Little by little, however, Irene let herself be drawn into the whirl of Italian social life. Italian society is one of the most interesting and delightful societies in the world. It is indeed impossible not to love these charming, sympathetic, gay, splendidly accomplished and witty Southerners. What a difference between their sparkling and brilliant receptions, and the dull, heavy entertainments of Petrograd! Nowhere in Rome did Irene meet those gloomy, silent figures that wander forlornly about Petrograd drawing-rooms, only waiting for supper. They do not exist in Italy, neither does the supper. At the most brilliant receptions, there is never more than one table for light refreshments, tea, ices, wines, lemonade. Most of the guests, however, never even approach this table, but[195] prefer, on returning home, to drink a glass of cold water, of the purity of which Romans are prouder than of the Colosseum or the Forum. They go to receptions, not for the sake of eating and drinking, but rather for laughter and flirtation and brilliant conversation. At almost every social gathering there is music and recitation. Everybody recites: poets, poetesses, and ordinary mortals. The Italian language, especially as spoken in Rome, is so musical that the recitations give pleasure even to foreigners who do not understand their meaning. There is great variety in this fashionable art. An old poet rises, requests that most of the lights may be extinguished, takes an effective attitude, and begins, with theatrical intensity, to raise and to lower his voice, rather, indeed, to sing than to speak. He is listened to with attention, but the younger generation smiles: “The old school,” it whispers disdainfully.
He is followed by a young representative of modern ideas, a North Italian poetess, on a visit to Rome. She is dressed in decadent green draperies (that suit her perfectly, by[196] the way!), and to the accompaniment of angular, decadent gestures, she begins to recite her lines, simply, and in a natural voice. The simplicity is studied, to the point of becoming almost a mannerism. The young people, however, are delighted, especially the men, who gaze with undisguised pleasure at the beautiful poetess.
But suddenly there steps into the centre of the room a young girl amateur, the daughter of a Roman prefect. She recites some verses by d’Annunzio. This is neither the old nor the new school, but simply a burning young Italian soul, and the charming, unaffected sincerity of her art is rewarded by storms of applause.
To singing or piano-playing Italians listen with even still greater attention. No one talks, but each listener seems lost in rapture. No one who can perform hesitates or affectedly waits to be asked half a dozen times; on the contrary, everyone is burning to show off his talent. They enjoy their own performances, and, inspired by the almost religious attention of their hearers, sing more gloriously[197] than would ever be possible in the chilly North.
Art, indeed, and the worship of beauty, is the only religion of the Romans. “Art for art’s sake,” they declare, as they laugh at modern realistic literature.
“Every time we attempt to represent some inward struggle,” complained a famous Italian lady novelist to Irene, “the critics hold us up to ridicule, and say we are imitating Russian writers!”
To tell a Roman writer that his work is pervaded by a Christian spirit is to offend him deeply. He has only one ideal: his verses or his prose must as nearly as possible resemble antique art. The true Roman has a profound contempt for Christianity, a religion, in his eyes, suited only to slaves and low menials, and not to nobler natures. The Roman is a pagan, and is proud of the fact. Nineteen centuries have passed unnoticeably for him. The Eternal City, with its antique ruins, and its ancient associations, holds him enchained. In Northern Italy new ideas, new tendencies, may be possible—but[198] Rome will remain pagan for ever. Perhaps, indeed, this may explain the strong impression Rome produces on many foreigners. There are, in the world, many pagans, on whom life in Christian lands weighs heavily. They have to take part in conversations about love, about unselfishness, about kindness to one’s neighbours, etc., and, being honourable characters, this enforced hypocrisy causes them much mental torment. In Rome, where everyone is frankly pagan, and not in the least ashamed of the fact, they feel like fishes in water, and often settle there for the rest of their lives.
Most humorous of all is the fact that all this pagan world lives in the shadow of the Papal throne. In the eyes of Romans, however, the Pope has never been the High-Priest of Christ on earth. He is simply the Pontifex Maximus, and does not even wish anyone to regard him in any other light. Romans, indeed, make a point of disillusioning every religiously inclined foreigner they come across by laughing at him and holding his pious ideas up to ridicule. If he returns[199] in a reverent mood from a visit to the tomb of St. Peter, they hasten to inform him that, according to historical evidence, the Apostle Peter had never been in Rome, and that his place of burial is unknown. As to the Apostle Paul and other Christian martyrs, their bones were exhumed and their ashes thrown to the winds at the time of the Barbarian invasion.
Romans make jokes about their miraculous images, laugh at miracles, relate indecent stories about cardinals, priests, and monks, and present caricatures of them on the stage. No wonder, indeed, that many pious pilgrims have lost their faith in Rome.
Among the many completely pagan superstitions that are still extant in Roman society, the most notoriously absurd is that in connection with so-called Jetatori. Irene had heard of this superstition while yet in Russia, but had thought that it was in vogue solely among the ignorant lower classes of Naples. What then was her astonishment on coming across it in the most enlightened circles of Roman society! If a Roman passes an acquaintance in the street without[200] noticing him and bowing, or if he fails to invite him to one of his parties, the offended one revenges himself by announcing the other to be a Jetator. Thereupon, society, immediately, as one man, turns its back on the latter! If by some chance, and in the face of public opinion, some specially fearless soul invites a Jetator to a reception, no one dreams of speaking to him, it is considered dangerous even to look at him, and heaven forbid, indeed, that one should be obliged to sit next to him! No one even mentions him, as the very sound of his name is supposed to bring misfortune. Only great wealth and high rank can save any Roman from falling under this ban. Saddest of all, however, is the fact that the wife and children and all the relations of the Jetator share his evil influence, and, therefore, his hard fate. Irene once happened to meet, at a luncheon party, the accidentally invited wife of a Jetator. Two ladies, who had been obliged to sit next to the evil one, were taken seriously ill on the same day, one with her customary liver complaint, and the other with[201] a severe cold, having gone out too soon after an attack of influenza! Both cases were, of course, attributed to the unfortunate woman, to whom, after this occurrence, every door in Rome was closed with redoubled vigilance.
Irene was astonished to find that this superstition was shared also by the majority of the foreigners in Rome, who seemed to become infected by it on their arrival, and were cured only on their departure from the Eternal City. Such a peculiarity can only be explained by the almost unbearable force of the impression that Rome makes on most strangers. In all the rest of our contemporary great cities, we live in the twentieth century. On arriving in Rome, we are suddenly plunged into the very heart of antiquity, then rushed, without a moment’s warning, into the Middle Ages, with their Vatican, their churches, their convents, and their palaces, or flung into the whirlpool of the most brilliant and fashionable modernity. All these elements are bound up together, and one passes from one to the other in a day. The human mind is incapable of such an immense effort, becomes[202] unbalanced, and is ready to accept and believe the wildest nonsense.
Another pagan feature in the Roman character is the extraordinary attachment of all Romans to their native city. The first question that is put to every stranger on his arrival is: “Do you like Rome?” and woe to the simple-minded foreigner who answers in the negative! The dark eyes of the incredulous Roman sparkle with indignation and astonishment, which gradually give place to a pitying contempt for the ignorant simpleton! In vain the latter tries to atone for his mistake by remarking that he does not dislike Venice or Florence. This does not touch or interest the Romans at all. In spite of a superficial union, Italy consists, as much as ever, of a number of separate states. Admiration of Venice or Naples can only offend a Roman. The stranger tries hard to explain that it is impossible to admire a town that is entirely lacking in harmony, and in which the modern buildings erected by the government nearly give one convulsions, such an eyesore is their dazzling whiteness on the background of the[203] yellow, ancient city. He repeats in vain that being accustomed, at home, to broad, well-lighted avenues, he cannot but regard with disgust the narrow, dark alleys of the ancient quarters of Rome, while, being used to clear air and constantly watered streets, he is still more profoundly disgusted at the clouds of that particularly objectionable yellow dust that rise with every gust of wind blowing over Rome.
The Roman listen............