ses are full of noise and light; there
is dancing and shouting and fighting. On the ground floors, in the low
rooms, women in filmy attire sit on the benches that line the
white-washed walls lighted by an oil lamp; others, in the doorway,
beckon to you, and their animated faces stand out in relief on the
background of the lighted resort, from which issues the sound of
clinking glasses and coarse caresses. You can hear the kisses which fall
on the opulent shoulders of the women and the laughter of the girl who
is sitting on some tanned sailor's lap, her unruly locks slipping from
under her cap and her bare shoulders issuing from her chemise. The
street is thronged, the place is packed, the door is wide open, anybody
who wishes may go in. Men come and peep through the windows or talk in
an undertone to some half-clad creature, who bends eagerly over their
faces. Groups stand around and wait their turn. It is all quite informal
and unrestrained.

Being conscientious travellers, and desiring to see and study everything
at close range, we entered.

In a room papered in red, three or four girls were sitting at a round
table, and a man with a cap on his head and a pipe in his mouth was
reclining on the sofa; he bowed politely when we entered. The women wore
Parisian dresses and were modest in their demeanour. The mahogany
furniture was covered with red plush, the floor was polished and
engravings of battles decorated the walls. O Virtue! you are beautiful,
for very stupid is vice. The woman who was sitting by my side had hands
which were sufficient in themselves to make a man forget her sex, and
not knowing how to spend our time we treated the whole company to
drinks. Then I lighted a cigar, stretched out on the divan, and, sad and
depressed, while the voices of the women rose shrilly and the glasses
were being drained, I said to myself:

Where is she? Where can she be? Is she dead to the world, and will men
never see her again?

She was beautiful, in olden times, when she walked up the steps leading
to the temple, when on her shell-like feet fell the golden fringe of her
tunic, or when she lounged among Persian cushions, twirling her collar
of cameos and chatting with the wise men and the philosophers.

She was beautiful when she stood naked on the threshold of her _cella_
in the street of Suburra, under the rosin torchlight that blazed in the
night, slowly chanting her Campanian lay, while from the Tiber came the
refra