ITALY: The Big Party

In the lush old 18th Century, when Venice was all the world’s nightclub, the best parties of all were thrown at the Renaissance-style Palazzo Labia, just off the Grand Canal. To avoid the clatter of dishwashing at his fancier banquets, Host Labia frequently ordered his soiled gold tableware chucked into the canal at the end of each course. (The ugly gossip was that he had laid a stout fish net on the canal bottom beforehand.) The Labias and their dinnerware have long since passed into oblivion, but last week the Labia palace was all lit up again for the biggest binge cosmopolite café society had seen in a doge’s age.

A Card to the Count’s. The new host was dapper millionaire Don Carlos de Beistegui y Iturbi, a mysterious bachelor often called “The Count of Monte Cristo” by romantic gossipists. Months before the party, the international smart set whispered excitedly that the guest list would read like the Almanach de Gotha. To be invited to Don Carlos’ shindig became a distinction fervently desired by the gilded socialites of the continents. Black markets sprang up in most of the world’s fashionable capitals offering cards to the ball for as much as $500 each. Jacques Path, Dior and Valentina were busy for weeks ahead whipping up suitable 18th Century costumes.

Last week sleek yachts bobbed at anchor in Venice’s lagoon as the guests arrived, accompanied by a swarm of reporters, rubbernecks and still hopeful last-minute invitation seekers. Cinemactress Irene Dunne, arriving by air to attend the Venetian film festival, came ready with a special red velvet costume, just in case. It took the best efforts of Hollywood pressagentry to wangle her an invitation just an hour before the party began. Perle Mesta, reputedly bidless, told reporters firmly: “I want it understood that I am not going.”

Wondrously Magnified. By 10 p.m. of the great night, the canal in front of the palace was choked with gondolas and motorboats. Floodlights limned the arriving guests while gapers gawked from windows made available by neighboring palace owners at up to 80,000 lire a head. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor, among the invited, never showed up. Winston Churchill, vacationing at Lido, stayed home. The Aga Khan (in Venetian domino), Barbara Hutton (dressed as Mozart, at a reputed cost of $15,000), Prince and Princess Chavchavadze (whose noble name is pronounced like a sneeze), and practically everyone else who was anybody was there. Shortly before midnight, a flourish of trumpets sounded, and the guests (1,500 in all) were ushered into the great hall, where Host de Beistegui, in scarlet robes and long curling wig, towered over all, his normal height (5 ft. 6 in.) wondrously magnified by platform soles that raised him 16 inches higher.

Champagne, lobsters, ballets, minuets, rumbas, sambas, Charlestons and a troupe of acrobats diverted the guests in the palace until dawn. In the courtyard, lordly Don Carlos had provided a special party for the common folk, including soft drinks, which they paid for, a free Punch & Judy show, and a contest to see who could climb to the top of a greased pole. There was even some mingling between the two worlds. One reporter spotted Mme. Louis Arpels (her husband is the famed Paris jeweler) dancing with an open-shirted Venetian lad in the courtyard.

Some guests found time to reflect that the idle, wasteful rich in the Europe of 1951, just like the lavish Labias, faced oblivion. “I don’t think,” said the Aga Khan reflectively, toward the end of the evening, “that we will ever see anything like this again.”