“When is it possible to read the Corriere della Sera?” asked the leading composer of Donna Clara again, with the shamelessness of a great man. “It’s the most authoritative newspaper in Italy, isn’t it, madame?”
“They say so anyway,” Donna Clara smilingly replied, “But till tomorrow morning . . .”
“They print it during the night, don’t they, madame?”
“Yes, it comes out in the morning. But I think I can assure you that it will carry a sort of panegyric. They tell me that the critic, Maestro Frati, looked considerably shaken.”
“Oh, that’s exaggerating, I think.” He tried to think out a compliment. “Madame, this is an evening with the grandeur and happiness that belong to some kinds of dream. . . . Ah, that reminds me, there’s another paper . . . the Messaro, if I am not mistaken . . .”
“The Messaro?” Donna Clara did not understand.
“The Mesaggero, perhaps?” Dr. Hirsch suggested.
“Yes, yes, I mean the Messaggero!”
“But the Messaggero is a Roman paper!”
“But it has sent its critic, just the same,” announced somebody whom nobody knew, in a triumphant tone of voice; and brought out a French sentence which made history. Grossgemuth was the only one who did not seem to realize what a pearl it was. “Maintenant il est derrière a téléphoner son reportage!”
“Ah, thank you. I shall look forward to seeing the Messaggero tomorrow,” said Grossgemuth, leaning toward Donna Clara, to explain: “You see, it’s a Roman newspaper, after all.”
At this point the Artistic Director intervened to offer Grossgemuth, in the name of the Governors of the Scala, a gold medal in a blue satin case, on which was inscribed the date and title of the opera. There followed the usual protestations and thanks of the guest of honor, and for a few moments the massive composer seemed really moved. Then the case was handed to Donna Clara. She opened it in admiration, smiled ecstatically and whispered to the maestro: “Beautiful! But that’s silver gilt, unless I’m much mistaken!”
The attention of most of the guests was directed elsewhere. They were concerned about a massacre which had nothing to do with the Innocents. That the Morzi were expected to attack was no longer the secret of a few well-informed souls. By now the rumors had circulated sufficiently to reach people with their heads in the clouds, such as Maestro Claudio Cottes. But deep down very few people believed it. “The police have been reinforced again this month. There are more than twenty thousand policemen in the city alone. And then there are the carabinieri . . . and the army . . .” they were saying.
“The army! But who can be sure what the troops will do at the vital moment? Would they fire if they were given the order?”
“I talked to General De Matteis only the other day. He said he could answer for the morale of his troops . . . of course the weapons are not suitable . . .”
“Suitable for what?”
“For operations of public safety . . . they need more tear gas . . . and then he said that there was nothing better than cavalry for this sort of thing. . . . But what’s the use of cavalry nowadays? . . . it’s quite harmless, just makes a great din . . .”
“Listen, dear, wouldn’t it be better to go home?”
“Home? Why go home? Do you think we’d be any safer at home?”
“For Heaven’s sake, signora, don’t let’s exaggerate. We must first wait and see if it happens, and if it does, it’ll happen tomorrow, or the day after . . . a revolution never breaks out at night . . . with the houses locked . . . and the streets deserted . . . why, it would be a gift for the police . . .”
“Revolution! Mercy on us, did you hear, Beppe? . . . That gentleman said that there’s a revolution . . . Beppe, tell me what we ought to do! But wake up, Beppe, you’re standing there like a mummy!”
“Did you notice? By the third act there wasn’t a soul in the Morzi’s box.”
“There wasn’t anyone in the Chief Constable’s or the Prefect’s either, old man, and the army’s box was empty too . . . even their womenfolk had gone . . . a general exodus . . . seems to have been an order.”
“Ah, the Prefecture’s wide awake . . . they’re in the know . . . there are Government informers even in the Morzi rank and file.”
And so on. In their heart of hearts all of them would have preferred to be home. But they dared not leave. They were afraid of feeling alone, of the silence, of the lack of news as they lay smoking in bed, waiting for the first outbreak of shouting. As long as they were with so many well-known and official people, and in a nonpolitical environment, they felt almost protected, on inviolable territory, as if the Scala were a diplomatic building. How could all this gay old world, noble and civilized and still so solid, be swept away at a single stroke, with so many outstanding men, so many lovely, cultivated women?
A little later, with a worldly cynicism which he found in very good taste, Teodoro Clissi gave a delightful description of what everybody was afraid would happen. Not without reason, some thirty years earlier, had he been nicknamed “the Italian Anatole France.” He was still in good health, with the rosy face of a withered cherub, and had two gray moustaches modeled on an old-fashioned idea of an intellectual.
“First phase,” he said, assuming the pompous tone of authority, and holding his left thumb with the fingers of the right hand, as if he were teaching numbers to children: “First phase: occupation of the so-called nerve center of the city . . . and let us hope it is not already far advanced,” laughingly consulting his wristwatch. “Second phase, dear friends: the elimination of hostile elements . . .”
“My God,” gasped Mariú Gabrielli, the financier’s wife. “My children, alone, at home!”
“No children, dear lady, have no fear,” said Clissi. “They are after big game; no children, only adults, and well-developed ones at that!”
He laughed at the jest.
“And isn’t the nurse with them anyway?” exclaimed the beautiful Ketti Introzzi, in her usual stupid way.
The conversation was interrupted by a voice both fresh and petulant.
“Excuse me, Clissi, but do you think these stories are really amusing?”
It was Liselore
