Of all the Roman houses in which Irene visited, she most liked that of Count Primoli, who, during the season, entertained the whole of cosmopolitan Rome in his luxurious villa. Count Primoli was only half an Italian. Through his mother, a Princess Bonaparte, he was French, of which fact he was very proud. He was a delightful mixture of French wit and Italian gaiety and hospitality. Absolutely everyone went to his Wednesdays and Saturdays! The diplomatic world, famous Italian writers, French painters and journalists, celebrated singers, Indian princes, American millionaires, Russians, Swedes, and Englishmen. Romans of the higher circles visited him with pleasure, even though they disapproved of his cosmopolitanism. Count Primoli was undismayed by this disapproval, for he well knew what a service he was rendering to society.

Gloomy dullards never see anything in receptions and other social gatherings but frivolous distractions, necessary, perhaps, to youth, but positively reprehensible when indulged in by older people. In truth, however, balls and parties of every description are indispensable to all human beings and to the maintenance of their moral and mental health. A man who leads a solitary confined existence loses his equilibrium. He ceases to see things in their just perspective, exaggerates and misunderstands everything, looks at life tragically, and makes mountains out of mole-hills.

As soon as he leaves off isolating himself, comes in contact with other people, exchanges ideas with them, laughs and talks a little, his mental balance is restored, and the mountains become mole-hills again. Also, the more various are the people he meets, the more his mind broadens and develops. People who exclusively frequent their own immediate circles, be they aristocratic or otherwise, invariably grow dull and stupid. That is why the hospitable host who receives very mixed gatherings renders a great service to society—though society itself is short-sighted enough not to recognize this service.

To receive on a large scale is not as easy as people think. It by no means suffices to be rich and to issue invitations broadcast. The principal thing is to know how to receive one’s guests, an accomplishment attainable only on the two following conditions: Aristocratic extraction and love of humanity. At least three or four generations of well-born and wealthy people accustomed to social surroundings are needed for the production of a good host. Everyone who has been in the house of a nouveau riche knows that he felt, on that occasion, as though he were in a restaurant. The hosts did not know how to greet their visitors, nor how to introduce or unite them, so the latter ate and drank, and having witnessed what entertainment was provided for them, left, sometimes even forgetting to say good-bye to the hosts. A love of humanity is as indispensable to a good host as blue blood, and Count Primoli may be said to have been richly endowed with both these qualifications. He was a true “Grand Seigneur,” and knew how to make his guests feel at home. He sincerely loved them all, and wished to give them pleasure. There were some vulgar people who made fun of his charming cordiality. Had he forgotten to invite them, or had he treated them with lofty disdain, they would immediately have begun to respect him. Nice people, however, valued his kind heart, and took no notice of the silly anecdotes that rumour spread about him.

Like all ideal hosts, Count Primoli loved his beautiful villa, and never tired of improving it.

“Je veux que ma maison ne ressemble À nulle autre,” he said to his friends.

This was not easy to attain, since, in our day, it is hardly possible to invent anything really new or original. Thanks to railways, steamships, newspapers, and journals, life grows every day more level and commonplace. Almost all the world lives, eats, and dresses alike. The women of Greenland know the latest fashions as well as their Parisian sisters. The cannibals of Central Asia, imitating English lords, put on smoking-suits when they sit down to eat their roasted neighbours. The aristocratic drawing-rooms of Pekin are furnished like those of Madrid. Dinners, balls, receptions, are alike everywhere, and people travel from one end of the earth to the other noticing hardly any difference.

Count Primoli, however, managed to attain his object, and his receptions, once witnessed, were not easily forgotten.

Already, on driving up to the entrance of his villa, one felt a sense of gaiety and pleasure. The small covered courtyard was carpeted for the occasion and was decorated with flowers and the Bonaparte arms. A majestic outdoor servant, theatrically attired, received the carriages as they drove up. In the square hall, on each side of the door, stood rows of footmen, in long gold-embroidered satin tail-coats, knee breeches, white silk stockings, and buckled shoes, an original, old, and now extinct French fashion of dressing house-servants.

The costumes of these footmen, indeed, were so splendid, that many people were sure they must be original ancient liveries of the Bonaparte family, and ought to be in glass cases in a museum. Perhaps this was true; but it is nevertheless a fact that the liveries were much more effective and much more clearly remembered on the shoulders of footmen than they would have been had they been hidden in a museum. The guests, on arrival, felt that they had left their humdrum daily existence outside the door, and that they had entered the enchanted realms of fairyland. Like children who expect a Christmas-tree and surprises, they crossed the hall, with its wonderful arm-chairs of velvet and cloth of gold, and its enormous sofa, covered with fur rugs and decorated with masks from Greek tragedy. Then up the staircase, over the balustrade of which were thrown priceless brocades of all shades and colours, the walls being hung with Chinese embroideries and fans of peacock-feathers.

Upstairs, the elegant drawing-rooms, with their pink curtains and gilt furniture, were wonderful and interesting museums of Napoleonic souvenirs. Count Primoli honoured the memory of his famous great-uncle, Napoleon I., and carefully preserved all Napoleonic relics. There were masks and miniatures of the great Emperor, and other ancient family treasures, jewelled combs, fans, lace, snuff-boxes, letters, seals, and silhouettes. In a prominent place stood a large glass case, brilliantly illuminated, containing two dresses: one of green velvet, embroidered with gold, from the wardrobe of the Empress Josephine, and the other of lace over a pink foundation, the priceless robe of Marie Louise. At the side lay fans and satin slippers, to match the dresses. On the walls of the room were shelves, and on them signed photographs of the present-day members of the Bonaparte family.

Another remarkable and charming peculiarity of the villa was the wealth of flowers with which it was always decorated. Magnificent azaleas of all shades stood about everywhere, garlands of lilac were suspended from one chandelier to the other, and other garlands of hyacinths, roses, and violets, surrounded the glass cases, wound themselves round the shelves, and framed the looking-glasses.

“Quella fantasmorgia dei fiore!” laughed Roman Princesses and Countesses, as they entered. It is strange that Roman women, who are surrounded by flowers that grow in the open air all the year round, do not really care for them, and only decorate their rooms with them because it is the fashion, and because it pleases foreigners. Count Primoli, however, was a great lover of flowers, and so completely filled his villa with them that one grew faint with the sweetness of their overpowering fragrance. The air, indeed, was full of something romantic and reminiscent—one thought of old Italy and the Renaissance.

“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!”

Irene would have liked to console them with the answer that every singer, every actress, indeed every great talent is endowed by fate not only with wealth and success, but also with a profound capacity for suffering. No one can sing well, play well, or write well, without living through moments of the deepest pain and anguish. Every real talent has known times of torturing depression when the heart in its agony has cried out to God: “Why hast Thou forsaken me? What have I done that I should suffer so?”

And then, at the very darkest moment, suddenly, the veil is torn from their eyes! Truth, with her flaming torch, stands before them, and they understand that God sends them suffering to strengthen and ennoble their talent, that it may touch men’s hearts and show to tired wanderers on earth glimpses of heaven.

Having once grasped this fact, men and women of talent humbly bow their heads before God’s will. Uncomplainingly and nobly they bear the insatiable yearning that tears their souls, accepting success with indifference, since they know that their own personal fame is but a secondary matter, and plays but a minor part in their mission on earth.

Irene felt that there comes a moment in the life not only of every artist, writer, or musician, but also in that of every thinking human being, when nature asks him her great question: “Canst thou relinquish personal interests and help me in my work for humanity?” On his answer depends his soul’s serenity, the peace of his old age, and his faith in God and the justice of God’s ways. For should he indeed refuse, should he harden his heart against his brothers, a despair so boundless will take possession of his soul that there will be no escape or loophole but—suicide.

Irene wondered, with a shudder, what her own answer to the fateful question would be.