Group after group enters, bows to the countess, and passes on among the flowers: the Countess Navascoes (with her lord), pale, statuesque, dark-eyed, raven-haired—a type of Italian womanhood; Marchesa Manzi—born of the noble house of Buoncampagni—looking as if she had walked out of a picture by Titian; the Da Gia, separated from her husband—a little habit, this, of Italian ladies, consequent upon intimacy with the jeunesse dorée, who prefer the wives of their best friends to all other women—it saves trouble, and a "golden youth" is essentially idle. This little habit, moreover, of separation from husbands does not damage the lady in the least; no one inquires what has happened, or who is in the wrong. Society receives and pets her just the same, and, quite impartial, receives and pets the husband also.—Luisa Bernardini, a glowing little countess, as plump as an ortolan, dimpling with smiles, an ugly old husband at her side—comes next. It is whispered, unless the ugly old husband is blind as well as deaf, they will be separated, too, very shortly. Young Civilla, a "golden youth," is so very pressing. He could live with Luisa at Naples—a cheap place. They might have gone on for years as a triangular household—but for Civilla's carelessness. Civilla would always put out old Bernardini about the dinner. (Civilla dined at Bernardini's house every day, as he would at a café.) Now, old Bernardini did not care a button that his little wife had a lover; it would not have been en règle if she had not—nor did he care that his wife's lover should dine with him every day—not a bit—but old Bernardini is a gourmand, and he does care to be kept waiting for his dinner. He has lately confided to a friend, that he should be sorry to cause a scandal, but that he must separate from his wife if Civilla will not reform in the matter of the dinner-hour. "He is getting old," Bernardini says, "and his digestion suffers." No man keeps a French cook to be kept waiting for his dinner.
Luisa, who looks the picture of innocence, wears an unexceptionable pink dress, with a train that bodes ill-luck, and many apologies, to her partners. A long train is Luisa's little game. (Spite of Civilla, she has many other little games.) Fragments of the train fly about the room all the evening, and admirers take care that she shall see these picked up, fervently kissed, and stowed away as relics in breast-pockets. One enthusiast pinned his fragment to his shoulder, like an order—a knight of San Luisa, he called himself.
Teresa Ottolini, with her mother, has just arrived. Being single, Teresa either is, or affects to be, excessively steady; no one would marry her if she were not—not even the good-natured Orsetti. Your Italian husband in futuro will pardon nothing in his wife that may be—not even that her dress should be conspicuous, much less her manners. Neither is it expedient that she should be seen much in society. That dangerous phalanx of "golden youth" are ever on the watch, "gentlemen sportsmen," to a man; their sport, woman. If she goes out much these "golden youth" might compromise her. Less than a breath upon a maiden's name is social death. That name must not be coupled with any man's—not coupled even in lightest parlance. So the lady waits, waits until she has a husband—it is more piquant to be a naughty wife than a fast miss—then she makes her choice—one, or a dozen—it is a matter of taste. Danger is added to vice; and that element of intrigue dear to the Italian soul, both male and female. The jeunesse dorée delight in mild danger—a duel with swords, not pistols, with a foolish husband. Why cannot he grin and bear it?—others do.
But to return to Teresa. She is courtesying very low to the Countess Orsetti. Although it is well known that these ladies hate each other, Countess Orsetti receives Teresa with a special welcome, kisses her on both cheeks, addresses more compliments to her, and makes her more courtesies than to any one else. How beautiful she is, the Ottolini, with those white flowers twisted into the braids of her chestnut hair!—those large, lazy eyes, too—like sleeping volcanoes!—Count Orsetti thinks her beautiful, clearly; for, under the full battery of his mother's glances, he advances to meet her, blushing like a girl. He presses Teresa's hand, and whispers in her ear that "she must not forget her promise about the cotillon. He has lived upon it ever since." Her reply has apparently satisfied him, for the honest fellow breaks out all over into smiles and bows and amorous glances. Then she passes on, the fair Teresa, like a queen, followed by looks of unmistakable admiration—much more unmistakable looks of admiration than would be permitted elsewhere; but we are in Italy, where men are born artists and have artistic feelings.
The men, as a rule, are neither as distinguished looking nor as well dressed as the women. The type of the Lucchese nobleman is dark, short, and commonplace—rustic is the word.
There is the usual crowding in doorways, and appropriation of seats whence arrivals can be seen and criticised. But there is no line of melancholy young girls wanting partners. The gentlemen decidedly predominate, and all the ladies, except Teresa Ottolini and the Boccarini, are married.
The Marchesa Boccarini had already arrived, accompanied by her three daughters. They are seated near the door leading from the first saloon, where Countess Orsetti is stationed. In front of them is a group of flowering plants and palm-trees. Madame Boccarini peers through the leaves, glass in eye. As a general scans the advance of the enemy's troops from behind an ambush, calculates what their probable movements will be, and how he can foil them—either by open attack or feigned retreat, skirmish or manoeuvre—so Madame Boccarini scans the various arrivals between the dark-green foliage.
To her every young and pretty woman is a rival to her daughters; if a rival, an enemy—if an enemy, to be annihilated if possible, or at least disabled, and driven ignominiously from the field.
It is well known that the Boccarini girls are poor. They will have no portions—every one understands that. The Boccarini girls must marry as they can; no priest will interest himself in their espousals. It was this that made Nera so attractive. She was perfectly natural and unconventionally bold—"like an English mees," it was said—with looks of horror. (The Americans have much to answer for; they have emancipated young ladies; all their sins, and our own to boot, we have to answer for abroad.)
The Boccarini were in reality so poor that it was no uncommon thing for them to remain at home because they could not afford to buy new dresses in which to display themselves. (Poor Madame Boccarini felt this far more than the girls did themselves.) To be seen more than thrice in the same dress is impossible. Lucca is so small, every one's clothes are known. There was no throwing dust in the eyes of dear female friends in this particular.