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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 listens gloomily to the stranger, but is not convinced. He is not consoled by the admission that his city is very original, and that every educated man ought to see it. He requires and expects love and admiration for his “Cara Roma,” the adored fair one, for whom he would willingly die. Irene envied the Romans this fervour and the love of home which forced all inhabitants, before temporarily leaving the city, to drink of the water of the famous Fontana Trevi, and throw a coin into the fountain—superstitiously assuring themselves by this means that they would safely return. No other nation in the world has invented such a poetic superstition as this.

Being a pagan, it follows that the Roman is the most loving of fathers and the most dutiful of sons. As he knows nothing about Christianity or love and charity towards his neighbour in the broad sense, he laughs at such ideas as absurdities, and gives all the love of his heart to his own family. On public holidays, fathers are everywhere to be seen leading by the hand tiny children in their Sunday frocks, treating them to chocolate and cakes at the fashionable confectioners, and talking caressingly with them. Or else one meets young married couples, accompanied by nurses who, with airs of vast importance, carry on cushions three-weeks-old infants, concealed under clouds of lace. Babies are not hidden away in back rooms, as in other countries. From the moment of their birth, children have their rights and privileges, and, in the arms of their nurses, receive visitors!

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!

Irene was quite astonished at herself for finding Italian society so attractive. She, a stranger, speaking another language, holding another faith, felt quite at home in its circles. She looked back with a shudder at the old days in Petrograd, and at the bitter sense of resentment and irritation with which she had invariably returned home from all social gatherings. Here, Irene delighted in those exquisite sensual entertainments, with their music, their singing, their recitations. On leaving them, she loved to take deep breaths of the balmy night air, feeling that soft sense of luxury that a tired wanderer experiences on getting into a warm, fragrant bath. “How am I to explain all this?” wondered Irene.

Alas! Like most of us, Irene did not know herself. It never occurred to her that since her earliest childhood she had never been anything but a pagan. Whereas, however, Roman paganism was hereditary and the result of centuries of voluntary enslavement to antique culture and its ideals, Irene’s paganism was simply a morbid disease. Like sufferers from progressive paralysis, who gradually sink into a state of primitive bestiality, so a diseased soul not only cannot develop, but cannot even maintain itself on a level with its contemporaries, and invariably slips back to the ideals of a past civilization.