had been struck, the insult was in a public place; an apologyor arrangement was impossible. Spunyarn was well aware that Barbiche wasby no means an antagonist to be despised. He had been a journalist, acareer which in France may enable a man to attain the highest positions;from journalism he had drifted into diplomacy, as French journalistssometimes do. This was after his accession to the fortune of a deceaseduncle. Of course, he was skilled with the small-sword, as all Frenchjournalists are bound to be; his reputation with the pistol was equallydeadly.
"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 youwill act for him?"
"Don't know, I'm sure. I'm not up to these things, but I don't see whyyou should shoot each other over it."
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders as he stepped into hisperfectly-appointed but funereal-looking little brougham. As he drovehome he meditated on his wrongs, and in his heart of hearts he sworethat four-and-twenty hours should not elapse ere the insult should beavenged by his own skilful hand.