“Quand je vais chez le Comte Primoli,” said a foreign lady once, “j’ai toujours envie de parler en vers, et de demander un sorbet aux domestiques”—and there were many who shared this impression.
The crowd at these receptions was always composed of the most varied cosmopolitan elements. There was the Chinese Ambassador, who, having but yesterday cut off his “pigtail,” had thrown off his flowered robe, and wore European dress clothes with the ease and chic of a London clubman. There was the American Ambassador, whose quiet dignity stood out in relief against the noisy vulgarity of his numerous compatriots. There were members of all the Embassies with their wives, the latter attired, according to the custom of luxurious Rome, in beautiful Paris dresses, low-necked, and even in some cases set off by wonderful diamond ornaments or tiaras. All Western women consider themselves queens, and by no means object to sometimes wearing crowns, as a sign of their high rank.
Loveliest of all, however, was the Russian singer L⸺, recently arrived in Rome to fulfil an engagement at the Costanzi theatre. Perfectly dressed, and wearing wonderful pearls, she was modest, dignified, and charming. The arrival of the famous French painter, Carolus Duran, was greeted by exclamations from all sides: “Comment allez-vous, cher maître? Quel bonheur de vous voir!” But, as was to be expected from a painter, the great Frenchman was immediately attracted by the beautiful singer; and the latter, having previously announced that she never sang in private houses, offered, on learning that the charming and universally beloved old man had never heard her, to make an exception for his benefit. The painter was so sympathetic and irresistible, that no one was surprised at her wish to sing to him. He was, indeed, the personification of all that is best in France: industrious democracy, firm principles, and profound belief in God and in the triumph of right and justice.
An excellent tenor and an experienced accompanist, never very far away in Rome, were immediately forthcoming. They disappeared for a moment with Madame L⸺, and then returned to the principal drawing-room, into which all the visitors crowded to admire and enjoy what was sure to be an exquisite performance.
The artists sang excerpts from “Traviata” and “Tosca,” and, as her last number, Madame L⸺ gave some Russian melodies.
The applause was rapturous. With remarkable warmth and kindness, many of the listeners congratulated not only L⸺ herself, but also all the other Russians who happened to be present. For the first time in her life, Irene realized that it was possible to be proud of someone else’s success.
“These foreigners,” observed the Bulgarian Minister to Irene, in perfect Russian, “always imagine that we Slavs live on tallow candles. It is good to be able to show them what our songs are like, and our singers and our national Slavonic genius.”
While listening to L⸺, Irene had observed the public, and had noticed many envious glances levelled at the singer. “Why should she have everything?” they seemed to say—“beauty, talent, splendid dresses, and jewels!”