But although Romans love and respect their little ones, they never become the slaves of the children. On the contrary, it is the parents who are adored and deeply respected, the children seeing in them the principal representatives of their race. There are in Rome countless aged fathers and mothers who live in palaces and drive about in magnificent motor-cars, while their children struggle to make both ends meet, going about on foot and living in small flats. No one would ever dream of depriving his parents of anything for his own benefit, or for the sake of his children, as, alas! so often happens in Russia. This love of one’s race and one’s family is the foundation stone of Latin civilization. In the northern countries that have received their civilization through Christianity this love is not nearly so pronounced. Christianity does not encourage family interests, but, on the contrary, demands that all men should be brothers. Romans have succeeded in remaining deaf to these demands, and have kept their ancient Latin character. This is most noticeable in the Roman museums, where the types represented by the antique statues bear the most striking resemblance to modern Romans.
The Roman has remained true to the pagan passion for luxury and magnificence. Nowhere in the world can one see so many private carriages as in Rome. No self-respecting Roman goes about on foot. He must have a carriage to drive through the Corso, and, at the fashionable hour, on the Pincio. He does not care about the elegance of his horses or their harness, but his carriage must have red and yellow wheels, and his grooms must have smart liveries. In their deep-seated victorias fashionable Roman beauties lean back lazily under their enormous ostrich-plumed hats, their knees covered, not, as elsewhere, by a common traditional plaid travelling rug, but by a magnificent bear-skin or tiger-skin, the paws hanging down over the wheels.
The prices at the Costanzi Theatre are colossal. A box costs as much as £6; yet the opera is always crowded, and not only this, but the men appear in evening dress, and the ladies in low neck and diamonds! This southern cult of elegance and luxury, indeed, is in evidence everywhere. Roman women never wear everyday clothes. They always seem to be in fancy dress, appearing in fantastic bright scarlet, yellow, or green costumes, with golden caps and golden serpents. They all wear numerous necklaces, combs, buckles, brooches, mostly imitations of the antique, for which Roman jewellers are famous. This style of dress would be absurd in the North, but it suits the Roman beauties to perfection.
In spite of its paganism, however, Roman society nevertheless belongs to and is closely linked with the great family of social Europe from which Russia is hopelessly separated by centuries of culture. Irene was charmed to notice, for instance, how much universal sympathy and attention were lavished, in Roman social circles, on a foreign authoress, who was studying Roman life with a view to making it the subject of her next work. Everyone tried to help her; closed doors were opened for her, and meetings with interesting people were willingly arranged. Nobody troubled to find out whether she was talented or not, or whether her work would be translated into Italian. She had expressed a desire to work, and that was quite enough.
In the same way they helped an American, known in Europe as the Book King, to form his library. This American was a very representative example of a curious modern type produced, so far, only by the New World. Nobody knew where he had lived and what he had done in his youth. He had been born, so to say, at forty years of age, when, having made a fortune, he crossed the ocean, appeared in Paris, and announced his desire to form a library composed entirely of the works of contemporary writers, each volume to be autographed by the author, who must add a few words to explain what special idea he had intended to express in the work in question. The enterprising Yankee was profoundly ignorant, had never read anything at all, and had never heard of names known to all the world. Also he was as tactless as the majority of his compatriots; but, with true American insistence, he applied to everybody, pestered people pitilessly, and really ended by getting together a very interesting collection of books. It was his express desire that this collection should be sent to America, and should never again leave American soil; and yet, so great is Italian generosity, on the collector’s arrival in Rome everyone helped him by making out lists of Italian writers and by introducing him to literary people.
Involuntarily, while observing all these facts, Irene’s thoughts strayed back to her own country, where, alas! things were arranged very differently. With the exception of a very limited circle of people educated in the European fashion, all the rest of Russian society is nothing but a crowd of ignorant, lazy, uncivilized bears, who spend all their lives lying half-asleep in their dens, and sucking their paws. Woe, indeed, to him who may occasionally attempt to wish for something better than this beloved, national, loutish existence, or who may perhaps by chance not only have an idea, but also a vague desire to work at it! What a howl of displeasure and derision makes itself heard in all the dens! “What!” wail the bears, “renounce our idleness, and our laziness, and our true Russian eternal nagging and grumbling? How dares he! Murder! Treason! Cry him down! Kill him!”
All the rest of Europe has long been intelligent enough to understand that even the most microscopic effort, when added to other efforts, produces a total of labour that must be of use to all the world. Alas! It will be a very long time before the dull, stupid Russian bears are brought to understand even something so simple as this!
Irene was particularly attracted by Italian women. These charming creatures have neither nerves nor caprices. They are kind and amiable, they make friends easily, and they are ready to be of assistance to every foreigner they come across. Never once did Irene see, at Roman gatherings, anything resembling the anxious, world-worn expressions of the young girls who fill Petrograd drawing-rooms.
“Shall I ever meet my fate? Shall I have many children? Shall I be happy?” say their pale, sad, restless faces. Italian girls are bright and gay and happy. They delight in the sunshine, the flowers, and the springtime of their own lives. They have no need to fear the future, for they know that to Italian men love is as necessary as air. They will never, indeed, have to deal with miserable Petrograd worldlings, who may try as they will to squeeze a drop of tenderness out of their icy hearts, but will always die without having succeeded!