LONDON: HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.
CHAPTER I.
Departure from Florence—The Vettura—Inn among the Apennines—General aspect of towns in Romagna—Causes of their decay—Austrian officers at Forli—Dangers of the road—First impressions of Ancona
Description of the Palazzo—An English family, though Italian born—Complimentary visits of the Anconitan nobility—How they pass their time—Dislike to country walks—Modern Cavaliere Servente
A marriage in high life—Wedding outfit—The first interview—Condition of single women—The laws of courtship—Dependence of young married people—Anecdotes of mothers-in-law
System pursued towards children—Results of Jesuit training—Anecdotes of the Sacré Cœur—A Contessina just out of the convent—Difficulty of giving a liberal education to young nobles—No profession open to them but the Church—Their ignorance and idleness
The middle classes—Superior education of the men—Low standard of female intellect and manners—Total separation from the nobility—Cultivated physician—A peep into his household—Family economy—Conversazione at the chemist's—Passion for gambling—The caffè
Prejudice against fires—General dilapidation of dwelling-houses—A lady's valet de chambre—Kindness towards servants—Freedom of intercourse with their masters—Devotedness of Italians to the sick—Horror of death—Funerals—Mourning
Festivals of the Madonna—The Duomo—Legend of San Ciriaco—Miraculous Picture—Course of sermons by Padre G———General irreligion of the Anconitans—Ecclesiastical tribunal of 1856—The Sacconi
Political condition of Ancona—Arrogance of the Austrian General—Strictness of the martial law—A man shot on the denunciation of his wife—Application of the stick—Republican excesses—Proneness to assassination—Infernal Association in 1849
Execution of a criminal—Sympathy for his fate—The Ghetto—Hardships of the Jews—The case of the Mortara child not without precedent—Story of the Merchant and his niece
Volunnia's inquisitiveness—Her strictures on English propriety—The Marchesa Silvia's dread of heretics—The dinner—The Marchesa Gentilina knits stockings and talks politics
A conversazione verbatim—Admiration for Piedmont—An attack of banditti—The Marchesa describes the actual wretchedness of the country—Cardinal Antonelli's addition to the calendar year—Monopoly of the corn trade—Entrance of the Knight of Malta
Conversazione continued—Match-making—The Codini opposed to travelling—Hopes of the liberals centred in Piedmont—Volunnia's pleasantries—Story of the young noble and his pasteboard soldiers
Unwillingness of the Italians to speak on serious topics—Indifference of the majority to literature—Reasons for discouraging the cultivation of female intellect—The Marchesa Gentilina relates her convent experiences—Admiration of English domestic life
From Ancona to Umana—Moonlight view—The country-house—Indifference of the Anconitans to flowers and gardening—Ascent of the mount—Magnificent prospect at sunrise—Trappist convent
The bishop's palace at Umana—Inroad of beggars—The grotto of the slaves—The physician's political remarks—Approach to Loretto—Bad reputation of its inhabitants—Invitation from the Canonico
The Santa Casa—Pilgrims—The treasury—Exquisite statues and bassi-rilievi—Chocolate at the Canonico's—La Signora Placida—A survey of the house—The rich vestments
Visit to the Carmelites at Jesi—Our joyous reception—The casino and theatre—Infractions of convent discipline—The dinner near the sacristy—In company with the friars we visit the nuns
The writer's motive for not having dwelt minutely on political or historical subjects—Antiquity of Ancona—Its reputation under the Roman Empire—Its celebrated resistance to the Emperor Frederic Barbarossa—Stratagem employed by its deliverers—Continues to be a free city till 1532, when it is surprised by Gonzaga, General of Pope Clement VII., and subjected to the Holy See—Flourishes under Napoleon—Restoration of the Papacy—Pontifical possessions—Explanation of the terms, Legations and Romagna—Bologna conquered in 1506, by Julius II., but retains a separate form of government—Ferrara, Urbino, &c.—Dates of their annexation
Injudicious policy of the Government at the Restoration—Non-fulfilment of the Motu proprio of Pius VII.—Disappointment of the pontifical subjects—Inability of Cardinals Consalvi and Guerrieri to contend against the narrow views of their colleagues—Reasons of Austria's animosity against the former—Guerrieri's projected reforms bring about his fall—The constitutional movement of 1820-21—Its effect in the Papal States—Abuse of Consalvi's instructions—Extreme political rigour under Leo XII.—Distracted condition of the country—The Sanfedisti rising of 1831—First Austrian army intervention in Romagna—Conferences at Rome—Mr Seymour's protest—Fresh disturbances in the Legations—The Austrians again occupy Bologna—The French land at Ancona—The reign of Gregory XVI.
Accession of Pius IX.—The amnesty—His unbounded popularity—His reforms and concessions—Disasters entailed by the French Revolution—The encyclical of the 29th April—Revulsion of feeling—The Mazzinians gain ground—Austrian intrigues—Assassination of Count Rossi—The Pope's flight to Gaeta—Efforts of the Constitutionalists to bring about an accommodation—The republic is proclaimed in Rome—Excesses in Ancona and Senigallia—Moderation of the Bolognese—Their courageous resistance to General Wimpffen—Siege of Ancona—Extreme severities of the victors
Rome subjugated by the French—Leniency of General Oudinot—Rigour of the Pope's Commissioners—Investigation into the opinions of Government employés—Disfavour of the Constitutionalists—The Pope's edict and second amnesty—He returns to his capital, April, 1850—Bitter disappointment of the Romans—Count Cavour's appeal to the Congress of Paris on their behalf—The Papal progress in 1857—Public feeling at the opening of 1859—Excitement in the Pontifical States at the outbreak of the war—The Austrians evacuate Bologna—Establishment of a Provisional Government—The revolt spreads through the Legations—Ancona loses the favourable moment—Declares itself too late—Approach of the Swiss troops from Perugia and Pesaro—Capitulates to General Allegrini—Arbitrary proceedings of General Kalbermatten—The Gonfaloniere—His mendacious addresses to the Pope—Misery of Ancona—Contrast presented by the Legations
The English community of Nice—A pleasant meeting—The Corniche road—The smallest sovereignty in the world—An oppressive right of the prince—Rumoured negotiation—Rencontre with pilgrims—An old Genoese villa—A Piedmontese dinner—The culture of lemon trees—Piedmontese newspapers—The towers of the peasantry—Cultivation of the olive and the fig-tree—Popular mode of fishing
Excursion to Ventimiglia—The Duomo—Visit to a convent—La Madre Teresa—Convent life—A local archæologist—Cities of the coast—The presents of a savant—End of a pleasant visit
A glance at Turin in 1858—The progress of Sardinia—Exhibition of national industry—Productions of Piedmont—Appearance of the Piedmontese—Railway enterprise—Progress in machinery
Turin in 1858—Partisans of the old régime—The native Protestants—The conservative party—Their hostility to Cavour—Clerical intolerance—The fashionable promenade—Turinese characteristics—The Piedmontese dialect—A marriage in high life
The House of Savoy—Its warlike princes—The Green Count—Prostration of Piedmont—Persecution of the Vaudois—The Island of Sardinia—Genoa added to Piedmont—The constitution of 1848—War with Austria—Victor Emmanuel
Departure from Florence—The Vettura—Inn among the Apennines—General
aspect of towns in Romagna—Causes of their decay—Austrian
Officers at Forli—Dangers of the road—First impressions of
Ancona.
Three or four years ago I enjoyed an opportunity, such as
very rarely falls to the lot of strangers, of becoming acquainted
with the inner life and customs of a part of the Italian
peninsula comparatively little visited,—untrodden ground,
in fact, to the majority of English tourists. An invitation
from my uncle, an English merchant at Ancona, the principal
seaport of the Roman States on the Adriatic, to spend a
few months there with his family, was gladly accepted. My
experiences of Italy as yet consisted only of a gay winter in
Florence, and the Holy Week at Rome; and I was still
young and enthusiastic enough to hail with delight any
proposal which tended to increase my acquaintance with the
country that had so much enchanted me. It was therefore
with a light heart I found myself, one lovely autumnal
morning, the fourth in a vettura, having been confided to
the care of an English family who were going to Ancona, in
order to embark from thence for the Levant.
I had never travelled in a vettura before, and I thought
the lumbering, crazy old vehicle, with its high, narrow step,
small windows, hard seats, and peculiar smell of mouldering
straw, quite novel and refreshing; and the four lean horses,
with their gay tufts of scarlet worsted and bells, the vetturino
or driver himself, with his pipe and blouse and low-crowned
hat, seemingly devoid of all human sympathy save for a
mongrel quadruped, which alternately formed the apex of
the pyramid of boxes and carpet-bags upon the roof, or
limped dolorously in the rear—all promised me an inexhaustible
store of amusement, even for the four days which
the journey was to employ.
Soon after leaving Florence the road begins to ascend;
and before twenty miles were over we found ourselves in
the defiles of a magnificent mountain-pass, and in a temperature
of exceeding coldness. That night we stopped at an
inn amongst the Apennines, and it would be difficult to
convey an idea of the contrast its rude inhabitants and
miserable accommodation afforded to the luxury of Florence,
which lay behind us. The people of the house spoke in
some uncouth dialect it was impossible to understand—the
Romagnolo patois, I was afterwards told—and looked so
savage and repelling, that one involuntarily recalled all the
stories of robbery and assassination with which the neighbouring
country had been so rife a few months before. They
all, old as well as young, stared at us as if we had been wild
beasts; and from the time we arrived till supper could be
got ready, and the rough hostess prevailed on to make our
beds, there was an incessant coming and going of spectators.
They gave us some soup, which, to our English palates,
appeared nothing but warm water with a little coarse vermicelli
in it, followed by the miserable fowl of which the
broth had been made, with its head on, and inefficiently
plucked; and then an omelet—the last being an invaluable
accessory to such repasts. It was bitterly cold, and we
asked for a fire; a large bundle of fagots was brought and
lighted in a huge chimney, almost roomy enough to contain
settles, like those of olden time. The flame soon kindled
cheerily, and cast a bright glow over the squalid room, with
its filthy, unwashed brick floor; an open cupboard, containing
the available crockery of the establishment; six rush-bottomed
chairs, so dirty that we were fain to cover them
with our handkerchiefs; and placed upon the shelf, that
served as a mantel-piece, two broken figures in coloured
plaster of Paris, representing a valorous Greek leering rapturously
at a rubicund Zuleika opposite.
We had time to notice all these details, to count the
rafters of the cobwebbed ceiling, to become familiarized with
the barefooted urchins who gazed curiously at us from the
threshold, ere the requisite preparations for our sleeping
apartments were completed, and the slipshod landlady informed
us that we were at liberty to retire to rest. But
fortunately, before allowing her to depart, we remembered
a caution that had been given us, to be particular in
inspecting the bed-linen; and thence ensued a dispute as to
the perfectly-unsullied state of that which was first assigned
to us. Seeing us determined on rejecting her sheets, she at
last made a sullen gesture to her daughter, who soon reappeared
with another supply, whose freshness compensated
for the nutmeg-grater texture of the homespun hemp of
which they were made.
We mounted upon chairs to climb up into our beds, and
then had all sorts of laughing alarms at the strange noises
that seemed to pervade the house: the gruff voice of the
vetturino and stable-boys, the stamping and snorting of the
horses which were located beneath us, and the screams of
another unhappy fowl, immolated for the refection of a fresh
party of travellers, whose arrival about midnight completely
disturbed the short interval that remained to us for repose.
At three o'clock we were called, and shivering, sleepy, and
miserable, made a hasty toilet, and hurried to the carriage;
it being one of the peculiar delights of this mode of
travelling, that inasmuch as the entire journey is performed
with the same horses, the day is divided into two stages,
morning and afternoon, and the driver's object is to insure
as long a rest, or rinfrescata, between these as possible.
Thus, often long before noon, one stops for three or four
hours of ennui and discomfort, such as the uninitiated in
these matters can with difficulty conceive.
It was of course dark when we set off, and by the time
day had fully dawned, we had emerged from the mountains,
and were in a broad, fertile country, approaching the boundary-stone
that separates Tuscany from the Roman States.
A custom-house on each territory is of course encountered;
the Tuscans first see that you carry nothing contraband out,
and then the Romans ascertain that you take nothing forbidden
in. With us, the examination of our luggage was
merely nominal; offering the keys of our boxes, with the
assurance that they contained nothing illegal, they were
immediately and politely returned to us; and thus the magic
of our English name, seconded by the donation of a few
pauls, carried us in triumph through both ordeals. To the
Italians themselves it is a very different sort of affair, as
they are always subjected to a very rigorous search, chiefly
with a view to discovering whether they are carrying arms
or prohibited publications.
About ten, we reached Forli—the first of those large,
deserted, decaying cities which are to be met with at every
fifteen or twenty miles' distance in the Roman States, and
which, in their grass-grown streets, their ruined palaces, and
ragged, idle population, give a more striking testimony to
the workings of the dominant system than the most heart-stirring
eloquence could achieve. As we sauntered through
the dreary town, to wile away the hours that must elapse
before we could resume our journey, we saw no evidences
of industry or employment beyond a few wretched shops,
where tobacco, cigars, tape, needles, and such gear were
promiscuously sold. The necessity for a trifling purchase led
me into one of these negozj, the owner of which, a garrulous
old man, upon discovering that I was English, and yet not
indifferent to the state of things around me, speedily ventured
on a few confidential lamentations. The miserable
condition of the country he ascribed, not so much to the
presence of the Austrians, who had been stationed in Romagna
and the Marche[1] since 1849, disastrous as that
occupation undoubtedly was, as to the injustice and venality
of all the government officials, with whom, he observed, “a
little of this,” rubbing his fore and middle finger significantly
against his thumb, to denote money, “a little of this does
everything. They are all alike, Signora mia, from the lowest
impiegato to the high personage who rules the Pope as well as
his subjects.” I was conversant enough with Italian politics
to know that he alluded to Cardinal Antonelli, of whose widespread
unpopularity amongst the commercial and industrial
classes I thus early had a specimen. “All is falling to
pieces, Signora,” he added, as he handed me my parcel,
wrapped in the leaf of an old account book; “but who can
wonder at it? We are governed by men who have no children.”
The only place where any of the natives seemed to congregate
was one of the cafés, in and outside of which we
observed numbers of fine, well-grown young men, indolently
lounging and smoking, or staring at any stray passer-by
with a vacant sort of interest; and all these were the rising
generation—the gentry and nobility of Forli. I say one of
the cafés advisedly, because another that was pointed out to
us near the theatre was occupied solely by Austrian officers,
and consequently unfrequented by any of the citizens.
Priests, soldiers, and beggars straggled about the streets, the
last besieging chiefly the cafés and church doors, and exhibiting
their withered limbs and deformities as an incentive
to the compassion of the charitably disposed. Near the chief
square, and evidently the fashionable locality, we saw one
or two ladies, followed by a dirty lackey, in a threadbare
livery coat hanging down to his heels, with a faded gold
band round his hat, and altogether with such an air of poverty
and squalor as rendered this attempt at maintaining traditional
dignity pitiably ridiculous. The only public building
that looked flourishing, or in good repair, was the theatre,
which subsequent observations have shown me to be the case
in most, if not in all towns in the Papal States. At
Cesena, for instance, which was our next halting-place, a
new opera house, scarcely yet completed, was shown to
us, on the erection of which the municipality—of course
with the approbation of the government of Rome—had
expended a very large sum; while the town bore the
semblance of a vast lazar-house, its unsheltered poor in
every variety of human wretchedness, lying huddled together
by night beneath porticos and arcades, and by day shocking
every sense by the display of their wounds, nakedness, and
suffering.
But I am digressing, and must return to Forli, and
to our hotel of La Posta, where we dined in a very large
hall that must have been a banqueting-room centuries ago.
Our places were laid at one end of a long table, the other
extremity of which was soon occupied by several white-coated
Austrian infantry officers, belonging to the Army of
Occupation. They came in, clanking their swords and
speaking in a loud, overbearing tone, evidently being in
the habit of frequenting the house, to judge by the free-and-easy
manner in which they comported themselves.
They were fortunately too far off for us to be annoyed by
overhearing their conversation, except when they raised
their voices to abuse the waiters, which they did in execrable
Italian, but with a surprising volubility of expletives.
These remarks were generally prefaced with, “Voi pestia
d'Italiano,” or something equally remarkable for good taste
and feeling. But this was nothing to what occurred about
the middle of the repast, when a party of Italians, two
ladies and a gentleman, evidently of the upper class, our
fellow-travellers at the mountain-inn, entered the hall, and
sat down opposite to us, waiting till their dinner should be
brought; for each party was separately served.
Though they spoke low, with an evident desire to avoid
notice, the Austrians speedily discovered to what nation
they belonged, as I perceived by their whispering and
laughing amongst themselves, and frequent bold glances
towards the new-comers. After a little time their mirth
grew more offensive, and reached an unwarrantable height,
when one of the party, loudly apostrophizing the unfortunate
waiter on whom their wrath so frequently descended,
asked him if he could tell him in what light he and all other
Austrians regarded the Italians. The man's sallow cheek
grew a shade paler, but he made no reply, as he busied
himself in changing their plates and knives, making as much
clatter as possible—so it seemed to me—to drown the voice
of his interrogator. “Do you not know, pestia?” reiterated
the officer, stamping as he spoke; “then I will tell you:
we all of us look upon you Italians as the dust under our
feet—as the little creeping beasts we crush every moment
of our lives, at every step we take—ha! ha! ha!” And then
they all roared in chorus, and swore, and twirled their
moustaches, and called for coffee and cigars.
I cannot describe what I felt during this scene, for the
cruel outrage on the feelings of the family who sat opposite
to us. When the insult was too palpably proclaimed to
admit of a doubt, the brow of the gentleman grew dark
and lowering, and I saw by the strong heavings of his
chest, and firmly-compressed lips, what bitter, unavailing
struggles were at work. The ladies exchanged glances;
and the younger of the two who sat beside him, and whom
I afterwards discovered to be his wife, laid her hand upon
his arm, and looked up imploringly into his face. I never
shall forget the look—indignation, sorrow, entreaty, were
all so blended there. He shrank from her touch, as if
irritated at a movement that might call further attention
to his position; but the moment afterwards, seeming to
recollect himself, he whispered a few words into her ear,
accompanying them with a slight movement of the shoulders,
with which an Italian always indicates helplessness
or despair.
We left Forli as early as half-past one, although Cesena,
our halting-place for the night, was only thirteen
miles off; but the vetturino told us he was anxious to
reach it long before sunset, as the neighbourhood bore a
very bad name, and carriages were often stopped and
robbed at dusk or early morning. In the mountains,
where we had been the night before, he told us there was
no fear—nothing unpleasant, in fact, ever being known to
take place till beyond the Tuscan frontier. These precautions
made us rather uneasy, and it was some comfort to
perceive that the Italian family set out at the same time
as ourselves, and that the two carriages always kept within
sight of each other; but no evil befell us—though, in less
than a week afterwards, a carriage was stopped on the
same road in open daylight—and we jingled gallantly into
Cesena, in the mellow sunlight of the October afternoon.
As I am not going to give a journal of our route, but
have merely attempted a sketch that might convey some
idea of the state of the country which we traversed, I shall
hasten over the two following days. We passed through
Rimini, La Cattolica, Pesaro, Fano, Sinigaglia—all names
which once belonged to history, but now may be briefly
classed in the same category of ruin and debasement—and
found ourselves, at the close of the fourth day, in sight of
the place of our destination—Ancona, the third city in the
Roman States.
It is approached by a beautiful road which follows the
curve of the bay from the opposite point of Capo Pesaro,
and built upon a promontory that runs boldly into the sea,
can be descried from a considerable distance. The first
impression the aspect of Ancona produces upon the traveller
is favourable in the extreme. It had been visible to us
for the last twenty miles of our road, and looked exceedingly
picturesque, rising from the very edge of the water in
terrace-like succession, till it reached the summit of the
mountain, crowned by an old cathedral, whose quaint semi-Byzantine
architecture, gilded by the setting sun, stood out
in admirable relief against the glorious sky.
The shipping in the harbour lay calmly at anchor,
every detail of mast and cordage reflected as in a mirror
in the azure sea, which, in the distance, verging on the
horizon, appeared suffused with the same golden light as
the illuminated heavens. It was a beautiful scene, one of
which I thought I should never weary; and although,
from what I had seen upon the way, I had schooled myself
into a considerable abatement of the anticipations with
which I had quitted Florence, I now permitted my hopes
to revive, and drew good auguries from the prepossessing
exterior of Ancona.
As we drew near, we saw more indications of employment
than we had yet encountered: heavy wagons, laden
with bales of merchandise, proceeding slowly in the direction
from which we came; and carts of a most primitive
construction, painted with rude figures of saints, and
drawn by white oxen or cows, conveying the produce of
the recent vintage into the town. Leading to the gates
was an avenue of trees, planted on either hand of the post-road,
and under whose shade the population were wont to
disport themselves for their Sunday's promenade; but the
finest had been all cut down a few years before, to make
barricades against the Austrians when they were advancing
to besiege the town, and their stumps alone remained. On
the side nearest the sea appeared some little square patches
of shrubs and flowers, interspersed with a few benches,
and four terra-cotta urns on pedestals, dignified by the
name of the Public Gardens; and on the opposite part of
the road was a long row of very miserable houses, with
arcades, beneath which venders of fruit, salt-fish, and
coarse pottery held their stalls.
On we went through a handsome gate, where the usual
formalities of passports had to be endured; and then along
a sunny sort of esplanade, with the sea on one side and
dirty houses on the other; and through a low narrow archway
in a huge blank wall, and we were fairly in Ancona,
the Doric city, as it is admiringly called by its inhabitants.
The vetturino cracked his whip, the horses did their best
to gallop, the dog barked, and we plunged and jolted
through the steep, narrow streets in right good style, till
we drew up in front of the hotel of La Pace, the Meurice's
of Ancona.
CHAPTER II.
Description of the Palazzo—An English family, though Italian born—Complimentary
visits of the Anconitan nobility—How they pass
their time—Dislike to country walks—Modern Cavaliere Servente.
Our arrival apparently had been expected, for two or three
half-naked, black-bearded porters or facchini, who had acted
as our running-footmen from the gate, now shouted, as
soon as they came within hearing, that the Nipote del
Signor Carlo was come; and instantly there was a rush
made by some boys who were lounging before the inn in
the direction opposite. Meanwhile, a bevy of waiters
flung open the door, and with many bows assisted us to
alight, saying that Signor Carlo had apprized them we
were coming, and that rooms were ready for the lady and
her daughters. By this, I began to comprehend that
Signor Carlo must mean my uncle, Mr Charles D——,
whom I was not prepared to hear so unceremoniously designated;
but before I had time to speculate further on
this peculiarity, the person in question made his appearance,
attended by a complete staff of small boys and porters,
who at once broke out in furious altercation with
those they found already enrolled in our service. My
uncle seemed perfectly at his ease amidst this uproar, tucked
my arm under his, saw my boxes transferred to the shoulders
of three or four sturdy, strong-limbed facchini, stamped
and raved at some of the most refractory, and then observing
that we should be late for dinner, and that my
cousins were impatient to see me, hurried me up an almost
perpendicular ascent—an alley of steps, in fact, strewed
with mouldy orange-peel and broken earthenware, which
led to a street of scarcely wider dimensions, with lofty
dingy houses on each side, that seemed nodding towards
each other, and produced an unpleasant sense of suffocation.
My uncle told me, with a smile, that this was quite the
West-end of Ancona, where some of the first families resided.
The Palazzo, of which he rented a large portion,
was amongst the best; and the entrance, a large court with
arcades, and a broad stone staircase, carried me back again
to visions of Italian splendour. My cousins came running
down to receive me, followed by the servants, who all,
male as well as female, pressed forward to kiss my hand,
and called me Eccellenza.
It was all very novel and amusing, and I was quite delighted
with the appearance of the house, through the
centre of which ran a spacious and lofty hall, upwards of
fifty feet long; the walls were painted in fresco by Pellegrino
Tibaldi, and the ceiling was richly gilt and emblazoned
with the arms of the Farnese family, by one of whom
the palace had been built nearly three centuries ago.
Opening from this, and in strange contrast with its stately
appearance, was a large drawing-room, fitted up in the
English style with books, pictures, and other indications
of female occupancy and accomplishments. It was like a
fireside scene of home transplanted to this distant land,
and as much a marvel to me as the thoroughly English
accent, appearance, and manners of the family amongst
whom I found myself for the first time.
My cousins had been born abroad, and nursed by Italian
women, waited on by Italian servants, had blossomed into
girlhood without ever visiting England, or knowing it but
as the land of their pride, their aspirations, their religion,
and their love. It was curious to witness, in this out-of-the-way
old place, such genuine feeling and enthusiasm;
and, stranger still, to understand by what spell so strong
a veneration for the unseen fatherland had been infused
into their very being, as to prevent their taking root or
binding themselves by strong bonds of affection to the
country in which their lot seemed cast. And yet they
were not kept from intercourse with the natives; on the
contrary, I found them here moving in an exclusively
Italian circle, looked upon with sincere respect and esteem
by all of whom it was composed, and treated with an unvarying
kindness it is pleasant to recall.
On the next and following days, several ladies, acquaintances
of the family, came to call upon me, and in
the evenings most of the gentlemen came to pay their
respects in form to the new-comer; so that, aided by a few
hints from my cousins, I was soon quite au fait as to the
leading tastes and characteristics of my present associates.
What struck me most at first, was their excessive ceremoniousness
and formality. I never had before seen such
courtesies and bows exchanged, or could have deemed it
possible that rational beings could endure to hear themselves
addressed, or address each other so unceasingly by
their titles, as did the principi, marchesi, and conti by whom
I was surrounded. Then the observance of certain rules of
etiquette was laughable in the extreme—it seemed to be an
understood thing that the mistress of the house, on the departure
of any lady-visitor, should offer to accompany her
to the door. This politeness was to be refused, then insisted
on, still remonstrated against; and so on, till the contested
point being reached, the visitor should retreat with a
gentle pressure of the hand, and a profound reverence.
Amongst the ladies, I perceived I was surveyed with a good
deal of interest on account of some fashionable novelties in
my wardrobe. One lady took up my dress, and after looking
attentively at its texture, asked me what it had cost, and
whether I thought she could send for one like it from Florence.
I found out afterwards this was meant to be a great
compliment to my taste, and that the loan of a new pattern
for a dress or mantle was looked upon as an inestimable
benefit.
The conversation did not seem very brilliant—and yet,
after all, what is ladies' morning-visit prattle at the best?
I think it was as good as some it had been my lot to hear
in a more brilliant sphere. They talked of the weather,
and the opera there would be after Christmas—we were
still in October!—and of their children. Yes, let us do
them justice there. I do not think more maternal love and
anxiety and tenderness can anywhere be found than in the
hearts of Italian women. To say truth, however, this affection
so extended itself to the minutest particulars, that I
grew rather tired of hearing how such a baby was suffering
with his first teeth, or of the apprehensions entertained for
another with the measles, or the difficulty of providing a wet-nurse
for a third, and his mamma's grief at being debarred
from undertaking that office herself, particularly when I
found these little incidents to be as much discussed by the
gentlemen in their evening-visits as any other topic; in
fact, the accuracy with which they spoke on such matters,
and their extended medical details, were sufficiently singular
and amusing.
The plan of society seemed thus constituted: during
the day, the men lounged at the café, played a game at
billiards, or read such newspapers as the severity of the
police allowed them at the casino, and generally concluded
by strolling a little way beyond the gate I have described
on my entrance into Ancona. The ladies did not, in general,
go out every day; but when they did so, it was to pay
visits, or dawdle about the street where the principal shops
were to be found. In some families of the very old régime,
however, or in some of the strict ones of the middle class,
it would not have been thought decorous for the female
members to be often seen abroad, and an hour's airing at
an open window towards the Ave Maria, or dusk, was considered
as a substitute for daily out-door exercise. I do
not know what an English sanitary commission would have
said to this custom, could they but have tested the pestilential
atmosphere which the Anconitan belles smilingly
inhaled, as, leaning on some old damask drapery, consecrated
from time immemorial to this purpose, their glossy
hair wreathed in rich plaits around their classically-shaped
heads, their dark eyes beaming with excitement, they
watched every passer-by, and often from one glance or gesture
laid the foundation of more passion and romance than
it were fitting in these sober pages to record.
On Sundays and festas there was of course the mass
in the morning, which furnished to the women a great
opportunity for dress and display, particularly at one of
the churches, where the best music was to be heard, and
the fashionables usually congregated. But there was
nothing comfortable in their way of going to church, if I
may use the expression. You never saw husbands and
wives, and their children, all walking in pleasantly together.
The men would have been laughed at for such a conjugal
display; and hence those who went at all, went by themselves;
and of these, how many had any serious purpose
in their hearts, save keeping well in the jealous eyes of
the government and priests, or fulfilling some appointment,
or whiling away half an hour by listening to the best airs
of Ernani or the Lombardi adapted to the organ, I should
be unwilling to hazard a conjecture. In the afternoon,
the promenade outside the gates was crowded, and four or
five very antiquated-looking equipages drove slowly up and
down the dusty road, forming what an old count very complacently
designated to us, “Il Corso delle Carrozze.”
Our acquaintances could not comprehend our taste for
long country-walks, and used to wonder what inducement
we could find every day for rambling over the hills and
cliffs that rendered the neighbourhood really beautiful.
“Heavens!” said one little contessa, “I should die of
the spleen”—this was a very favourite newly-introduced
term with them—“if I saw nothing when I went out but
the sky, and sea, and trees. What can you find to amuse
you?... It is so melancholy! And then that Jews'
burying-ground you are so fond of!”
This was a most singular spot, remote, undefended,
spreading over the summit of a cliff that rose abruptly to
a great height above the sea; but so grand in its situation,
in the desolate sublimity which reigned around, in the
reverential murmur of the waves that washed its base, that
it was one of our favourite resorts.
It was in vain to explain to her our admiration; she
shook her head, and went on: “That burying-ground—to
be amongst so many dead Jews!”
“But we must all die like them,” urged one of my
cousins; “and it is good for one to be reminded of these
things sometimes”—
“Pardon me,” interrupted the lady, with a slight shudder;
“but that is such an English idea! Oh, that terrible
death! why talk or think about it?”
“How strange this terror is that so many people feel,”
rejoined I; “it must come upon all of us sooner or later.
Nay, if the prognostications of many thinking men in this
age are to be relied upon, we are not far from the end of
the world.”
The poor lady absolutely turned pale, as she cried out:
“Oh, pray do not talk so—you make me miserable! Besides,”
she said, recovering herself a little, “I have been
told that in the Bible it is expressly said that for seven
years before that dreadful day no children are to be born;
and that gives me comfort; for, at every fresh birth I hear
of, I say to myself—well, the seven years at least have not
begun yet!”
So the ladies of Ancona, with not more than one or
two exceptions, being all participators in this wholesome
dread of retired walks, and the reflections likely to be induced
thereby, idled away their time in the manner I have
described, with the aid of a little crochet or fancy-work;
or, amongst the most studious—they always call reading
study—the translation of a French novel, until the evening,
which brought with it its usual conversazione. Every lady
received at her own house some half-dozen gentlemen or
so, who were unvarying in waiting upon her, whether she
held her levee at her own house, or in her box at the
theatre; nay, so unfailing was their attendance, that if
indisposition confined her to her bed, you were sure to find
them assembled round it, making the società as pleasantly,
and in as matter-a-fact a way as possible. As they all
dined early, the evening commenced betimes, soon after
six in winter, and went on till midnight, all dropping in at
different hours, some early, some late, according to the
number of their habitual engagements. In general, every
one had at least two or three families where he was expected
to show himself every evening; and from a long
course of habit, each house had its own hour assigned to it.
Many of these intimacies had subsisted for twenty, nay,
even thirty years, without any perceptible variation in the
usual tenor of intercourse; they always kept up the same
ceremony, the same old-fashioned, laborious politeness;
assembled in the same half-lighted, comfortless saloon, and
sat and talked; lamented the good old times, and grew
grey together.
It was an odd, disjointed sort of life for white-headed
men to lead, particularly when they had houses and families
of their own where they could have passed their evenings,
instead of toiling up two or three sets of stairs, and making
their bow to two or three sets of people, before they could
think of returning to their own roofs to supper and to rest.
When I write of Italians and their dwellings, I avoid using
the word home, for it would be strangely misapplied.
They do not know of the existence of such a blessing as
that most beautiful term of ours implies; neither, to say
truth, would they appreciate it in their present imperfect
views of domestic life.
It may be asked whether, in these coteries, there was
not usually one more distinguished by the lady's preference
than the rest; and in many instances this was no doubt
the case, although by no means so invariably as in former
generations. Where such a partiality did exist, it was not
apparently noticed or commented upon by the others, but
accepted as a matter of course—as a proceeding whose
harmony it would have been invidious to disturb. The
cavaliere, in general, paid a visit every day—not, however,
to chocolate and the toilet, as old-fashioned novels have it,
but about one o'clock, to communicate the fashionable intelligence,
offer his opinion on some new dress or piece of
millinery, give bon-bons to the children, and perhaps accompany
the husband to the stable, to discuss the merits
of a new horse or set of harness.
I was told of one old lady who had entered her three-score-years-and-ten,
still served with the same homage by
her veteran cavaliere as she had imperiously exacted some
forty winters before. All her contemporaries had died but
himself, and he was the last that remained of her società,
which had no attractions for younger visitors. And so
they used to sit in the evening opposite each other, a lamp
with a dark shade diffusing an uncertain light upon the
time-worn room and faded hangings; both half-blind, deaf,
and helpless, nodding drowsily at each other, holding little
earthen baskets filled with fire, called scaldini, in their
trembling hands; yet still, from force of habit, keeping up
this semblance of conversation till eleven struck, when the
old man's servant came to fetch him, and wrapping him in
a large cloak, led him carefully to his own house.
Happily, we did not have regular conversazioni at my
uncle's; as he was a widower, and my cousins unmarried,
it would not have been thought correct. We used only
to have occasional visitors in the evening, or else invited
the good people regularly to tea—which, though never
appearing at their own houses, yet they fully appreciated
at ours; and played whist, and had a little music, and did
our best to amuse them, our exertions being fully repaid
by the good humour and sprightliness of our guests.
CHAPTER III.
A marriage in high life—Wedding outfit—The first interview—Condition
of single women—The laws of courtship—Dependence of
young married people—Anecdotes of mothers-in-law.
I did not tire of my life in Ancona, as my friends in Florence
had predicted. There was something so quaint, so
unlike anything I had ever before known, in the people
among whom I found myself, and they formed such a contrast
to the busy, practical sphere in which I had been
brought up, that, for the sake of novelty alone, I should
have been amused at the change. I hope, however, that
some better motive was at work than mere curiosity to
interest me. I had always felt a sympathy for the Italians,
and resented the indiscriminate abuse with which it is the
fashion to assail them; but until the opportunity for personal
observation now afforded, I had not understood how
many of their failings may be ascribed to their erroneous
system of marriage, their defective method of education,
and other domestic evils—evils so deeply rooted, that it
will require a complete upheaving of the existing framework
of society to destroy their baneful influence.
It was not long before I was enabled to see how matches
were made up according to the most orthodox system; for
the marriage of the niece of a lady whom we often saw—our
little friend who disliked country walks so much—was being
negotiated, and we were daily informed of the progress of
affairs. The young lady was not residing in Ancona, but at
Macerata, a town about forty miles distant; and being an
orphan, and not largely dowered, her establishment had
been a matter of considerable anxiety to her relations, particularly
to her grandmother, with whom she lived.
“Congratulate me,” said the contessa, with a beaming
face, one morning: “mamma writes me she has great hopes
of a partito for our poor Isotta.”
“I am very glad, indeed,” said my cousin Lucy, who
was always the chief spokes-woman, being the eldest daughter
of the house, and of a sedate and prudent turn, which
suited her mature age of one-and-twenty—“I am very glad,
indeed, to hear this; and what does Isotta say?”
“Oh, she knows nothing about it yet; mamma is making
the necessary inquiries, and will then settle everything with
the young man's father, old Conte G——, the brother of
our cardinal here. Up to the present moment, a mutual
friend, who first originated the idea, has been the only
channel of communication.”
“And if your niece should not chance to like him?” I
suggested.
Our little friend lifted up her eyes in astonishment, as
she replied, “Not like a person her grandmamma approves.
Of course she will be pleased!” and then reverting to the
great topic of interest on such occasions, she said, “If, as
we hope, all will be soon arranged, mamma will have a
great deal to do in ordering the corredo. It is to be a very
handsome one, for the sposo's family are known to be very
particular in such things; and, naturally, we, on our side,
do not wish to cut a bad figure.”
I asked her some of the details respecting this same
corredo, or wedding outfit, and she gave me a list of such
supplies of linen and every description of wearing apparel,
as appeared extravagant in proportion to the young lady's
fortune, which was only 12,000 dollars[2] (about £2400), an
average dowry in this part of Italy. If the sum ascends as
high as 20,000 dollars, it is considered large; but in any
case the corredo has likewise to be provided, at an expense
often of 2000 dollars (£400), or even upwards. This outlay,
however, is not felt, as a certain sum is always destined
for each child from its infancy, and large stores of linen
and damask table-services are gradually accumulated, in
expectation of the great event. The greatest luxury is,
perhaps, displayed in petticoats, night-dresses, and such
gear, which are of the finest materials, often trimmed with
rich lace and embroidered, and are to be counted by sixes
of dozens of each kind. In fact, their number is so great,
that it is one of the anxieties of an Italian woman's life to
look after her hoards of linen, and see that all is kept properly
assorted and in good order. Nor is this ambition for a handsome
corredo confined to the upper classes, it is shared alike
by all; descending even to the humblest peasant-girl, who
is scarcely out of her leading-strings before she thinks of
laying by for this long-coveted possession.
But to return to the young lady whose fate was being
decided. Two or three days after, her aunt came to announce
that all was settled; that both Isotta and the young
count had expressed themselves perfectly satisfied, and
their first meeting was to take place the following evening,
in presence of all the members of the two families residing
at Macerata.
“Poor girl! What a nervous affair it will be!” I said.
“What is the ceremonial to be observed?”
“Why,” said the contessa, quite gravely, “I do not
exactly know; mamma does not mention in her letter: it
depends on circumstances. Generally the sposo merely comes
forward, is presented to the young lady, and makes a low
bow. Sometimes, if the families previously have been intimately
acquainted, he is directed to kiss her hand; and lastly—but
this is very rare”—and she lowered her voice—“it is
only adopted where there is the oldest friendship or relationship
subsisting—the gentleman salutes his bride upon the
cheek.”
Amused as I was by this account, I could not help
thinking it must be exaggerated, or at least that these
courtships, whose programme was as accurately defined as a
state ceremony, must be restricted to a few rare instances;
but I found this was not the case, and that the contessa had
merely stated what was usual in every family of the nobility
of Ancona and the adjacent towns. In many instances, I
afterwards learned, the preliminaries for the marriage of a
young lady were all settled before she left the walls of a
convent where she had been brought up, her wedding taking
place within eight days of her return to her parents' house;
but this, though esteemed highly desirable, cannot always
be arranged, especially where no great recommendations
exist, either as to beauty or fortune. As a general rule,
girls are kept excessively retired, even in their own families,
until some partito has been found; everything being done
to foster the impression that their speedy settlement in life
is to be the signal for their admission into all the pleasures
of society, from which in the mean time they are sedulously
excluded. Dressed with scrupulous plainness, seldom or
never taken into company, rarely appearing out of doors,
except for a drive in a close carriage, or to go to mass, or to
call on some old female relation—without the advantages
of a cultivated mind or literary resources—the condition of
our Italian unmarried woman is as cheerless and insignificant
as it is possible to conceive. Small marvel is it, then,
that at the first mention of a suitor, a girl's thoughts should
fly to all the fine dresses she will possess, to the becoming
coiffures she will adopt, and—should her imagination have
ever ranged so far—to the liberty of speech and action she
will be entitled to enjoy. Not a thought is given to the
disposition, tastes, or habits of the person to whom she is
soon to be irrevocably united; he is accepted as the condition
indispensable to the attainment of all that has been so earnestly
desired.
The scene of the first introduction generally takes place
with the formality the little contessa described, very rarely
going beyond a stately bow and courtesy exchanged between
the betrothed. After this interview, the gentleman is every
evening expected to pay a visit of an hour or so at the
house of his promessa, all the members of her family, and
the old friends who compose the usual società, being present.
He is not placed next to her, nor is he to address himself
particularly to her. Should he feel inclined to venture on
a remark, she will answer in monosyllables, with downcast
eyes, never moving from the sofa on which she sits bolt
upright by her mother's side. After a week or so has
elapsed, it is an understood thing that he should ask for her
portrait, and give her his own in return. At this stage of
the proceedings, he is allowed to kiss her hand on presenting
the miniature; and on succeeding evenings he brings
her a nosegay, but without any repetition of this privilege;
meanwhile the bride elect is very complacently occupied in
knitting him a purse, or embroidering him a smoking-cap,
or something of that sort—whatever she is told is customary,
in fact—and finally goes to the altar without a thought
upon the duties and responsibilities of her new condition.
Even their manner of celebrating a wedding is very
different from ours. No bridesmaids are ever seen; for it
would not be considered in good taste for any girls to be
present at the religious ceremony; neither do they take
part in the great dinner which closes the day. The newly-married
pair do not go into the country, or set out upon a
journey, but at once enter into possession of the apartments
destined for them in the house of the bridegroom's family.
My uncle used laughingly to quote a remark made to
him by a lady in reply to some observation on the contrast
thus afforded to an English wedding-tour: “It may be all
very well for your nation, who make marriages of sentiment,
caro mio signore, but I confess that to any of us this prolonged
tête-à-tête with a husband whom one knows nothing at all
of, would be tedious in the extreme.” To avoid being
thrown upon this terrible companionship, the first week or
so of the young sposa's married life is fully taken up in
receiving the congratulatory visits of her friends and acquaintances;
after which, she and her husband make what
is called the first sortita together, go to hear mass, call upon
every one in due form, and are considered fairly started in
their new position. The dingy Palazzo subsides into its
wonted monotony; and the young couple, with no interest
or authority in the house, treated like mere children, are
expected to conform to the hours and habits of the old
people, who, having yielded the same submission in their
day, are by no means backward in exacting it themselves.
We knew a family, that of the Marchese G——, one of
the most ancient and wealthy in Ancona, where the eldest
son, though upwards of thirty-six, and married for more
than ten years, was not at liberty to invite any friend of
his own to the family-table without his father's permission;
neither could he nor his wife, for any convenience of their
own, anticipate or retard the fixed hour for dinner, or order
that meal to be served in their apartments. All their
expenditure was regulated for them, a pair of carriage-horses
kept at their disposal, their servants' wages paid; even
their subscription to the theatre provided for, and a
sum assigned for their dress and pocket-money—being
twenty dollars a month to the heir of this noble
house, and to his wife fifteen. This was considered very
liberal. All the disposal of the income of the family—very
large in reference to the country; it was reported to be
nearly 20,000 dollars (£4000) a year—all insight into the
accounts and expenditure, was exclusively reserved for the
old marchese, who would have resented any hint or advice
from his son as unwarrantable interference.
Another strange species of coercion that seemed generally
kept up in families of this stamp, was in the selection of
Christian names for the younger branches. It is not an
uncommon thing to hear a young mother lament the uncouth
appellations bestowed upon her offspring, and saying, with
a shrug of her shoulders, “But what is to be done? It is
an old family name, and my suocera would have it.”
The vexatious tyranny exercised by the mother-in-law,
the suocera, has almost passed into a proverb, as the source
of innumerable evils; yet such is the force of custom
amongst the Italians, that if a son were possessed of independent
fortune, and established himself away from the
paternal roof, he would be exclaimed against as undutiful in
the extreme. I could tell of many sad instances of unhappiness
produced by the suocera's influence. In the first
place, she is almost invariably ignorant, prejudiced, and
bigoted—such being the characteristics of the greater part
of Italian women, born and educated some fifty or sixty
years ago—and sets her face stubbornly against everything
that is not precisely according to her code, whether it
relates to politics, the management of her household, or the
treatment of her grand-children. I heard a lady herself
recount how she lost five children in succession, owing to
their being sent out to be reared by rough peasant-women
in the country. They were delicate infants, and could not
stand the exposure and want of care to which they were
subjected; and so they died off, one after the other, their
poor mother vainly attempting to move the old contessa to
allow her to have a wet-nurse in the house.
“In her day,” persisted the unrelenting woman, “children
were brought up in the country; and why should it be
otherwise now?” and she had authority enough over her
son to compel him to resist his wife's piteous supplications.
Often has she said, “My five children were sacrificed to a
suocera's power. She yielded at last and I saved the sixth”.
Another lady, whom I saw much of, one of the handsomest
women in Ancona, was in such subjection to her
mother-in-law, that she dared not sit down in her presence
unless invited to do so; and, although the mother of a
grown-up son, was as much looked after and interfered with
as if she had been still a child. Sometimes her spirit rose,
and she attempted to remonstrate, or invoked her husband's
assistance, which was invariably the signal for his ordering
his horse to be saddled, and going out for a ride—saying, he
would have nothing to do with her quarrels with his mother.
And this, and worse than this, is the true picture of an
Italian Interior, where distrust, variance, and the weakening
of domestic ties are the fruits of the lamentable system I
have attempted to describe; which is further perpetuated in
the training of the rising generation in the same errors and
intolerance.
CHAPTER IV.
System pursued towards children—Results of Jesuit training—Anecdotes
of the Sacré Cœur—A Contessina just out of the convent—Difficulty
of giving a liberal education to young nobles—No profession
open to them but the church—Their ignorance and idleness.
Amongst those Italians whose minds have risen superior
to the disadvantages that surround them, the subject of
education is often anxiously discussed. One evening, at my
uncle's, we were conversing on this topic with the Conte
Enrico A——, a highly intellectual and cultivated young
man. He was a native of Ancona, but so far in advance of
his townspeople, that he stood almost isolated amongst
them. Even as an Englishman, he would have ranked high
for mental acquirements, though all perhaps of too dreamy
a cast. His was a sort of passive genius, which exhaled
itself in poetry and melancholy reflections on the misery of
his country, looking upon any individual exertion as impracticable.
This want of energy in striving to carry out
the superior workings of their intellect was, until lately,
peculiar to most Italians who united reflection and high
principle with patriotism and talent. For Central and
Northern Italy, however, this remark no longer holds good.
The moving spirits of the revolutions in Tuscany, the Duchies,
and Romagna, have been precisely the most cultivated
and moderate amongst the upper and middle classes; but
the course recent events have taken in the Marche, confirms
the opinion that the political leaders there are still men of
thought rather than of action.
On the evening in question, I remember he told us we
were not half thankful enough, nor proud enough, of the
privilege of being Englishwomen, nor sensible of the blessings
which from our very cradles that name conferred.
“As soon as English children can distinguish one letter
from another,” he said, “books are put into their hands
which inculcate truth, honour, courage; and thus is laid
the basis of that education which has made your nation what
it is—the envy and wonder of Europe.”
“That reminds me of a plan we have often talked of,”
said Lucy D——: “it is that of translating some of our
nice children's story-books, and getting them circulated
through these States.”
“Ah! you forget,” he replied, shaking his head, “that
before teaching the children, you must educate the mothers
of Italy; or else your efforts will be paralysed by the ignorance
and folly that would be arrayed against you.”
“Besides you forget,” said my uncle, looking up from
his paper, “that the mothers of Italy have very little to do
with the education of their children: your convents and
seminaries relieve them of that task.”
“Too true,” said the count. “As our fathers and
grandfathers did before us, so also must we: and that is
why, at seven or eight years old, our boys are sent to Jesuit
colleges; while our girls, at even an earlier age, are placed
in nunneries to learn from women perpetually secluded in the
cloister, the duties that are to fit them for wives and mothers
in the world.”
“Never even coming home for their holidays,” remarked
my uncle. “Strange that there should be people in existence
who can consent to this unnecessary separation from
their children for ten or eleven years. How the character
may be worked upon, and all its fresh impulses destroyed,
by this long period of unbroken influence!”
“But do they, then, never see their children?” I inquired.
“Oh yes, they may go and visit them,” he replied; “but
an interview of but an hour or so occasionally, is a very
poor substitute for more unrestrained intercourse; besides,
it often happens that the convent or college is at a considerable
distance, and it does not suit people to be always
travelling.”
“Talking of these visits,” said the count, “reminds me
of one I lately paid to Loretto, to see the eldest son of the
Principe L——, a handsome, animated, and promising little
fellow of nine years old, who had been placed at the Jesuits'
College there about six months before. I could scarcely
recognize the child. Without ill-usage, without any
compulsory discipline, but simply by the steady workings of
their wonderful method of compression, the boy's spirit and
originality appeared to be as completely extinguished as if
they had never existed. He had become grave, thoughtful
beyond his age, with a little demure, bland look, that seemed
a reflection of the countenances of his priestly instructors.
I horrified the ecclesiastic who was present during the
interview, by rather maliciously asking the child if he still
continued to take as much interest as ever in all scientific
and mechanical pursuits, and in reading of the recent discoveries.
As the sworn upholder of a government that
opposes railways, and laments the invention of printing, the
priest was bound to express his surprise at the suggestion,
'My child,' said he, mildly addressing his pupil, 'is it possible
you ever thought thus? You have other tastes now.
Tell the signor conte what you most wish to become.' The
boy coloured, cast down his eyes, and murmured, 'Un
Latinista'—a Latin scholar. Anything like a love of aught
relating to progression was a crime.”
There was some bitterness, but no exaggeration, in what
the young Anconitan related. The question of the Jesuits
is purely a political one, they being supported by the party
termed by the liberals Oscurantisti or Codini—the first
name signifying literally obscurers, and the last derived
from the queue worn by the gentlemen of the last century,
and without which, to this day, upon the Italian stage, the
portrait of a prejudiced obstinate old noble is incomplete.
Families of these views esteem it, therefore, a point of conscience
to intrust the education of their children to this
order.
The Jesuit colleges nearest Ancona are at Loretto, a
distance of twenty miles; and at Fano, about thirty miles
off, in an opposite direction. At the former place also, the
French Dames du Sacré Cœur have a convent for young
ladies, embracing much the same line of principles. It
cannot be denied that, as respects general accomplishments
and ladylike deportment, their pupils infinitely surpass those
of all other conventual establishments in the country; but
the Jesuit leaven that pervades the whole course of tuition,
deters all parents, not devoted to the tenets of Loyola, from
placing their daughters under their care.
The House at Loretto was admirably conducted; simplicity,
cleanliness, refinement, order, were its striking features.
The pupils appeared to me perfectly happy. Most
of them had entered at six or seven years of age, and
cherished an enthusiastic affection for the nuns, or Ladies,
as they are generally styled, who by their gentle and dignified
deportment, their patient study of character, and the
devotion of their whole faculties to the task, acquired over
them an unlimited ascendancy. A girl in the Sacré Cœur
never learned to reason;—what “La Mère Supérieure” once
said, was to her an article of faith,—infallible, unimpeachable.
The opinions thus formed—and they designedly
embraced every relation of society—were seldom or never
shaken off.
In politics, as may be conceived, the Sacré Cœur is
unmitigatedly Austrian. In 1848, while all Italy was
applauding the prowess or lamenting the misfortunes of
Charles Albert, the pupils at Loretto knew of no hero but
Radetsky; and celebrated his triumph over Italian independence
by a grand march for the pianoforte, composed
expressly for them by their music-master, maestro di cappella
to the Church of the Santa Casa.
The acquaintance possessed by these ladies with all that
is passing in the outer world, down to the minutest details
of inner life, is a well-known attribute of the order. Imparted
to their Jesuit confessors, this knowledge has often
become a powerful political engine. The means by which it
is acquired is through the confidence and affection of their
pupils. I once happened to be staying in the same house
with a young lady who had recently left the convent. The
Contessina used to write every day to the Mère Supérieure
long crossed letters, in a delicate French hand. “You carry
on an active correspondence,” some one remarked. “Oh,
yes!” was the unsuspecting reply; “the Mère is so good!
She tells us always to remember, when we leave her care,
that whatever is of interest to us interests her; and to tell
her of our occupations, our acquaintances; of those who
come to the house, and what they speak about.”
I had also an opportunity of observing the mastery the
Sacred Heart obtains over family ties and instincts.
Another young girl of our acquaintance—indeed, she was
one of our most intimate friends—was on the eve of entering
the novitiate, when she heard that the cholera was raging
at Trieste. The alarm was great in Ancona, where a belief
in contagion prevailed; and it was generally anticipated
that, through the constant communication going on between
the Austrian garrison and that port, the epidemic would be
speedily transmitted. The parents of the future novice
were somewhat advanced in years, delicate in health, and
apprehensive of the impending danger. She therefore
wrote to the Superior, proposing to adjourn her entrance
into the order till after the cholera had visited Ancona, in
order to be at hand to nurse her parents if attacked. “My
child,” was the reply, “leave your parents to higher care.
This is clearly a temptation of the Evil One.” And accordingly
she went.
Notwithstanding the favour it enjoys with the Government,
some members of the vieille roche are hostile to the
Sacré Cœur; not, as it may be supposed, on account of its
political bias, but because its teaching—which comprehends
a thorough knowledge of French and music, with some
insight into the other usual elements of female education—is
unnecessarily erudite. A strong party still exists in
favour of the old-fashioned nunneries; of the system pursued
in which the following is no exaggerated report:—
One day a pretty, bashful-looking contessina, just
emancipated from her convent, came with her mother to
pay a morning visit. While the latter was engaged with
poor Lucy, on whom doing the honours to the elderly ladies
always devolved, I endeavoured to overcome the daughter's
timidity, and draw her into conversation. Not knowing
what else to speak of, I began about her recent studies, and
inquired if she knew French.
“No, signora,”[3] with downcast eyes, “they did not
teach that in the convent.”
“Did you learn history or geography?”
“No, signora.”
“But you can embroider?”
“Si, signora—the nuns taught us that, and we worked a
beautiful set of vestments for the priest who said Mass in
our church.”
“And what did you learn besides?”
“To read and write, and the Catechism.”
“And have you read many pretty books?”
“No, signora; only the 'Lives of the Saints.'”
“Where was this convent?—was it near Loretto, or
Jesi, or Macerata?”
“I do not know, signora.”
“You do not know!—was it very far off, then?”
“Not very, signora; it took four hours to go there from
Ancona in a carriage. I remained ten years; I never went
out all the time, and I returned home the same way that I
went.”
During this dialogue her voice never changed in its monotonous
intonation, with the unvarying “signora” at every
sentence, which Italian convent girls are so remarkable for
bestowing; when my uncle walked into the drawing-room
with a young Oxonian, the son of a very old friend, who had
unexpectedly arrived to take the steamer for Greece on an
eastern tour.
We jumped up in delight and shook hands so heartily,
that I fear the Contessa was quite scandalized; but for a
few minutes we were too much taken up with our countryman
to think of her. When calmness was restored, and
she rose to take leave, I perceived, to my great amusement,
that although the daughter's eyelids were drooping as before,
she was busy, beneath their long lashes, in taking a survey
of the handsome young stranger, although not the movement
of a muscle in the smooth expressionless face was perceptible;
neither did she evince any apparent consciousness of all that
was going on, as, meekly following her mother, she curtseyed
herself out of the room.
It is certainly extraordinary how, after this penitential
discipline, the instant they are married, these demure little
damsels acquire the full use of their visual organs, and bring
all their latent fire into play. Indeed, the sudden transition
from an awkward, silent, ill-dressed girl, such as I have
described, into an elegant, self-possessed, talkative woman,
is so wonderful as only to be credited by those who daily
witness the metamorphosis effected in Italy by the dignity
and enfranchisement of matrimony.
Persons desirous of a more extended scale of instruction
for their daughters, and who are, at the same time, hostile
to the Sacré Cœur, find themselves in great perplexity.
The experiment has been tried by one or two families of
sending them into Tuscany, where there are several institutions
for female education, conducted on comparatively
liberal principles; but the distance, the danger and expense
of the journey, were all such serious drawbacks, that the
example found few imitators. The manners of the country,
and, it must be added, the incapacity of the mothers for the
task, render it inexpedient to bring up girls at home; so
that, after much talking and deliberation, nine fathers out
of ten resign themselves to do as their fathers did before
them, and deposit their daughters in the old convents, out
of harm's way, for half a score of years at least.
It must be confessed, they have enough to occupy them
as to the means of educating their sons, when they have the
bad taste not to confide them to the Jesuits. Sometimes
they send them to Pisa or Sienna in Tuscany, at which last
there used to be a college of some eminence, conducted on
moderate principles by the Padri Scolopj; but of late years
abuses have crept in, and it has greatly degenerated.
Others, again, engage an abbé or tutor, for the first few
years, and then place them to complete their studies at the
once celebrated university of Bologna.
But this institution, like everything else in the Roman
States, has fallen into such decay, and its professors are
under such restrictions, that at the conclusion of his academical
career, unless a youth has more than average
abilities, particularly if he belongs to the higher classes,
the general range of his attainments may be rated as
beneath mediocrity. Debarred by the prejudices of caste
from entering any profession but that of the Church, conscious
that he will never have a field on which to display
his abilities, without stimulus to exertion or prospects for
the future, the young noble seems to resign himself to the
conviction that his safest course is to vegetate unthinking,
unquestioning, unknowing, and unknown.
Even the desire for distinction in arms, or the excitement
of merely holiday soldiering, parades, reviews, and a
gay garrison life, so common to most young men, cannot
stir the dull waters of his patrician existence; for there is
no military career open to the pontifical subjects, with the
exception of the Guardia Nobile at Rome, which is limited
to a small number of the sons of the old nobility. The
few miserable regiments which compose the Pope's army
are so low in the scale of social estimation, that to say a
man is only fit to become a Papalino soldier is almost the
grossest insult that can be passed upon him.
The ranks, wholly composed of volunteers, there being
no conscription, are recruited from the dregs of the population,
spies, quondam thieves, and so forth. As for the
officers, I know not whence they are procured, never having
been acquainted with a family owning to the discredit of
relationship with an individual thus engaged, although one
or two, who had scapegraces of sons, whose existence it
was desirable to ignore, were supposed to have sent them,
by way of punishment, into the service.
The ignorance of some of these young nobles on most
subjects of general information was perfectly startling.
Many of them were quite unacquainted with the nature
of tenets which had rent Europe asunder, with the geographical
position of neighbouring countries, or with the
best-known historical facts. Not having access to any
easy literature, such as our magazines and miscellanies
afford, owing to the extraordinary limitations imposed
upon the press, they had been left without an inducement
to read, or an opportunity of discovering their own deficiency.
One or two anecdotes, the first of which I heard my
cousins relate, will prove there is no exaggeration in these
remarks.
During the wild excitement of the early part of 1849,
a youthful count, glowing with new-born patriotism, confided
to them one day that he and all the Gioventù—that
is, Young Ancona—had determined upon turning Protestant,
in order to get rid of the preti, and to conciliate England.
Presently a shade of embarrassment came over his
face, and he said, “Pardon me, but now I think of it, tell
me, do the Protestants believe in God?”
On one occasion, I was present when some conversation
took place before a youth fresh from Bologna, in
which an allusion was made to Cleopatra and the asp.
“How can I know anything about these matters?” he
exclaimed; “I have never read the Bible!” Another
time, I remember hearing my uncle gravely asked, in reference
to a journey he was meditating, whether he meant to
go by sea from Marseilles to Paris?
It was melancholy in the extreme to see the number
of young men thus idling away their lives, filling the caffès
and casino, and subsisting on a stipend that an English
younger son would consider inadequate to purchase gloves
for a London season. The plan pursued is, to give each
son an apartment in the family residence, his dinner, and
the allowance of from ten to twelve dollars a month, which
is to provide for his dress, his breakfast, the theatre, and
cigars.
How they contrived, with these limited means, to keep
up the appearance they did is perfectly inexplicable. They
even seemed able to gratify little harmless flights of fancy,
such as coming out unexpectedly in singular suits of Brobdignagian
checks or startling green cut-aways, which, with
a pair of luxuriant whiskers, a hasty, determined walk, and
a peculiar flourish of the stick, were supposed to constitute
the faithful portraiture of an Englishman, than to resemble
whom there could be no greater privilege, so great was the
Anglomania that prevailed.
And now, I fancy, I hear the remark, “All this time
you have been describing the manners of the Italian nobility.
What are their gentry like—their middle classes?”
Which inquiries shall be answered, as fully as circumstances
admit, in my next chapter.
CHAPTER V.
The middle classes—Superior education of the men—Low standard
of female intellect and manners—Total separation from the nobility—Cultivated
physician—A peep into his household—Family
economy—Conversazione at the chemist's—Passion for gambling—The
caffè.
It is very difficult to convey any correct idea as to the
state of the middle ranks of society in Italy, particularly if
we do not divest ourselves of everything like comparison
between them and what apparently are the corresponding
classes in England.
In the first place, it must be borne in mind that no
gentry exist among the Italians. If a man springs from
the nobility, he has no resource in the Pope's States but
the Church: any other profession is deemed incompatible
with the dignity of his birth, as there is neither army nor
navy, nor any other public service. If he belongs to the
mezzo cetto, as it is termed, he must either be a physician,
a merchant, a lawyer, a shopkeeper, or hold some meagre
appointment, as an underling, in one of the government
offices, the posts of distinction and emolument in these departments
being almost invariably conferred upon ecclesiastics.
It is rare to find this middle class, the best educated
beyond a doubt, contributing to swell the ranks of
the priesthood, which are principally recruited from the
families of the decayed nobility, or from the peasantry and
lower orders.
In years gone by, the mezzo cetto bowed unquestioningly
to the supremacy of the nobles, who patronized them
affably in return, invited the family lawyer and physician
to dinner on the saint's-day of the head of the house, or
for the christening of the junior branches. They stood
pretty much in the light of client and patron, as in the
days of their Roman ancestors; but of late everything has
changed, and between the two orders there is now little
good-will or assimilation. It used formerly to be a constant
object of ambition to rise to the privileged rank; and
when any one succeeded in amassing a fortune, part of it
was often laid out in the purchase of some estate that conferred
a title of nobility on its possessor; then gradually,
through intermarriages with old but impoverished houses,
the ci-devant roturier fairly established himself in his new
position, and after one or two generations, the origin of the
family was forgotten. Now, on the contrary, a disposition
to ridicule what formerly was so much coveted seems to
prevail, and men have discovered that there are other roads
to distinction than through a patent of nobility; but,
mingled with this spirit of independence, there may still
be discerned a jealous feeling at the superior ease and
polish of the nobles—a sort of innate refinement, which all
their ignorance and prejudices cannot efface.
In the middle class, the absence of gentle breeding and
of the amenities of society is mainly attributable to the
inferior position held by the women belonging to it, or
rather the low standard at which they are rated. The
very tone in which an Italian of this grade passingly alludes
to le donne di casa is sufficiently indicative of the
universally prevalent feeling of their incapacity and helplessness.
Scarcely any attempt is made at improvement;
and the results can easily be imagined. Nothing can be
found more vulgar and illiterate than the wives and connections
of some of the most scientific men in the country,
or more homely and inelegant than their domestic arrangements;
nothing to our English ideas more repelling than
the appearance of a professor's lady slipshod, screaming at
her maid-of-all-work, or gossiping with the wife of a doctor-of-law
from an opposite window.
In compliment to our English name and culture, our
right to the best society the place afforded was unhesitatingly
acknowledged; and it is for this reason I can say but
little comparatively about the habits and interior of the
mezzo cetto. Perhaps this of itself conveys a better idea
of the complete separation that exists, than anything else
I could bring forward. With two or three exceptions, no
untitled person appeared in the circles in which we moved;
and with these two or three I observed no allusion was
ever made to their wives and families; their very existence
seemed to be ignored. Among all our acquaintances, one
of those we took the greatest pleasure in seeing was a
physician, certainly a man of no ordinary attainments:
gifted in intellect and conversational powers, he would
have been an acquisition to any society; but except in his
professional capacity, it was very difficult to induce him to
accept any offers of attention. We used to be glad of
some trifling ailment as a pretext for sending for him—an
indulgence which the low price of his visits—three pauls,
about fifteen pence—rendered very excusable; and we
then would have long conversations on politics, poetry,
and English customs and inventions. Like all Italians of
a superior stamp, he took the most lively interest in our
country's greatness and advancement, mingled with a constant
fear of his credulity being imposed upon, that rendered
him very amusing.
One day, after talking about railways, and lamenting
the obstinacy of the Government in opposing their introduction
into the Pontifical States, he said, hesitatingly,
“I have to-day heard something about England that surpasses
all belief. A person just arrived from London has
been trying to persuade me that he has seen a railway
there which runs over houses. Now, can this be true?”
“Oh, he must mean the railway to Blackwall!” exclaimed
one of my cousins, who, although she had never
been in England, with that marvellous interest in all connected
with it I have described, joined to the diligent study
of the “Illustrated London News,” and some of our most
useful periodicals, was perfectly versed in every recent improvement.
He listened to her animated description with
an earnestness it is not easy to conceive, and at the conclusion
said, with the florid diction peculiar to the south,
“Glorious country, capable of such achievements! Happy
country, to have such daughters to recount them!”
It must have been disheartening to a man of this character
to return, after his day's labours were ended, to a
home such as his was described to us: small, dark, scantily
furnished—the little drawing-room, according to the
manners of that class, unoccupied even in the evening, and
exhibiting no traces of books or needlework—his wife
utterly uncompanionable and uncultivated, issuing from
the kitchen in a slatternly déshabille, to greet him with
some shrill complaint against the children, who, pale,
whimpering, and unwholesome, looked as if they were
pining for fresh air and exercise. Such is the appearance
of the household for six days of the week. On Sundays,
the lady comes out richly dressed, with a dignified deportment
that a duchess might envy, and slowly paces the
promenade, accompanied by her children, elaborately attired,
and the maid-servant, whose exterior has undergone
the same magical transformation.
The manner in which Italians of this rank contrive to
gratify their taste for dress would seem perfectly marvellous,
considering their slender resources, if one had not
some insight into the remarkable frugality of their household
expenditure. No English economist could contrive
to keep body and soul together in the way they do: our
northern constitutions would sink from insufficiency of
aliment if compelled to follow their regimen.
Let us take a peep at another family by way of illustration.
It consists of father, mother, two children, and a
maid-servant; and the income on which they depend for
their maintenance may be estimated at from fifty to sixty
pounds a year. The husband holds some responsible Government
appointment in the Customs, or Provincial
Treasury, or something of the kind. Before he gets up in
the morning, he drinks a cup of café noir, or, if his circumstances
permit, he partakes of it at the caffè, with the
addition, perhaps, of a cake of the value of a half-penny:
the same beverage, with milk and a little bread, forms the
breakfast of the family at home. One o'clock is the general
hour for dinner. There is soup, containing either slices
of toasted bread, or rice, or vermicelli; then the lesso, the
meat from which the broth has been made, never exceeding
two pounds—of twelve ounces—in weight, half a pound
being usually calculated as the allowance for a grown-up
person; this is eaten with bread, which holds the place of
potatoes in England, and is consumed in large quantities.
A dish of vegetables, done up with lard or oil, completes
the repast; but I must not omit that the poorest table is
well furnished with excellent native wine, which, as well as
the oil, is generally the production of some little piece of
land in the country that the family possess. This routine
of living is never departed from, except on maigre-days—when
fish, either fresh or salted, Indian corn-meal, with a
little tomata and cheese, dried haricot beans, lentils, and
so forth, take the place of the usual fare—and Sundays and
Festas, which are solemnized by an additional dish—such
as a roasted pigeon or a few cutlets. In the evening they
sup; but it is scarcely to be called a meal—consisting
merely of a little salad, fennel-root eaten raw, or fruit,
with those never-failing accompaniments of bread and the
sparkling ruby wine, that really seem their principal support.
The head of the house does not trouble his family much
with his presence; he spends his evenings abroad, either
making conversazione at some neighbour's, or at the caffè;
or if his means be so restricted as to deny him the occasional
indulgence of a cigar or a glass of eau sucrée, which he
might be led into there, he has the resource of going into
the apothecary's shop, where, amidst a stifling atmosphere
of drugs and nauseous compounds, a number of people congregate
to lounge and gossip. The doctors resort here, and
a choice circle of their intimate friends besides, and all the
news—foreign, medical, and domestic—is fully discussed.
There are, of course, many amongst the mezzo cetto
whose incomes are much beyond the instance I have just
stated; some are in positive affluence, but their style of
housekeeping does not vary in proportion; and the account
here given may be taken as a very faithful specimen of the
condition of the majority of this class, in which the elements
of several gradations of rank in England are curiously
blended.
The domestic manners here attempted to be traced are,
it will be at once perceived, widely different from what are
comprehended by us in the term “middle classes;” strangely
opposed to all we are accustomed to include under that
designation. Those evening conversazioni at the apothecary's,
for instance; not mere students lounging about on
the look-out for practice, but white-headed men, ranking
high in their profession, lawyers, merchants, shopkeepers,
all cronies and gossips of half a century's standing—what
analogy is there in our own country to anything of this
sort?
A physician of repute, in one of our large towns, would
stare at finding himself in the centre of a group assembled
in the dingy Farmacia; still greater would be his surprise
could he understand the nature of the conversation so
eagerly carried on. Contrary to English medical etiquette
in matters which belong to their profession, these Esculapians
are especially diffuse, each relating, for the benefit of
the circle, the minutest particulars of any interesting case
he has in hand, without the slightest reserve in mentioning
the patient, who becomes public property, to be dissected
and lectured upon at pleasure. Besides which laudable
relaxation, a pastime of another kind is often carried on in
some little den at the back of the shop, where a card-table is
spread, and large sums, in reference to the means of the
players, are nightly staked.
The passion for gambling is very general, extending to
all ranks, and, not confined to cards, exhibits itself in a
fondness for everything connected with hazard—such as
raffles and lotteries, about which last I shall speak more in
detail in another chapter.
Scarcely a day used to pass in which people did not
come to the door to ask us to take tickets in some riffa;
it was either a poor woman who wanted to dispose of her
pearl ear-rings; or a girl che si voleva far sposa, and by way
of earning a few pauls to buy a wedding dress, offered a
pincushion for a prize. Fishermen made raffles of their
finest turbots; ladies (though rather sub rosâ) of their old-fashioned
shawls; distressed dandies of elaborate pipes; in
fact, never was there a population in which the fickle goddess
numbered more persevering votaries.
In the caffès, play was always going on, I believe, in a
greater or less degree. These establishments, so indispensable
to an Italian's existence, must not be identified with
the fairy-like structures of mirrors, chandeliers, and arcades,
that Paris and some of the principal cities of Italy exhibit.
In all the inferior towns which I have visited, one description
of a caffè may serve to convey a very correct idea of
the totality. A middle-sized room, opening on the street—in
summer with an awning, benches, and little round
tables outside the door; within, similar benches and round
tables, a very dirty brick floor, and a dark region at the
back, from whence ices, lemonades, eau sucrée, coffee,
chocolate, fruit syrups, and occasionally punch—denominated
un ponch, and cautiously partaken of—are served out.
Youths with cadaverous faces and mustachios, in white jackets
striped with blue, answering to the appellation of bottega,
fly about like ministering genii, and from four or five
o'clock in the morning till past twelve at night, know repose
only as a name.
The caffè likewise comprehends the office of confectioner
and pastrycook, and no cakes or sweetmeats can be procured
but what it furnishes; sorry compositions, it must
be owned, their predominant flavour being that of tobacco,
with which, from being kept on a counter in the general
room, amid a thick cloud of smoke from a dozen or so of
detestable cigars, they are naturally impregnated. They
are inexpensive delicacies, however; for the value of a
half-penny such gigantic puffs of pastry and preserve, such
blocks of sponge-cake garnished with deleterious ornaments,
such massive compounds of almond and white of egg are
obtainable, as would make a schoolboy's eyes glisten with
delight. Sold at half-price the next day—a farthing, be it
remembered—they are purchased by poor people for their
children's slight matutinal refection. We could never
persuade one of my uncle's servants, the father of a family,
that a piece of bread would have been a far more wholesome
breakfast for children of five or six years old, than a
little weak coffee, and one of these stale cakes. He would
shake his head, and say it was more civile, i. e. refined, for
the povere creature than bread; as for brown bread—soldiers'
bread, as they contemptuously term it—being reduced
to that, is considered the extremity of degradation.
The sweetmeats the caffè fabricates are still more primitive
than its cakes, principally consisting of unbleached
almonds, coarsely incased in flour and sugar, chocolate in
various forms, and candied citron. Immense quantities of
these are prepared at Christmas, partly disposed of to outdoor
customers, and the remainder, piled up on large trays,
are raffled for among the frequenters of the place, with a
zest which shows that, however insignificant be the prize,
or paltry the venture, the delight in all games of chance is
still predominant.
Besides the caffè, properly so called, with its talkers
and loungers and smokers, its players at dominoes and
cards, its readers of the few newspapers permitted—so
meagre of details, so garbled in their statements, that little
information can be gathered from their columns—the premises
generally contain a sala del bigliardo upstairs, and
sometimes a private room for the accommodation of such
systematic card-players as nightly resort there, and do not
wish the magnitude of their stakes to attract public attention.
Members of the oldest nobility, and the most
questionable mezzo cetto, princes and brokers, merchants
and marchesi, Jews and Christians, are known to pass
every evening of their lives together in this manner; and,
nevertheless, hold no intercourse at other times, never
entering each other's houses, or acknowledging or seeking
any further acquaintance beyond the mysterious precincts
of the caffè.
CHAPTER VI.
Prejudice against fires—General dilapidation of dwelling-houses—A
lady's valet de chambre—Kindness towards servants—Freedom of
intercourse with their masters—Devotedness of Italians to the
sick—Horror of death—Funerals—Mourning.
While thus curious about the middle ranks, it must not
be forgotten that in the upper there was quite sufficient
difference from all one's preconceived ideas of elegance or
comfort to render their domestic habits interesting. One
of the strangest things that struck me as the winter came
on, was the prejudice prevailing against the use of fireplaces,
or, indeed, against any appliances to mitigate the
severity of the weather. Horace Walpole, in his letters,
says, very justly, that the Italians never yet seem to have
found out how cold their climate is; and this remark,
made a hundred years ago, is still perfectly applicable—at
least as regards the people of Ancona.
The dread of sitting near a fire, and the contempt for
carpets expressed by the old inhabitants, are perfectly ludicrous:
they mourn over the effeminacy of the rising generation,
who, so far as they are permitted, gladly avail
themselves of these pernicious indulgences. A gentleman
one night came freezing into our drawing-room, and as he
stood complacently before the fire, made us laugh at the
account of a visit he had just been paying to the Count
M——, the admiral of the port—a sinecure office, it is
needless to remark. He found him in bed with a slight
attack of gout, and his wife and daughter-in-law, with
several visitors, were sitting round him, making la società:
the gentlemen in their hats and cloaks, and the ladies in
shawls, handkerchiefs tied over their heads, and the never-absent
scaldino, filled with live embers, in their hands.
Our friend was pressed by the admiral to follow the general
example, and cloak and cover himself. He declined at
first, being of a very ceremonious disposition; but soon, he
admitted, his scruples gave way before the excessive coldness
of the room, on a northern aspect, destitute of fire or
carpet; and he resumed his out-door apparel like the rest.
It used often to happen, when paying a morning visit,
that the drawing-room fire was ordered to be lighted out
of compliment to us, in spite of our entreaties to the contrary;
the result, as we too well anticipated, after many
laborious efforts on the part of the unhappy servitor, with
a vast expenditure of breath—a method of ignition seemingly
preferred to bellows—being invariably a hopeless
abandonment of the enterprise, a stifling amount of smoke,
and an unlimited number of apologies.
In the daytime, the Anconitan ladies, even of the first
rank, rarely occupy their drawing-rooms, which are merely
entered to receive visitors; they mostly sit in their bed-chambers
until evening; and hence the formal appearance,
the absence of all comfort, that strikes an English eye so
much on first entering their houses. From the street you
proceed, by a large porte cochère, of which the gates are
closed at night, into a court or vaulted passage, wide
enough to admit a carriage. Of this, evidence is afforded
by the appearance of that vehicle in dim perspective; while
undoubted proofs arise, through the olfactory nerves, of
the immediate vicinity of the stables. You ascend a handsome
stone staircase, but rarely swept, and only traditionally
whitewashed, on which groups of beggars are stationed
in various attitudes, and pause at the first-floor, before a
door that has not been painted for thirty years, when the
present owner of the palace was married. Your first summons
is unheeded; and it is not till after ringing a second
time rather impatiently, you are admitted by a dirty manservant,
who has evidently been cleaning lamps, and is uneasily
settling himself into his tarnished livery-coat, which
had been hanging on a clothes-horse in a corner of the hall,
in strange contrast with a large genealogical tree in a massive
gilt frame, and four carved benches painted with
armorial bearings, but literally begrimed with dirt, forming
its principal furniture. You next traverse a magnificent
apartment—the hall of state in olden times—about
fifty feet long and forty wide, still retaining traces of its
former splendour. The lofty ceiling is richly painted in
those fanciful arabesques which belong to a period between
the school of Raphael and the decadence of art at the end
of the seventeenth century. The walls are hung with
family portraits of various epochs—knights in armour,
children in starched ruffs and brocades, cardinals in their
scarlet robes; and alternated with these are immense mirrors,
dimly reflecting on their darkened surface the changes
that have crept over the once gorgeous scene. The rich
gilding above and around you, of the frames and candelabra,
of the splendid cornices that surmount the inlaid
doors, and of the ponderous chairs in their immovable
array—all this does not more forcibly bear witness to the
lavish profusion that must once have presided here, than
do the torn and faded draperies, the broken and uneven
pavement, the unwashed and uncurtained windows, to the
present neglect and penury which make no effort to ward
off the progress of decay.
Beyond this is the drawing-room, fitted up according to
the fashion of thirty years ago, since which nothing has
been added to its decorations. The walls are covered with
crimson brocaded satin, as well as the two upright forbidding-looking
sofas and the chairs which are stationed around;
there is a carpet, but it is very thin and discoloured.
Between the windows there is a marble console, on which is
placed a time-piece; and on the opposite side of the room
stands a corresponding one, embellished by a tea-service of
very fine old china, and a silver lucerna, one of those classic-shaped
lamps that have been used in Italy since the days of
the Etruscans; there is no table in the centre, or before
the sofa, no arm-chairs, and no books. Wood is laid in the
fireplace ready for us; it has thus remained since our last
visit, and we entreat that it may stay unmolested.
The marchesa comes in to see us; she has a tall figure,
but rather bent, and though little more than fifty, looks in
reality much older. She takes snuff, and carries a checked
cotton pocket-handkerchief: she kisses us on both cheeks, and
calls us her dear children. There is some difficulty about
adjusting our seats, because she wishes to give up the sofa
to my cousin Lucy and me, at which we of course remonstrate;
and the difficulty is not removed until we propose a
compromise, and sit upon it one on each side of her. The
servant places footstools before us, and brings his lady her
scaldino. She is an invalid, and we talk at first about her
health; but though naturally not averse to such a topic, she
has not the keen relish for medical disquisitions which
Thackeray declares is the peculiar attribute of the British
female; this perhaps is owing to her ideas of the healing art
being very much circumscribed—not extending beyond
ptisans and sudorifics, the Italian panacea for all the ills of
life. Next we discourse about the Opera, the carnival
season from Christmas to Lent having just commenced;
and the marchesa inquires if we often go there, and how we
like the prima donna: she says that her nuora (daughter-in-law)
is passionately fond of everything connected with the
theatre, but hints that she might oftener renounce the
indulgence of that taste, and stay at home to make the
partita at cards with her. Being, however, as she herself
remarks, a very amiable specimen of the genus suocera, she
does not attempt in this respect to coerce the marchesina's
inclinations, remaining satisfied with the privilege of
occasionally grumbling, and claiming sympathy for her
forbearance. Then we are told of the progress of a lawsuit
which has been pending more than twenty years between
her brother and herself, and can never be concluded, because
the Legislature admits of appeals from one tribunal to
another, against the judgment last pronounced; so that
these affairs are generally prolonged while the litigating
parties have life or funds at their disposal. Disputes of this
kind between near relations are of such common occurrence
as to excite no surprise or animadversion. Of course, we
sympathize with her anxiety as to its termination; and then
a turn is given to the conversation by the entrance of one
of her married daughters, residing in the same street, who
now comes in to pay her mother her accustomed daily visit,
and kisses her hand with a mixture of deference and affection
that is novel, but not unpleasing.
After the usual inquiries concerning the children and
her son-in-law, the old lady turns again to us, and, for the
fiftieth time, reverts to a project she has much at heart—that
of arranging a matrimonio for one of my cousins; and
again, for the fiftieth time, she is gravely reminded that an
insuperable barrier exists to anything of the kind. Any
allusion to controversial subjects being, by long-established
consent, interdicted between my uncle's family and their
Anconitan acquaintances, the marchesa is fain to content
herself with a sigh and expressive shrug of the shoulders;
and tapping me on the cheek, inquires if I, too, have such
an objection to change my religion and farmi Cattolica as
my poor cousins are imbued with. “Ah, carina,” said
she, confidentially, “I could get good matches for you all, if
you had not these unhappy scruples!”
However, I laughingly assure her I am as obdurate as the
rest, and we rise to take our leave. The same process of
kissing is gone through as when we came in, and we are
asked anxiously whether our cameriera is in waiting, as it
invariably shocks her rigid ideas of propriety that we should
cross the street unattended. On being answered in the
negative, the marchesa insists on summoning a grey-headed
old man, dressed in rusty black, denominated her valet de
chambre, and confiding us to his care to see us safely to our
home, she especially charges him not to leave us till the door
is opened, as if some danger lurked upon the very confines
of our threshold.
This is only one among the many instances of the extraordinary
restraint exercised in Italy upon the freedom of
unmarried women. A girl of fifteen, if married, is at liberty
to walk about alone, while I have known a woman of forty—the
only Italian old maid, by the by, it has been my lot
to meet—who was not allowed to move a step without at
least one trusty servant as her body-guard.
Our remonstrances and entreaties are unheeded, and we
depart with our veteran escort: the marchesa is so pleased
that she kisses us again, and notwithstanding her infirmities,
insists on tottering across the great hall and accompanying
us nearly to the door; while the dirty man-servant, after
showing us out, with an anxious, perturbed expression, returns
to his mistress, to replenish her scaldino, give her any
fragment of news he has collected, and comment upon our
extraordinary English infatuation.
The old man, who feebly hobbled after us in the steep,
unevenly-paved street we had to traverse, was an excellent
specimen of that race of servants such as we read of in
Molière and Goldoni, but are now rarely seen in real life.
He had lived upwards of forty years in the family, was
identified with its cares and interests, and gradually, from
being the personal attendant of the old marchese, had after
his death assumed the same office towards his widow, who,
as an invalid, required constant care. Hence his title of
the marchesa's valet de chambre, which, strange to say, was
a literal one, as he assisted her maid in her toilet, sat up at
night in her room when her frequent illnesses required it,
brought her her coffee every morning before she got up, and
was servant, nurse, confidential adviser, as the occasion
needed.
Another old man in the establishment, who held a post
somewhat equivalent to the duties of house and land steward,
had entered the service of the marchesa's father when a
boy, and on her marriage had followed her to her new abode;
he died not long after my arrival, and was mourned by the
whole family with a degree of regret alike creditable to themselves
and the departed. Indeed, the attachment mutually
subsisting between masters and servants in the old families
of the Italian nobility is one of the most amiable features
of the national character. Almost every family we knew
had at least one or two of these faithful old domestics in
their employment, who, when no longer capable of even the
moderate exertion demanded of them, were either retained
as supernumeraries, or dismissed to their native villages
with a pension sufficient to support them during the remainder
of their days. It is very rare to hear of a servant
being sent away; their slatternly and inefficient manner of
discharging the duties allotted to them being overlooked,
if compensated by honesty and attachment. A much larger
number of servants are kept than the style of living would
seem to require, or the amount of fortune in general to
authorize; but it appears to be a point of dignity to have a
numerous household, a remnant of the feeling of olden times,
when the standing of the family was estimated by the number
of its retainers. Many more men than women are employed;
and to this it is owing that the former discharge
duties we are brought up to consider exclusively devolving
upon females. Besides the culinary department, which is
invariably filled by them, they sweep the rooms, make the
beds, and are very efficient as sick-nurses. We knew a lady
whose man-servant sat up for eighty nights to tend her
during a dangerous illness.
The wages paid are excessively low to our ideas, a very
small sum being given in money to female servants, the
amount not exceeding from a dollar to fifteen pauls a month
(4s. 6d. to 6s. 9d.), and to men from two to three dollars;
but then there is always a liberal allowance of wine and
flour, the produce of the family estates, generally much more
than they can consume, and the surplus of which they are
permitted to dispose of. Their daily fare is of a description
that would ill suit the taste of English domestics, even in
the most limited establishment: the quantity of meat provided
for each is at the rate of six ounces per day, which is
boiled, and furnishes the never-failing soup and lesso. This
constitutes their first, or mid-day meal; breakfast not being
usual, or at most consisting of a draught of wine and a crust
of bread. In the evening they sup; this repast being supplied
by the resti di tavola—that is, remains of their master's
table, which are carefully divided amongst them by the cook,
who is usually a personage of great authority, having under
him an assistant in his noble art, besides sundry barefooted
little boys, who pluck poultry, run on errands, or idle about
most satisfactorily.
It is scarcely necessary to say that the low scale of wages
and living here mentioned is not applicable to English or
other foreign families: it was always understood that
forestieri paid more than natives; and yet, with these advantages,
the servants seemed to think they were scarcely
compensated for the absence of the freedom of intercourse
which they had enjoyed under their former masters. We
were considered proud, because we discouraged the system
of gossiping carried on among the natives, who allowed their
servants to mingle a remark in the conversation while they
were waiting at table, or to relate anything of the news of
the town they might have heard. The contrast presented
by our English reserve must indeed have been striking; and
it was difficult at first for our attendants to reconcile themselves
to it, or to be persuaded it did not really arise from
harshness or displeasure. I have often thought we might
with advantage copy a little in this respect from our continental
neighbours, and, by treating our servants less like
machines, cultivate the kindly feeling which should subsist
between them and their employers; although I am very far
from admiring the familiarity here described, which arises
from the inherent love of talking and horror of solitude or
silence, common to all Italians.
I witnessed some traits of this invincible garrulity, which
amused me very much. A noble lady, living next door,
used every morning to hold conversations with the nursery-maid
of a German officer's family, from opposite windows:
the street not being more than ten feet across, it required
scarcely more elevation of voice than is peculiar to Italian
women, to possess herself of numerous interesting particulars
respecting their mode of life, manner of feeding, dressing,
and rearing their children, of the length of time this
maid had been in their service, and so forth. My uncle's
man-servant was detected in the gratification of a similar
curiosity towards an opposite neighbour, the wife of a lawyer,
to whom, from our hall-window, he was repeating the
names of the signorine and the cugina forestiera, my unworthy
self, with many little details of our tastes and pursuits,
which apparently were received with avidity.
One of our acquaintances, with more than a usual share
of inquisitiveness, used, whenever a message or note came
from our house, to summon our envoy to her presence, and,
while inditing an answer, would ply him with questions
about our domestic arrangements, what we had for dinner,
whether any of the signorine were going to be married, and
other inquiries of the same nature; which would have been
considered insufferably impertinent, were we not aware that
every servant entering her house was subjected to a similar
interrogatory, and that nothing unfair or unfriendly was intended
by it. And yet it is wonderful to notice that the
servants thus talked to, and let into all the prying weakness
of their masters' dispositions, are never impertinent, nor
outstep the boundary of the most obsequious respect and
humility.
Strange, indescribable people! I lay down my pen, and
laugh as recollections without number of similar instances
rise up before me; and yet the moment afterwards, when I
think of all the examples of their kindness of heart and good
feeling which I could almost as easily recall, I despair of
doing justice to them, or of conveying any idea of the never-ceasing
contrast between the pathetic and grotesque that the
Italian character presents. In all scenes of distress or
affliction, their sympathy and charity are very remarkable;
and it is beautiful to witness their untiring solicitude towards
each other in sickness. Even young men, of apparently
the most frivolous disposition, evince, under these
circumstances, a tenderness and forbearance we are apt to
consider the exclusive attribute of woman. No Italian,
when ill, is ever left alone; his friends seem to think they
are bound to devote themselves to him, and divide the hours
of watching according to their numbers or the nature of
their avocations.
The case of a young man at Bologna, related to me by
one of his medical attendants, who lingered for eight months
in excruciating agonies from an incurable injury to the
spine, was an affecting illustration of this devotedness. He
had been gay and frivolous himself, and his companions
shared more or less in similar failings; but contrary to what
is usually seen, after having partaken of his hours of pleasure,
they did not fly from the scenes of pain his sick-room
presented. They so arranged their attendance upon
him, that, out of eight to ten who were his most intimate
friends, two at a time were always, night and day, by his
side, ever watchful to mitigate, to the utmost of their power,
the tortures under which he laboured. It was said, no woman's
gentleness could have surpassed the care with which
they used to arrange his bed, so as to procure him some
alleviation from change of posture, or the patience with
which they strove to cheer the failing hope and spirits of
the sufferer.
Precisely in the same manner are frequent examples
afforded of their unwearying attendance upon female relations
or old friends; yet though no indecorum is attached
to this practice, it would be unfair to say it is universal.
In every instance, however, as I have before mentioned, the
lady's sick-room is as open to gentlemen as the saloon; and
there they are always found, in the hours appointed for receiving,
seated near the invalid, detailing every little anecdote
that can be of interest, and assuming an air of cheerfulness
to keep up her courage, and prevent her mind from
becoming depressed.
It is singular, notwithstanding, that all this sympathy
and kindness, which never fails throughout the longest illness,
should shrink from witnessing the last struggles of expiring
nature, and that the sufferer so long and carefully
tended should be deserted in his last moments by those
most dear to him. With that peculiar horror of death
which characterizes them, as soon as it is evident the dying
person's hours are numbered, that the agonia has commenced,
and the passing bell has tolled, the nearest relations are not
only removed from the chamber, but generally from the
house, and often the priest alone remains to close the eyes,
whose last gaze on earth had perhaps sought the faces of
those most loved, and sought in vain.
The funeral is never attended by the relations, who are
supposed to be too much overwhelmed by grief to appear in
public; but the male friends of the deceased accompany the
body on foot, carrying lighted torches to the church at
which the funeral-service is performed. This ended, it is
lowered into the ancestral vault where moulder the remains
of many generations. No hearse, or carriages, or mutes,
form part of the procession: one or more priests lead the
way, bearing a massive crucifix, followed by the compagnia
of the parish—an association of laymen who, for pious purposes,
always give their presence on similar occasions. They
are preceded by the banner of their confraternity, each
parish having a different emblem—such as a Mater Dolorosa,
the Annunciation, or the Descent from the Cross—and a
peculiar dress, consisting of a loose robe of scarlet, blue, or
yellow. With torches in their hands, and chanting the accustomed
litania de' morti, they produce an impression not
easily forgotten. These are followed by different brotherhoods
of monks, of the orders most protected by the deceased;
and according to their numbers may be estimated his rank
and possessions. Then comes the coffin, borne upon the
shoulders of men shrouded in those awe-inspiring peaked
cowls, with slits for the eyes, so familiar to us in all pictures
of religious ceremonies in Italy: the ends of the richly-embroidered
pall are held by the most intimate friends, followed
by the rest of the acquaintances; while the whole is
closed by a motley crowd of all the beggars in the town—men,
women, and children—who always flock to a funeral of
distinction, to offer their prayers for the repose of the soul
of the departed, and to receive the alms which are invariably
accorded them.
Mourning is much less frequently worn than amongst
us—in fact, only for the very nearest relations; but, when
adopted, it is united to that retirement from the gaieties of
society and subdued deportment which should certainly be
its accompaniments; hence one never sees in Italy the indecent
spectacle of a lady at a ball, resplendent in jet ornaments
and black crape, which foreigners remark with astonishment
is often witnessed in England. After the death of
a parent, it would be considered very indecorous to be seen
in any place of amusement until a year has elapsed. I remember
hearing a young man censured for dancing at a
small party ten months after he had lost his father.
Widows do not wear any peculiar costume, but are simply
expected to dress in black and live in retirement for a
year. In a country where the deepest affections are rarely
connected with the marriage state, and where no conventional
prejudices exist as to the width of a hem or the depth
of a border, this is far more natural, and sometimes permits
of the wearer's real feelings being discerned, by the appearance
of the dress assumed on such occasions. Parents do
not put on mourning for their children, which strikes one
as more strange, considering the strong affection generally
existing towards their offspring; and it also appears customary
to endeavour to shake off the grief attendant on this
loss by every expedient. I have seen an old man at the
Opera not a month after the death of his grown-up son,
and was told it was right and necessary he should have his
mind diverted; and the same plea was brought forward to
justify the similar appearance of a lady in her accustomed
box, dressed in all the colours of the rainbow, only a few
days after the death of her sister's husband; the poor widow
being plunged in all the first bitterness of grief, as genuine
and profound as it has been my lot to witness. So far from
perceiving any impropriety in this action, if asked how she
could have the heart to visit any scene of amusement at such
a moment, she would have replied, that her sufferings had
been so great, she required some distrazione for the benefit
of her health; and this reason, by her country-people at
least, would have been considered perfectly satisfactory.
CHAPTER VII.
Decline of Carnival diversions—Dislike to being brought into contact
with Austrians—The theatre—Public Tombole—Short-sighted
policy of the Government.
It is Carnival-time, but only the name remains to mark
the period intervening between Christmas and Lent; all the
masquerades and revelries associated with the season are now
suspended. Since the Revolution of 1848-49, masks have
been prohibited, from the facility these disguises afforded
for holding political meetings, and making plots against the
Government; the zest with which all ranks used to join in
this amusement renders its interdiction a serious deprivation,
and does not augment the good-will with which the enactments
of the papal authorities are now regarded.
The balls at the Casino, which formerly enlivened the
Carnival, have likewise declined, from the unwillingness of
the natives to mix in any degree with the Austrian garrison,
the general and officers of which were of course invited to
be present. Even those families of Codini, whose known
retrograde principles rendered them well disposed towards
the Barbari, were afraid of braving public opinion by appearing
to be on good terms with the supporters of their
pontiff; so that the Austrian officers, at the first public ball,
to which they repaired with all their proverbial eagerness
for the dance, found a large and handsome ball-room, brilliant
lights and excellent music, but, alas, to their great
chagrin, nought but empty benches to receive them!
The theatre is now the only neutral ground where all
assemble; but even there the line of demarcation is very
jealously observed, and it is only in one or two boxes of
native families that the obnoxious white uniform is ever
discerned. To an Italian, the theatre is home, senate, forum,
academy—all and everything in life. He does not go there
half so much for the sake of the performance, as to fill up
four or five hours of his daily existence, to see his friends,
to hear what is going forward, to look at any strange face
that may attract his notice, to contemplate from his stall
near the orchestra the different flirtations carried on in the
boxes above and around him, and to take his own share,
perchance, in the numerous little comedies of real life that
are here nightly performed, while the mock-drama on the
stage forms but a minor part of the interests so curiously
concentrated in this building.
There was but one theatre in the town—a very pretty
structure, much larger and handsomer than would be met
with in any provincial town in England; and all its accompaniments
of dress, scenery, and orchestra on the same
scale of superiority. Either operas or prose pieces were given,
according to the seasons of the year and established custom.
In the autumn, comedies and dramas were performed
from September till the beginning of Advent, when theatrical
entertainments were suspended. From Christmas till
the end of Carnival there was the Opera, succeeded during
Lent by a dreary time of mortification. After Easter, the
public spirits were sustained by the speedy prospect of a
good spring campaign; and great excitement always prevailed
as to the operas to be represented, the names of the
singers engaged by the manager, whether the municipality,
by assisting his funds, would enable him to give a ballet;
and so forth.
Of course, none of the great vocalists, whom the north
seems to have monopolized, were ever heard, although this
theatre could often claim the distinction of having been the
nursery in which they were trained, and their latent powers
first called forth. The Government, impoverished as it is
with gaunt distress assailing it in the shape of houseless
poor, decaying buildings, and an exhausted treasury, never
hesitates to support and promote theatrical entertainments.
The theatre, to an Italian population, is like a sweet cake to
a fretful child: it serves to stop its crying, and divert its
attention for a moment, and the intelligent nurse is satisfied.
It is a safe diversion: they cannot conspire or talk politics,
for spies, as they well know, are largely mingled with the
audience, and every movement or knot of whisperers would
instantly be noted. The pieces performed are carefully
selected, and none with any allusion to freedom, revolt, or
anything of the sort permitted; for instance, a chorus containing
the word libertà would be suppressed, or another
word of different signification substituted for it. Auber's
Muta di Portici is not allowed to be represented, because
its hero, Masaniello, is the leader of a popular insurrection;
nor Rossini's Guglielmo Tell, for similar reasons; besides
many others that it would take too much space to enumerate.
Verdi's Ernani is no longer given, although in the early
days of Pius IX., when, after granting the amnesty to all
political offenders, he was hailed as the regenerator of Italy,
the scene in which Charles V. pardons the conspirators, and
exclaims, “Perdono a tutti,” was received in every theatre
of Italy with a frenzy of enthusiasm that must have been
perfectly electrifying. It has often been described to me
how in Ancona the whole audience used to sit hushed in
reverential awe till the expected words had been pronounced,
when, as with one voice and impulse, they would break
forth into a wild clamour of applause, which had in it
something inexpressibly thrilling and sublime.
But all this has passed away; the brief glory, the dream
of independence, the unwonted exultation, with its lamentable
reverse of ingratitude and folly, opportunities neglected,
and powers misapplied. The daystar has risen again for
their brethren, while the Anconitans are shrouded in even
darker oppression than of yore, and heavier chains have been
riveted upon them; yet stay, for I have wandered from my
theme, which was of the garlands twined around their
fetters, and of the gay strains and idle talk beneath which
the patriot's sigh is often stifled. So let us go back to the
interior of the theatre, if you please, and take a survey of
its various occupants.
It is seven o'clock, and the house is beginning to fill:
clerks, shopkeepers, spies, artisans and their wives, Austrian
soldiers, are taking their places in the pit, and the orchestra
are tuning their instruments. As the overture begins, the
frequenters of the stalls saunter into their usual places. Of
these, the majority are the officers of the garrison, who
always make a great clanking of their long broadswords,
and always twirl their moustaches. The boxes, too, are
rapidly becoming tenanted. Every family has its own, and
the scene grows more animated as one bright well-known
face after another appears in her accustomed seat.
The husband, in all well-regulated establishments,
accompanies his wife to the theatre, and remains in the box
until some visitor appears, which is generally the case as soon
as she has been seen to enter. He then takes his leave,
and does not trouble her with his presence till the close of
the evening, to escort her home; as it would be considered
very insipid to be seen sitting long together, and infallibly
be looked upon as the result of the lady's want of attraction,
or the lack of resources on his side to fill up the time.
Released from his attendance, therefore, as soon as the
welcome sound is heard of the curtain at the door being
drawn aside to give admission to a visitor, he hastens in his
turn to commence a round of calls, to those ladies especially
whose houses, when the theatre is not open, he is most in
the habit of frequenting. Thus the leading belles gather
round them their usual società, and they talk and laugh, as
is their wont, without much regard to the performance,
except at any favourite air or duet, when, as if by magic,
the whole audience is silent and breathless with attention.
The loquacity prevalent is sometimes annoying to the pit
and gallery, particularly in a prose piece, when the actors
are scarcely audible from the hum of patrician voices, and an
angry “Zitto, zitto!” gives an indication of popular feeling.
But even this departure from the usual orderly demeanour
of the people is very rare. It would be difficult to find
more decorum and correctness of deportment than they
present: there is no bad language, no quarrelling, no drinking—not
even any popping of ginger-beer, or fragrance of
orange-peel.
The same operas are repeated night after night, without
intermission, for weeks. In the course of a season lasting
nearly two months, seldom more than two operas are given,
the expense of getting up a greater variety being of course
one reason; while the taste of the Italians themselves leads
also to their preferring the frequent repetition of their
favourite composers, rather than a constant change, which,
in music, they declare is a drawback to enjoyment.
The price of admission during the Carnival appears
ridiculously low, the ticket being only fifteen bajocchi—equal
to 7-½d.; and a subscription for the season can be taken
out for fifteen pauls—6s. 9d., which insures admission for
every night, excepting benefits. In the spring, as there is
a ballet besides the opera, the price is doubled; in the
autumn, when the commedia—the national term for dramatic
representations—is given, it is only a paul—5d.
The boxes, as I said before, are all private property;
each is partitioned off from the other as at the Italian
Opera in London. They are fitted up on either side with
narrow sofas, on which the società lounge and gossip at
their ease. Amongst their fair owners, the respective
number of visitors is a great subject of heart-burning, it being
an enviable distinction to have one's box constantly filled.
As regards the toilet of the ladies, there is but little display:
in winter, they are scarcely more dressed than for a walking
out, many of them even retaining their bonnets; and on
account of the extreme cold, it is often customary to send
chauffepieds to keep their feet warm during the performance.
The house is dimly lighted to English eyes, accustomed to
the flaring gas of our own theatres, for there is only a large
chandelier from the centre, and the foot-lights; but Italians
are not fond of a strong glare, and resorting thither so constantly
as they do, a greater degree of brilliancy would prove
fatiguing to the sight. The existing arrangement permits
them to see and to be seen, and with this they are perfectly
satisfied; and thus they go on, every night of the week
while the season lasts—excepting Mondays, when an inferior
singer takes the prima donna's place, and Fridays, when
the theatre is closed—gossiping, trifling, complaining, but
still led there by an irresistible impulse, a void in domestic
life which, so long as English hearths and homes maintain
their proud supremacy, will happily remain an unsolved
mystery to us.
Amongst the few remaining of the popular diversions
that used to be permitted in Carnival are the public tombole
or raffles, held on Sundays and Feste in the principal square
of the town, to which the lowest of the people eagerly resort.
No drunkenness or fighting is ever seen, although, amongst
that vast crowd of priests, peasants, Jews, young caffè-loungers,
shopkeepers and their wives, grisettes and gendarmes,
at least one or two thousand of the very dregs of the population
are assembled, all intent upon the game, which is nearly
allied to one I remember as a child, called Lotto, which we
used to play at for sugar-plums.
On the balcony of the government palace, in a conspicuous
position, is placed a wheel containing the numbers,
ranging from one to ninety, which are drawn from it by a
child blindfolded, and proclaimed aloud as they successively
appear. The players, on paying eleven bajocchi—5-½d.—are
each furnished with a card containing three rows of figures
variously transposed, so that no two cards are alike. Whoever
has a corresponding number on his card to the one
called out, marks it; and he who first can boast of an unbroken
row of five numbers thus filled up, is the winner,
and shouts out “Tombola fatta!” in a voice that makes the
welkin ring, and flings his hat, if he be so fortunate as to
possess one, into the air.
I do not believe the amount of the prize depends on the
number of persons engaged in the game; the value of the
tombola to be played for is always known beforehand; some
are of fifty, a hundred, or even more dollars, and the fascination
of this pastime for the populace may therefore easily
be imagined. Those who are too poor to afford the outlay
necessary for a card, go into partnership with others, and
often four or five are jointly interested in the purchase.
The scene during the drawing of the numbers is very
picturesque, and is well set off by the old piazza, with its
quaint irregular buildings, leading at the upper end by a
semicircular ascent to the church of the Dominicans, in
front of which is stationed the colossal statue of one of the
popes—Clement XII., I think—in his pontifical robes and
triple crown, forming the centre of a group of market-women,
seated beside the baskets of fruit and vegetables they daily
bring hither for sale. A little further down the Austrian
band is stationed: it has been playing before the commencement
of the game as only Austrian military bands can play;
and the intoxicating strains have wrought still higher the
general expectation and ferment. Every balcony and window
are tenanted by anxious players and lookers-on, for
gentle and simple are equally ardent and absorbed; while
the whole space beneath is filled up by the eager, clamorous
crowd, watching their own or their neighbour's progress, as
if life and death were staked on the result.
Handsome peasant-girls in gay holiday attire, saturnine,
calculating priests, laughing milliners' apprentices, sturdy
fishermen, tattered women, beggars in every stage of misery—here
are groups that a painter would long to delineate,
for, discernible upon all, stamped as if with nature's signet,
is the impress of beauty and of race.
The clear wintry sun shines on those upturned heads,
and the blue unclouded sky forms a brilliant background to
features of so much fire and animation, such coal-black
kindling eyes, and figures of so much artistic outline and
perfection, that the very originals of some of Raphael's
master-pieces seem again presented to our view, and we
recognise faces whose lineaments are familiar to us in the
Sacrifice at Lystra, or the Preaching at Athens.
As the game wears on, when nearly ninety numbers
have been called out, and the result yet remains undecided,
the thrill of agitation preceding each successive, announcement,—the
sudden silence, as if every one held his breath
to catch the first sound on which his fate might hang,—is
very remarkable and suggestive.
It is a grand spectacle of gambling, openly countenanced,
nay more, encouraged by the Government, which sees not
that in thus feeding the love of hazard and thirst for excitement
in its subjects, it is but arming them with weapons
that sooner or later will be employed to its own destruction.
But in their short-sighted policy, the Roman rulers discern
nought but the expediency of furnishing the people
with amusement, and turning their thoughts from politics.
And when the diversions of the afternoon are ended, when the
crowd disperses, as only an Italian crowd can disperse, without
shrieks, or jostling, or rough-usage, while a murmur of
animated voices diffuses itself through the streets,—no
watchful eye seems to penetrate through this fair surface,
no warning voice denounces what poison lurks in the anodyne
which has been administered that day.
CHAPTER VIII.
The Lottery—Its miserable results—Evening parties—Absence of all
ostentation—Poverty no crime—Grand supper on Shrove Tuesday—Reception
of a Cardinal.
The national taste for gambling—so strikingly illustrated
to the most casual observer in the excitement produced
by the tombola—is still more perniciously fostered
by the system of the government lottery, the existence of
which produces the most baneful influence upon the country.
As in the tombola, the numbers range from one to
ninety, of which five are drawn every week at Rome.
What is termed playing in the lottery, consists in staking
sums, varying in amount at the pleasure of the player,
upon one or more numbers, which, if they come up, yield
prizes proportionate to the sum hazarded and the manner
of the venture. For instance, if a person decides upon
three numbers—say 19, 27, 60—and plays upon what is
called the terno secco, he receives no profit unless all three
are drawn; but then, in case he is successful, his gain is
infinitely more considerable than if he had stipulated for a
prize should only two of his numbers appear. A quinterno—that
is, for five numbers played on the same ticket to
come up together—is very rare; yet there are not wanting
instances of this extraordinary good-fortune, which are
eagerly remembered, and have been fatal lures to many an
infatuated player.
The botteghini, or lottery-shops, are constantly filled
with the most idle and miserable of the population, who
come to risk the few bajocchi they have stolen from the
urgent wants of their families upon the numbers they may
have dreamed of, or seen written upon a wall, or picked up
on a slip of paper in the street, or that have been given
them by some person supposed to be skilled in this species
of divination. But this dangerous propensity is not confined
to the lower classes—all seem to play with reckless
infatuation: the rich prelate, with the aim of still further
augmenting his hoarded wealth; the speculative trader, to
gratify his love of hazard and excitement; and the poor
working-man, with the more simple motive of relieving the
sharp penury of the moment, or realizing some vision of
prosperity. The young artist ventures his quarter of a
dollar every week on the terno selected by his lady-love, in
the hope of a prize sufficient to enable him to gratify
his dream of foreign travel and excitement; the servant-girl
has faith in the numbers given her by a white-bearded
Capuchin, and plays them in the fond delusion of winning
a dowry and a husband; and that worn and wretched-looking
woman, with three or four tattered children at her
heels, and a puling swaddled infant in her arms, gaunt
famine stamped on every feature, comes to stake five or six
copper coins on the numbers she has dreamed her dead husband
brought her in the night, and goes back to the damp
cellar she inhabits, to indulge in restless anticipations of
plenty and success.
The prevalence of the lottery tends to keep up superstition
of the most debasing kind: omens, dreams, lucky or
unlucky days, are noted, and the corresponding numbers
eagerly sought for in books published for the purpose, a tattered
copy of which is sure to be possessed by any family
who can boast of a member sufficiently a scholar to decipher
it. If a bat flies in at a window, the number analogous to
this portent is looked out and played; if a favourite dish is
dreamed of, the cabalistic volume is again consulted. On
occasion of a criminal being executed, half the town plays
numbers corresponding to the event itself, the culprit's age,
and the nature of his crime.
Another popular method of invoking fortune is to consult
priests and friars; amongst the latter, the Capuchins
enjoy the greatest reputation for the success of their predictions.
The most singular feature in the proceeding is,
that as the clergy are forbidden to give numbers, the letter
of this prohibition is very skilfully eluded by no allusion
being made to the subject, but the priest, for example, tells
a story in which he brings in some striking circumstance,
having, as he well knows, a direct reference to the dream-book,
which is consulted accordingly.
It is altogether a grievous evil—a plague-spot extending
far and wide. Many families, from comparative affluence,
have been reduced to beggary by the indulgence of
this passion. Even those who gain prizes appear to reap
no lasting benefit from success; and amidst all the wonderful
stories related of people being unexpectedly enriched
by winning a prize, I cannot at this moment remember
one instance in which any permanent good has resulted
from the lottery. Unfortunately, as it is a government
monopoly, and yielding a large revenue, in the existing
order of things there is no ground to hope for its suppression.
I have digressed again from the Carnival; and perpetually
find myself painting in sombre colours, when I would
fain impart a little light and liveliness to my picture. The
truth is that I have little of gaiety to record; for it must
not be overlooked that I am writing about a country under
the blight of an armed foreign intervention, and kept in
control by the Austrian discipline of the stick. The only
parties I remember during the so-called gay season were
weekly evening reunions at the residence of one of the
foreign consuls, where the lady of the house, a charming
and gifted Parisian, drew together forty or fifty of the
leading people of the place. It required the utmost effort
of her amiability and liveliness, however, to accomplish
this, for all spirit and wish for enjoyment seem to have forsaken
the Italians, excepting their constancy to the theatre,
which they cling to with the tenacity of old associations.
In these small parties, all the amiable features of the
Italian nobility were brought to light—their freedom from
affectation or ostentatious pride, their perfect good-breeding,
and absence of invidious comparisons or vying with
each other—points in which I fear the society of a provincial
town in England, notwithstanding our boasted intellectual
advantages, would be lamentably inferior. The
ladies dressed simply, but almost invariably in good taste;
and, what was much to their credit, they whose circumstances
would have enabled them to outshine the rest, never
attempted any display; those, on the other hand, who
were known to have very limited resources, made no struggles
to appear rich, and had no feeble attempts at splendour,
no incongruous putting together of faded flowers and
Roman pearls—which, by the by, are carefully eschewed
in the land of their nativity—or tarnished feathers. A
most graceful example of delicacy towards the feelings of such
as were in restricted circumstances was set by the hostess,
who, although belonging to one of the first and wealthiest
families of France, and possessing a wardrobe stocked with
all the novelties of Paris, always appeared in the same
dress, without any ornaments of value; and amiable as she
was to all her guests, she yet peculiarly devoted herself to
those from whom she could receive no attention or hospitality
in return.
Amongst the most regular in coming every week, were
a young couple whose situation excited universal sympathy.
The contessina was the daughter of the last representative
of a very old but impoverished family, and was married to
a native of Lombardy, but had been pursued by a series of
misfortunes, which ended in the ruin and exile of her husband.
Compelled to return with him to her own country
in the utmost poverty, she was everywhere treated with as
much consideration as if the wealth of Crœsus was at her
disposal. No one looked down upon her, though it was
known she kept but one servant girl, and always ironed
her husband's shirts; and none of the ladies fancied it derogatory
to dance with the poor refugee who gave lessons
in drawing and mathematics, and was at his wits' end to
provide a maintenance for his young wife and child. Evidently
their poverty was no crime and no disgrace.
The style of these parties was perfectly simple and inexpensive.
There was no supper, no constant eating and
drinking, no incessant jingling of trays and glasses, or adjournment
to the refreshment-room. A tea-table, presided
over by the hostess herself, or one of the ladies present,
formed the great centre of attraction: people gathered
in groups round it, not formally arranged, but some sitting,
others standing—les petits jeunes gens, the adolescent beaux,
making themselves useful, and handing the tea, in lieu of
the attendance of servants, which, as tending to formality,
was as much as possible dispensed with. This, with ices
handed round once or twice later in the evening, was considered
ample for the refection of the company, who were
quite delighted with the trattamento, as they termed it,
and enjoyed their ices as children would do any particular
treat. On ordinary occasions, the fashion of the natives
was followed in this house; no refreshments at all being
given but a little eau sucrée.
The amusements of the evening consisted of dancing,
varied by one or two vocal pieces from some of the persons
present, who, accompanied on the piano by a master, sang
magnificently, as Italian amateurs always do—since, unless
especially gifted both as to ear and voice, they never cultivate
the art; and for this reason, though less pretty singing
is heard than in England, one escapes the infliction of
much that is bad. The dancing was much as it is everywhere
else—quadrilles, waltzes, polkas, and the cotillon,
but carried on with unaffected spirit and pleasure. The
young men, I especially remarked, did not enjoy that happy
immunity from terpsichorean labours which, amongst us,
they so much covet; and if one of the gioventù would fain
have indulged in a sentimental meditation on a sofa, instead
of joining in the dance, he was presently rebuked by two
or three elderly gentlemen of the old school, who, after inveighing
against the degeneracy of the present age, sent
him humbled to seek a partner. A young Tuscan marchese,
fresh from Florence, where probably he had been perverted
by intercourse with British youths, was looked upon quite
as a dangerous reprobate, for declining to dance quadrilles
on the plea that they were troppo papavero—that is, too
poppy-like, too narcotic for his taste.
This, however, was the only exception to the general
characteristics of good-humour and amiability which prevailed,
and never flagged, till the end of the cotillon intimated
that it was time to think of breaking up. When
the night was fine, the most of the company walked; for
the distances were not great enough, and the streets too
steep, to render a carriage necessary or agreeable. Nobody
ever seemed tired or cross; and as all went away in detachments,
the sound of their talking and laughing could be
heard at a considerable distance, and was the best tribute
that could be paid to the elegant simplicity and kindness
of their entertainers.
The only opportunity afforded me of seeing the society
of Ancona displayed in all its ceremony and state, was on
the evening of Shrove-Tuesday, the last day of Carnival,
when one of the oldest and richest noble families gave a
grand supper, according to established usage for many
years. Then, indeed, all the pomp of by-gone times was
revived, and it was like a scene out of an old play to be
met on the stairs by servants in state liveries bearing huge
waxen torches, and ushered into the great hall, where stood
the daïs or raised canopy, denoting the former dignity of
the house as feudal princes, with the arms and quarterings
emblazoned on hangings of scarlet velvet. From thence one
passed through successive rooms, all brilliantly lighted, into
the saloon, at the door of which the two younger sons of the
family, Don Carlo and Don Girolamo, in the absence of
their eldest brother, the Principe, and supported by several
of the amici di casa, with deep bows performed the first
part of the duties of reception. At the further end of this
apartment was their mother, the Principessa, in black velvet
and diamonds, who, on hearing the names announced,
would, if the new-comer was a lady, advance a few steps to
meet her with a dignity that was peculiarly her own, and,
taking her hand, conducted her to the divan which ran
round three sides of the room, whereon a formidable row
of silent figures, arrayed in brocaded silks and jewels, were
deposited. Then, with a prolonged courtesy, which was in
its turn acknowledged by a ceremoniousness of demeanour
apparently looked upon as appropriate to the occasion, the
stately old lady would return to her post. The men, on
their entrance, advanced to where she stood, and bowed
profoundly, followed by a circular reverence, to the fair
automatons stationed around, after which they backed out
of the circle, and took their places in the ranks that filled
the anteroom and doorways.
It was amusing enough to watch for awhile, and to speculate
whether it was their fine clothes and their diamonds,
or traditional ideas of etiquette, which had benumbed the
whole assemblage, who for the most part were the same accustomed
to meet on such friendly terms at the simple parties
already described; when a great sensation was excited on
the approach of the Cardinal ——, a near relation of the
Principessa, spending a few days in his native city, on his way
to the legation to which he was appointed. The sons, with
the intimate friends, hastened to the head of the stair-case,
while the Principessa went as far as the first drawing-room to
receive him. When he entered the saloon, she alone walked
at his side; the rest, with two or three priests he had
brought in his train, his secretary, chaplain, and so forth,
flocked behind. All the ladies stood up at his coming, as
if he had been a royal personage, nor did they resume their
seats until he was placed in an arm-chair, beside which his
cousin seated herself.
About ten o'clock, the doors opening into the supper-room
were thrown open; and as the Cardinal led the way,
the ladies next, arm in arm, the men following en masse, a
really brilliant spectacle presented itself. The room was
large and lofty; the walls covered with crimson brocade,
as also the gilded high-backed chairs and sofas; chandeliers
hung from the richly-painted ceiling; other lights were reflected
from sconces at the sides, and three or four large
tables glittered with massive candelabra. The supper was
not laid out as in England—not even fruits and flowers
appeared upon the tables, which were spread as if for dinner,
with a profusion of plate, valuable old china, and exquisite
damask linen.
When the guests were seated, the grey-headed servants
brought in large dishes of macaroni, dressed with gravy and
spices, which were placed on a sideboard, and served out—the
young principi and the ever-faithful friends themselves
handing the plates, which the servants stood by in readiness
to change. Such an endless variety of dishes followed,
all brought in and distributed in the same manner, that
many have escaped my recollection: boiled fish, of a
quality much prized; galantines of turkey and tongue;
vol-au-vent; vegetables in forms and variously prepared;
ornamented hams; turkeys stuffed with truffles; chickens
en mayonnaise; salads of lobster—in fact, everything that
is usual at suppers, and all in greater profusion, excepting
sweets, of which there was only one kind. Towards the
close, various kinds of ice were brought in, besides bonbons
and cakes of different kinds; but no fruit, it not being
considered indispensable to have gigantic apples and pears
or hard pine-apples to grace a supper-table. Champagne,
and every other sort of wine usual on such occasions, were
repeatedly handed round, but, I remarked, scarcely tasted
by the ladies; for, temperate as are the men of Italy, the
women surpass them, rarely being prevailed upon to touch
anything but their own country wine, mixed with water.
As soon as the repast commenced, the rigid gravity
previously maintained was gradually laid aside; a genial
influence evidently diffused itself over all. The good things
so liberally provided were really enjoyed, and thoroughly
done justice to: many people had not dined that day, on
purpose to have a good appetite for the evening—they said
so with a simplicity that was very pleasant. There was
not much conversation, but a great deal of good-humour,
and many pleasantries on the part of the serving-gentlemen,
who, in the pauses, stood about with plates in their
hands, eating, as happily as possible, their own share of
what they had assisted in dispensing. They all said Lent
was coming on too fast not to make the most of the present
moment; and certainly they were as good as their word.
The Cardinal gave his acquiescence to this opinion by a
jovial laugh, and leaning back complacently in his chair,
stretched out his legs, resplendent in their scarlet stockings,
with an appearance of intense enjoyment.
As the hour drew on to twelve, an adjournment to the
saloon was proposed, when coffee was brought in, and soon
afterwards the eminentissimo gave the signal for departure.
The same formalities were observed on his exit as attended
his appearance, and he was accompanied down the stairs to
his carriage by his young relatives and the other gentlemen
who had received him, carrying silver candlesticks, in addition
to the servants, who bore flambeaux. After he had
gone, the guests rapidly dispersed, and went away cheerful
and satisfied, to commence on the morrow the abstinence
which, in all conscientious families, was rigidly practised
during Lent.
On our way home, we passed many houses where suppers
were still going on; for the custom of thus celebrating the
last night of Carnival is universal; and, from the patrician
banquet I have described, down to the humblest artisan or
shopkeeper, all endeavour to make good cheer to the utmost
of their power. It is considered seemly, however, to separate
early, in order not to invade the respect due to Ash-Wednesday;
so that the midnight chimes had not long
ceased to reverberate, when silence and darkness enveloped
the whole town so lately surrendered to feasting and enjoyment.
CHAPTER IX.
Picturesque environs of Ancona—Dwellings of the peasantry—Their
simplicity and trust—Manner of life and amusements—A wedding
feast.
By way of an agreeable contrast to the patrician associations
which surrounded us, we used in our walks to take
great interest in noticing the peasantry or contadini of the
environs; and circumstances having protracted my stay beyond
what was originally intended, I was enabled, when the
lovely month of April invited us to longer excursions, to see a
good deal of their primitive mode of life. The town being
small, with scarcely any suburbs beyond the gates, a very few
minutes were sufficient to transport one from the dark, narrow
streets to the open country, rich in its cultivation and
fertility, and beautiful in its undulating hills, its towering
cliffs, and broad expanse of sea. Never have I known spring
more lovely than amid these scenes: the glad blue sky, the
fair blossoms and budding foliage, the fields of young corn
gently waving in the breeze, the sweet scent of the violets
with which the roadside banks were thickly strewn; the
sense of beauty, the voiceless music, beneath whose spell
each tiny leaf and blade of grass seemed sparkling and harmonious;
and, above all, the sea, the silvery sea, so still, so
majestic, so sublime—the whole rises to my memory in all
its fascination of sunshine, and colouring, and perfume.
No stranger approaching by the high road from Florence,
which follows the curve of the bay, with the promontory on
which Ancona is built stretching forth like a gigantic arm
to impede his onward course, and forming the boundary of
the prospect, can have an idea of the nature of the scenery
which lies behind this barrier, and is perhaps unique in its
combination of all the softest features of a pastoral region,
with the lofty cliffs and sea-views of a grander landscape.
From the very gates, the land was laid out in small
allotments or possessioni, each of barely a few acres in extent,
planted with long rows of vines, intersected with
patches of wheat, maize, and vegetables, that were studded
with apple, peach, almond, and other fruit-trees. No barrier
more formidable than a luxuriant hedge, a perfect wilderness
of May-flowers, honeysuckles, and dog-roses, divided
the possessione from the road; the entrance was by a gate of
very simple construction, surmounted by an arch with an
image of the Virgin. Like Little Red Riding-hood, all one
had to do was to pull up the latch and walk forward—not
into the jaws of a perfidious wolf, but up a pretty avenue of
mulberry-trees, with vines trained in festoons along their
branches. A rude well—so picturesque in its shape that it
never failed to bring to my mind the representations of
Jacob's meeting with Rachel—always stood in the foreground,
while a little in the rear appeared the cottage of the
occupants of the farm; these dwellings of stone, blackened
by time, were comfortless and primitive in the extreme, the
windows unglazed, and the upper story accessible only by
an uncovered staircase outside.
Two or three ragged little children were always at hand
to carry news of a stranger's presence to their mother, who
was perhaps tilling the ground at some little distance: the
good woman soon made her appearance, barefooted, and
carrying, admirably poised upon her head, a large pitcher
of water, with another of equal size supported on her hip;
in her other hand she bore the coarse broad-brimmed straw hat
which was in general her protection from the sun. Her
costume consisted of a petticoat of scarlet and blue-striped
cotton, with a bodice or stay of a different colour, from
beneath which appeared the white sleeves of the shift,
reaching to the elbow, where they were fastened in and terminated
with a frill, much as is seen in engravings of
Raphael's Fornarina; around the throat and shoulders was
a handkerchief, so scrupulously adjusted as barely to disclose
the coral necklace, without which even the poorest
contadina would think her everyday attire incomplete.
There was often much beauty in the face set off by this picturesque
equipment, for, however worn and sunburnt it
might be, it could usually boast of jet-black tresses, dark
vivacious eyes, well-cut features, and the whitest possible
teeth. The welcome, too, was pleasing—no constraint, no
bashfulness, but a straightforward, hospitable simplicity
that won its way immediately to the heart. We were perfectly
at liberty to come in and look about us, ask questions,
and rest ourselves, and were secure of giving unbounded delight
if, on coming away, we purchased fruit or eggs to the
value of a few baiocchi.
After one or two visits of this nature, we were quite on
a footing of intimacy, and the mother and children would
seat themselves round us, to indulge in a little conversation.
If we chanced to come on a festa, or when the daily toil was
over, the circle would be increased by the father and his
grown-up sons, who, in their rough but not unmusical
peasant dialect, plied me with inquiries about the country I
came from, and its peculiarities, such as whether we had a
moon there, and what the people ate. In a fashion they
had all heard of England, as a wonderfully rich and large
city; but its inhabitants being heathens, was what had
principally impressed itself upon their minds, and awakened
their regrets. In all that regarded themselves, they were
very communicative; and in one possessione especially,
where the bond of union was cemented by their having supplied
my uncle's household with milk for several years, they
used to tell us of all their domestic concerns, from the
courtship of Celestino, the eldest son, who was promesso to
a neighbouring contadina, to the pearl earrings and necklace
which Orsolina, a pretty laughing damsel, the only
daughter of the family, had just received as a troth-plight
from her affianced swain. I remember, as an instance of
their perfect trust in us, that, after having displayed these
valuables with a great deal of pride, the girl put the little
pasteboard box containing them into my cousin Lucy's
hand, and proposed she should take them home to show her
sister, l'altra signorina, whom a trifling indisposition had
confined to the house.
The frugality with which these peasants live is surprising,
particularly when one sees what a fine, hard-working
race they really are. Their food consists in great measure
of bread, made of equal proportions of ground beans and the
flour of Indian corn, of which, every morning, all the members
of the family are furnished with a supply before setting
out on their different avocations. At noon, they assemble
for dinner, which is of polenta—Indian corn-meal stirred into
boiling water till it becomes about the consistency of
thick oatmeal porridge; it is then poured out on wooden
platters, and eaten with no other condiment than salt.
Bread and a moderate draught of wine—or, in summer, occasionally
vinegar and water—complete the repast. In the
evening, they sup on bread and salad, or an onion, or fennel-root,
or raw beans. Meat they never taste, except on Sundays
or the great feste; and then it is in so small a quantity,
and so boiled down by having been made into soup, that it
cannot convey much nourishment. Singularly enough, they
have a prejudice against milk; and when a cow is kept for
the purpose of supplying the consumption of the town, they
make no use of it themselves: in those cases where any is
left upon their hands, it is always given to the pig.
In summer, when the labours of the day are at an end,
they assemble on the threshing-floor adjacent to the house,
and dance to the music of a tambourine, which is played
successively by the different members of the family; even
children of six or seven years old often take their turn, and
beat the rural instrument with great spirit and precision.
Their national dance, called the saltarello, does not exhibit
much variety of figure: the two performers stand facing
each other, the woman holding her dress spread out, her
partner with his hands in an easy attitude on his hips:
thus prepared, they set off, advancing and retreating,
doubling and pursuing, circling round and round each other,
in a quick hopping sort of step, always keeping admirable
time, and accompanying the music by a sort of hissing sound,
which appears to have an exhilarating influence. As soon
as one couple pause to take breath, another is ready to step
forward; while the interest of the spectators and the animation
of the dancers never seem to flag: sometimes the old
people, the elders of the group, become so excited, that they
start up, push aside the younger ones, and foot it away with
a nimbleness and dexterity which call down general applause.
Their households are generally large, for, as the sons
grow up, they invariably marry, always in succession, according
to their birthright, and bring their wives home to
the paternal roof, unless one has a religious vocation and
becomes a priest, or a lay-brother in some order of friars.
As soon, however, as they become too numerous, the padrone,
the owner of the land, steps in to say he will not
have so many useless mouths upon his property; so then
one at least of the junior branches is obliged to look out
for another possessione to cultivate.
The terms on which they hold these farms, and the
system pursued between landlord and tenant, are very different
from English usages. No rent is paid, but the produce
is equally shared; the proprietor receives his half of
everything in kind—so many measures of corn, so many
jars of oil, and barrels of wine; nay, even to the vegetables
and poultry daily brought into the market for sale, there
is understood to be an exact division. It is looking after
these petty details of their property, and regulating their
multifarious accounts, which forms the occupation of the
industrious nobles. Among the wealthiest of these proprietors,
some own as many as 50, 60, or even 100 possessioni,
varying in size and value from £30 or upwards yearly
income to the possessor, down to those that do not yield
him more than £12 or £14 clear profit; which last, however
incredible it may seem, give support to a family of five
or six in number on the premises. Of course, it cannot be
supposed that the shares are very equitably divided; indeed,
it is always considered that the fruit and vegetables daily
consumed by the peasants are exclusive of this arrangement;
but then, to counterbalance this, the padrone also
has his perquisites, in a stipulated number of fat capons at
Christmas, eggs and a lamb at Easter, and the choicest of
the grapes, apples, pears, pomegranates, quinces, &c., to be
stored for winter use.
On the whole, a great deal of harmony between the two
classes seems to prevail; the landlord is always consulted
as to the marriage of any of the contadino's family, and is
expected to grace their wedding and christening festivities
with his presence, and to stand godfather to the first child.
In the times when it was customary even amongst persons
of the highest rank to send their children out into the country
to be nursed, a peasant woman from one of the possessioni
was selected for the office of baglia, and the infant
marchese or principe, as the case might be, duly swaddled
and sparingly washed, passed the first year or two of his
existence in perfect equality with his foster-parents and
their children. Even now, when this practice among the
nobility is obsolete, except in the case of some stony-hearted
and prejudiced old suocera, similar to the one I have already
given an account of, the wet-nurse is always chosen from
among the family's rustic dependents; and, if careful and
devoted to her charge, is so kindly and liberally treated
during her stay at the palazzo, that a mutual feeling of
affection and gratitude is invariably the result, manifesting
itself throughout life by protection and assistance on the
one hand, and little freewill-offerings upon the other.
The observances of the peasants in regard to their weddings
and courtships are very curious, and date from time
immemorial; indeed, neither in their mode of dress nor
form of speech do they appear to be sensibly affected by
the fashions of the day; and I have been told by good authorities,
that in many respects they are as their forefathers
were 300 years ago. After a young man has signified to
a girl's parents his wish to marry her, and has satisfied
them as to his circumstances, present or prospective, he is
allowed to visit at the possessione on Sundays and holidays,
though under considerable restrictions. The young people
are not allowed to go together to fairs or merry-makings,
or even to talk alone, except when separated by a hedge or
paling; and here even their attitudes are prescribed by
rigid custom. The promesso is not to look too earnest or
taken up; while the girl is enjoined to keep her eyes cast
down, and to busy herself in plaiting the strings of her
apron into numberless small folds, of which they of course
retain the impression; and to be able to display these evidences
of having an admirer, whenever the rustic belles
meet at church, is quite a point of rivalry amongst them.
In conformity with the system prevailing through all
classes in Italy, the peasant-bride is expected to be furnished
with a trousseau, and even in this humble sphere it
is surprising what an amount of linen and clothes is considered
indispensable. She would be thought poor indeed
who could not number every useful article of wearing apparel
by a dozen of each kind, besides providing a chest of
drawers, sheets, mattresses, and pillows. The dresses are
fewer in number—not exceeding perhaps the wedding-gown,
which amongst the more affluent peasantry is silk,
and a couple of cotton ones, reserved for feste—the usual
costume being the corset, with a coloured petticoat. To
accumulate this stock is the object of a contadina's life,
almost from the time she can first speak or run alone, and
every nerve has been strained towards its attainment;
either in working in the possessione and carrying the produce
to market, or as a washerwoman, or rustic sempstress,
or in weaving cloth, the most patient self-denial and unremitting
industry are displayed, and kept up for a long
series of years. Comparatively with the population of the
towns, the peasantry marry late, the sposa being often four
or five and twenty before the corredo is completed on her
side, or the bridegroom has saved enough to furnish the
earrings and necklace of real, though of course small and
irregular pearls, he is expected to present.
The day before the wedding, all the bride's friends and
companions assemble, and carry her property with great
pomp to the dwelling of her future husband's parents, with
whom the young people are to take up their abode. The
more things displayed, the greater the envy and congratulation.
To enhance the effect, they form a sort of procession,
every one bearing on her head some portion of the paraphernalia;
each drawer is carried separate from the chest,
the contents having been carefully arranged, and submitted
to public inspection; then comes a damsel with the pillows;
then another with a small looking-glass, and so forth; all
talking and shrieking with delight, while a donkey laden
with the mattress soberly brings up the rear.
The next morning, they all repair in their best clothes
at an early hour to the sposa's house, and assist at the important
business of her toilet. Her costume consists of
the long-coveted silk dress, which is sometimes the gift of
the padrone, the favourite colour being lilac. It has been
made in town, and is very tight in the waist, evidently uncomfortable
to the bride, who is furthermore inconvenienced
by the unwonted restraints of shoes, open-worked
stockings, and white cotton gloves. The head-gear is a
white kerchief, or square veil, lightly placed upon the
elaborately-plaited tresses, and the ends falling loosely
upon the shoulders, which are, as usual, so studiously
covered as to afford but a glimpse of the comely rounded
throat, whose dark, clear skin sets off the rows of pearls by
which it is encircled. At the church they are met by the
bridegroom, with his friends and relatives; and after the
religious ceremony and nuptial benediction, the whole party
adjourn to the bride's new residence, where the wedding-feast
is held. In some districts, however, where their
quaint old usages are still strictly adhered to, they separate
at the conclusion of the service, which is performed on a
Thursday; and the sposa returns to the house of her
parents, doffs her gay apparel, and resumes her wonted
occupations. For the two following days, nothing is seen
of the bridegroom; but on the Sunday morning the same
joyous preparations as for the marriage-ceremony are renewed,
and the same glad trains set forth, and meet at the
village church, whence, after hearing mass, they all repair,
arm in arm, the sposo leading the way to the possessione of
his parents, where a great dinner celebrates the event.
The bill of fare on these occasions is more substantial
than elegant; as if to indemnify themselves for so seldom
partaking of animal food, their wedding-tables are furnished
with little else. The repast begins with macaroni, dressed
with coarse cheese, gravy, and spices; after which there
come quantities of meat, boiled, stewed, and roasted;
pigeons and fowls, all with most incongruous sauces of eggs
and garlic, vinegar and sugar; upon the composition of
which two or three cooks, friends of the family, who have
condescendingly volunteered their services for the occasion,
have been displaying their abilities. Sweet dishes they do
not seem to care for, excepting sometimes Zuppa Inglese—sponge-cake,
soaked in rum, and covered with custard, so
named in compliment to our national taste for ardent
spirits, supposed indispensable to a Briton's daily refection.
The padrone is seated at the right hand of the sposa, and
enters very unaffectedly into the jokes and hilarity of the
company; sometimes, under the influence of excitement,
one of the party breaks forth into an improvisazione, and
chants a rude epithalamium in honour of the newly-wedded
pair. The native wine circulates freely, and healths are
drunk, and showers of sugar-plums discharged at the bride,
amidst roars of laughter. These confetti, which are villanous
compounds of almonds and plaster of Paris, hold
the same place at weddings in Southern Italy that bridecake
does in England; and are distributed as presents amongst
the friends and relations of the families.
CHAPTER X.
A rural christening—The young count.
Rural christenings, particularly that of the first child,
are celebrated much in the same manner. We received an
invitation to one in the spring, at the house of some
peasants, who were not personal friends, but who asked us
out of compliment to a Polish lady, a patroness of theirs,
who was to stand god-mother, and with whom we were very
intimate. As the ceremony always takes place the day
following the birth of the child, we were apprized of the
event as soon as it occurred, and requested to hold ourselves
in readiness at an early hour the following morning.
We set out, a merry party—our friend and her two
daughters, my cousins and myself, besides the two ladies-maids
of the establishments, friends or connections of our
host's, wild with delight, yet never throughout the day
transgressing the bounds of the strictest respect towards
us. Outside the gates of the town, we found the contadino,
all smiles and importance, with his biroccio—a primitive
cart, rudely painted with heads of saints, wreathed with
flaming red and yellow roses, and drawn by two white
oxen—waiting to convey us to the scene of festivity. Here
we also met the Conte M——, the young owner of the
possessione, a perfect stranger to all of us, but who was to
be associated in the sponsorial duties with Madame V——,
or la Consolessa—as she was generally termed, in allusion
to the official rank of her husband, who was consul for
one of the northern Powers. The introduction was soon
effected by his tenant, in compliment to whom all superfluous
etiquette seemed laid aside, and the count gallantly
placed at our disposal his equipage—a very high, antiquated
barouche, with a step like a ladder; to this vehicle was
harnessed a cow, the hills we had to ascend being considered
too steep for horses; and in it our friend, one of
her daughters, myself, and the padrone were accommodated;
while the rest of the party took their seats on two
rough benches in the cart, which, by way of awning, had a
sheet supported on four canes.
Our road lay through a lovely country, alternating
from hill to vale, and at every ascent beautiful glimpses of
sea varying the prospect. As we toiled slowly along, the
contadino chiefly left his biroccio to the care of a little
boy, and walking beside the carriage, devoted his attention
to his landlord. Their conversation was very animated,
and turned upon the state of the country, their prospects
for the harvest, the hardship of being deprived of fire-arms
by the Austrian general (the Pontifical States were then,
as now, under martial law), the consequent boldness of
the robbers who infested the neighbourhood, and their
inability to resist them; besides many other matters connected
with their mutual interests. In about two hours'
time, we arrived at the place of our destination, and the
assembled friends came out to the gate to welcome us:
there were all the nearest of kin on both sides, the fathers,
the mothers, the brothers and sisters, besides others more
remotely connected, and affording in their contrasts of old
age and childhood, decrepitude and vigour, an admirable
study of grouping and physiognomy.
The first stage of proceedings was to conduct us to the
house, which was as rude and comfortless as most of its
description, the ground-floor being shared between the silkworms
and cows, and the upper story, inhabited by the
family, being attainable only by a steep outer staircase.
At the threshold we found some more venerable dames,
by whom we were ushered—the padrone amongst the rest—to
pay our respects to the young mother, who lay smiling
in her bed, the tiny stranger by her side, all swathed and
swaddled, and her gossips talking and chattering around
her, or bustling to and from the kitchen, which adjoined
her room, in utter violation of every orthodox rule of
quiet and good nursing. From thence, as soon as we were
considered sufficiently rested, we were marshalled for the
christening—a little girl of twelve years old, the contadino's
sister, carrying the baby, and the rest all following
in order. It was then, as we went along, that the terrible
fact of our being heretics began to transpire, and I was
amused at the pitying interest with which we were surveyed:
on entering the village church, in particular, when
it was remarked we took no holy water, nor crossed ourselves,
we overheard one old woman whisper to her cronies,
“Peccato, non sono Cristiane!” and the little children,
clinging to their grandams' skirts, peered at us inquisitively
with their glorious black eyes gleaming through the tangled
golden hair which hung about them like a mane.
The church was built in the shape of a Latin cross,
with no pretensions to architectural merit or high antiquity;
the walls whitewashed, and with no ornaments
beyond the crucifixes, candlesticks, and vases of artificial
flowers upon the principal altar at the upper end, and in
the two small chapels or recesses at either side, in which
also mass could be celebrated. Two confessionals, a few
benches, and a number of rush-bottomed chairs piled in a
corner, completed the fittings-up, if we except three large
pictures, of which one was suspended over each altar; they
were in oils, evidently originals, and of no modern date,
though from a very inferior hand—some unpromising
follower, perhaps, of the Caracci or Domenichino; for it is
from the school of Bologna that the paintings found in the
environs of Ancona seem principally to have been supplied.
The subjects were the Crucifixion, the Assumption of the
Virgin, and the Virgin as a child tending some lilies,
which grew up miraculously beneath her touch. In the
same chapel as this last, and immediately beneath it, so
placed that the frame, which was surmounted with a
wreath of flowers, should incline considerably forward, was
a very small discoloured head of the Madonna, as Mater
Dolorosa, her hands clasped, holding a heart, from whence
seemed to proceed flames of fire. A lamp was burning
before this, and a number of votive hearts and crosses were
fastened around; these, one of the old men, while we were
waiting for the curato, informed me were all offerings which
had been made in return for miracles that Madonna had
performed. He had known of pilgrimages made here
which were almost as efficacious as to the shrine of Loretto.
He looked wistfully at me as he said this, and slipping
away soon after, I saw him kneeling before the picture
with an expression of such unmistakable fervour in his
upturned face, that I felt persuaded he was praying heart
and soul for our rescue from perdition.
As soon as the priest, who had been detained some little
time in the sacristy, made his appearance, the ceremony was
performed, and then the baby was handed round to receive
the greetings of its sponsors and ourselves, on which occasion,
be it said, a convenient opportunity was afforded for slipping
a slight donation amongst the swathes with which the hapless
infant was encumbered; after which all the relations
pressed forward, and men as well as women kissed the little
creatura, as they termed it, with great affection, and carried
it back in triumph to the mother, who forthwith hung a bag
of relics round its neck.
I should be guilty of insincerity if I concealed that the
two hours which intervened between the banquet were
somewhat wearying. It was too hot to walk out, nor was
there any shade in the possessione; we had exhausted our
little topics of conversation with our hostess, who was,
besides, much occupied with her son; and no resource
appeared but to sit in the apartment where the cloth was
being laid with indescribable clatter both of plates and
tongues—a very small room on the other side of the kitchen,
furnished with a table and benches, from which the bed had
been removed for the occasion—or walk into the kitchen
itself, and contemplate the preparations for dinner.
Our party had been increased by the young curato, the
son of a neighbouring contadino, who seemed rather agitated
at the presence of so many ladies, and apparently looked for
countenance and protection to the count, who having but
recently returned from completing his education at an
ecclesiastical seminary, had not yet learned to manifest that
utter contempt for the priestly office which the youth of
Italy generally display. Madame V——, who had a great
respect for all spiritual authority, also hastened to the rescue,
and engaged the poor priest in a conversation about his
parishioners and the state of his church, on which he talked
very fluently; but unfortunately, on her proceeding to tell
him of various missions to Madagascar and China, in which
she took great interest, he showed himself so completely at
fault, apparently considering she alluded to some towns in
the Turkish dominions, that she hastened to change the
subject, to prevent our discovering any further deficiencies.
Meantime the count, who, by the by, was not a very
brilliant specimen of the Anconitan gioventù, acquitted
himself of his arduous duties with tolerable ease, notwithstanding
that the trammels of his education still hung about
him, and he looked rather too demure and artificial; above
all, he was dazzled by the spectacle of four or five girls,
who laughed, talked, ventured to express an opinion, and
did not keep their eyes immovably cast down. He certainly
did not get on so well with us as with his tenant; we had
very few subjects of interest in common; his family was one
of the most strict and old-fashioned in Ancona, and his
mother and sisters were rarely seen in society, or even
beyond their own walls. We remarked to him that we
never met them out, and he said that his mother disliked
walking, and did not approve of trusting her daughters with
any one but herself; so they only went to mass on Sundays
and feste; and then in the afternoon, by way of taking the
air, as well as for recreation, they repaired to a terrace on
the roof of their house, from whence they enjoyed a distant
view of the public gardens outside the Porta Pia, with all their
promenaders, and the Corso delle Carrozze. Remembering
the scanty rows of trees and patches of brambles dignified
by this appellation, as well as the half-dozen antediluvian
equipages therein displayed, it was scarcely possible to
refrain from smiling; but as he spoke in perfect seriousness,
I was compelled to check all tendency to mirth, and prosecute
my inquiries. Why did not he, then, sometimes escort
his sisters? He looked astonished, and replied, that his
mother did not think this proper—other young men, his
friends, might join them—in fact, it was not according to
their ideas. This was a trait of manners so unique as to
surprise even my cousins, accustomed as they were to the
code of Ancona propriety; but they listened with provoking
equanimity, and seemed more diverted at my amazement
than at anything else. “These poor people understand
nothing of domestic life, or the happiness of domestic intercourse,”
whispered Lucy, pityingly; “brothers and sisters
are very different here from what they are in England.”
The two lively Polish girls, however, came to my assistance,
though under certain reservations. “Ah, par exemple,”
cried Natalie V——, who, with her sister, had not long
returned from completing her education at a convent in
France, “that is extraordinary! I remember at Les Oiseaux,
that several of the girls had brothers, who were allowed to
see them in the parloir alone; and I know, when they returned
home, they used to walk out with them sometimes.
Pour aller dans le monde, certainly not; but if our brother
was here instead of in the Caucasus, poor fellow, you
should see, Monsieur le Comte, that Olga and I would
outrage les convenances a little!”
The youth thus apostrophized smiled dubiously, and
attempted to express that had he such charming sisters to
accompany, he should be glad to enjoy the privileges of
other countries; but being a novice in such matters, he
broke down suddenly, and again fell a prey to my inquisitorial
propensities. Was he fond of reading, and did he
ever read aloud in the evening to his sisters while they
worked? At this he fairly laughed, and said that libri di
devozione were all very well while one was in the seminary,
but he had had enough of them there, and knew the Vita
de' Santi by heart, and therefore always kept out of the way
when any lettura was going on.
“Then they are never allowed to read stories, or history,
or—or romances?” I proffered the latter suggestion very
hesitatingly, it must be owned.
“Oh, no—of course not: his mother said girls must
attend to the affairs of the house and to their religion; but
as to books of entertainment, or travels, or anything of the
sort, the less they read of them the better, as their heads
would inevitably be turned, and they would be wanting to
rove about the world, or be thinking about marriages of
affection and lovers”—and at this last word he blushed.
Thus foiled at every effort, the conversation had almost
come to a stand-still, when the noise, the stamping of feet,
the clanging of casseroles, and hissing of frying-pans,
reached their climax, a huge dish of macaroni was brought
in, and we were told to restar serviti. No entreaties could
induce any of our hospitable entertainers to seat themselves
at table—they all insisted upon serving us; and between
the intervals of carrying in the dishes and changing our
plates, repaired to the kitchen, where our handmaids were
also regaled, and made merry with right good-will. An
amusing incident occurred just before we took our places,
when Madame V—— and all of us stood up, and she motioned
to the young curato to say grace: he grew very red,
began in Latin, then stopped abruptly, and whispered to the
count imploringly, “I have forgotten it: what am I to
say?”
“Via, Via,” was the rejoinder: “say anything, say a
benedicite;” which being hastily gone over, the poor priest,
in much confusion, explained that he really did not remember
any formula, being accustomed only to make the sign of
the cross and say a paternoster.
The repast so closely resembled what I have described
as usual at the marriage-feast, that any recapitulation
would be tedious; neither vegetables nor fruit appeared, for
they would have been considered too like every-day fare to do
fitting honour to the occasion. As usual in such cases, one
had to choose the alternative of eating and drinking to
excess, or mortifying the good folks, whose hearts were set
upon seeing us do justice to their good cheer. Wine, both
red and white, abounded; and the young padrone took as
much interest in its merits as the contadino himself, recommending
the different qualities, and telling us of the various
ways of preparing them. To the guests in the kitchen it was
just as liberally dispensed, but no instance occurred of its
abuse; there was not even any approach to uproarious
hilarity.
No quarrel or dispute impaired the harmony of the day;
all the best features of the peasants' character had been
displayed—their hospitality, their courtesy, their simple
piety; and as we wended homeward, walking through lanes
and vineyards a portion of the way to the foot of a declivity,
where the biroccio and carriage awaited us, we were enthusiastic
in our praises. As a landed proprietor, the count
was naturally pleased at these encomiums on his tenantry;
but he somewhat damped our ardour by assuring us that
we must look upon the contadini we had just quitted not as
specimens of the whole race, but exceptions. “Through all
the Pope's States,” he said, “the country people round
Ancona are remarked as being generally good and well-conducted;
but if you go only a short distance into the interior,
a great difference is perceptible; and beginning at Loretto,
which is only twenty miles from here, they are all noted for
their implacability and revenge.” And then, by way of
illustration, he related some startling stories of treachery
and murder, with as much coolness as if they were everyday,
straightforward occurrences. These narratives brought us
to our equipages, in which we placed ourselves in the same
order as when we came, but without much attempt at conversation;
the young count, or hero of the day, as we had
named him, fell into a reverie, which we attributed to
fatigue, and Madame V——, in her excellent motherly way,
recommended him to retire early, and take a lait de poule.
But two days afterwards furnished an elucidation of this
mystery, in a visit to the Consolessa from the priest of her
parish, who had been requested by Count M—— to inquire
if her daughter Mademoiselle Natalie's hand was at liberty,
and the amount of her dowry. The first of these questions,
however, not being answered in a manner favourable to his
wishes, there was no necessity for entering into a specific
reply to the second.
Disappointed, but not dismayed, the trusty envoy presented
himself, very shortly after, to my uncle, with similar
interrogatories relative to the cugina forestiera, to which the
proviso of a change of religion was subjoined. It is needless
to give the tenor of his answer, or to add, that this adventure
often furnished us with many amusing recollections,
and was a magnificent termination to our christening-party.
CHAPTER XI.
Lent observances—Compulsory confession—The sepulchres on Holy
Thursday—Procession on Good Friday—Blessing the houses—Joyful
celebration of Easter.
In my last chapter, I find I stepped somewhat abruptly
from winter to spring, and talked of merry-makings in the
country, while in the one immediately preceding it I left
the good townspeople of Ancona enjoying their last night
of Carnival, with the dreary prospect of a supperless,
theatreless Lent before them. The amusements of the
so-called gay season had not been sufficiently numerous to
render the transition very remarkable to a superficial observer,
yet in many little ways the regulations peculiar
to this period were felt as a thorn in the flesh, and conveyed
with them some mortification to those by whom they
were conscientiously carried out. For instance, their dietetic
rules were rather peculiar: it was not allowed to make
more than one full meal a day, to eat any supper at night,
or to take milk above once in the twenty-four hours; on
Friday and Saturday of every week, milk was wholly forbidden;
besides a number of similar enactments, which
depended on the bishop of the diocese, who every Lent
issued a fresh table of regulations, modified according to his
ideas, or to the actual condition of the country.
In some of the churches, friars or Jesuit fathers, specially
summoned for the purpose, delivered a course of sermons,
inveighing against the prevailing irreligion and unbelief.
But if the preacher's talents were only of an average description,
his audience was limited to a few ladies and old
women: when, on the contrary, he happened to be distinguished
by a flowery and popular style of eloquence, all
classes would flock to hear him, numbers of young men
amongst the rest, who came in and out, lounged against the
columns, talked together in the pauses, stared at their
acquaintances, carried on a little flirtation—in fact, conducted
themselves much as if they were in the pit of a
theatre. In the same way any great funzione, where good
music and singing were sure to be heard, never failed to attract
the gioventù in crowds to the church in which it was
celebrated; while the stimulus of a higher motive than
mere curiosity, or the employment of an idle hour, never
appeared to be felt or even dreamed of. This total absence
of religion, or rather of all religious belief, is spreading fast,
and, no longer confined to young men of fashion as their exclusive
prerogative, is descending to the lower classes of the
community, who, discontented and repining, and debarred
from all means of enlightenment, look upon the blended
temporal and spiritual system of their Government with the
same hostility and mistrust.
Towards the close of the Holy Week however the
whole population becomes compulsorily devout. The parochial
clergy go round to every house in their jurisdiction,
taking down the names and ages of the inhabitants, and delivering
to all a ticket filled up with their name, requiring
them to repair, within a given period, to the parish church,
for confession and communion. Any freewill-offering, any
spontaneous act of grace in these religious duties, is thus
lost; and with the young men especially, prender Pasqua,
as it is termed, becomes a most irksome task, which they
endeavour to shuffle over, or resort to every expedient and
deception to evade altogether. The Government however
has always been very strict in enforcing this ordinance, with
the political view of maintaining its fast-waning influence
through the confessional, going even the length of refusing
pontifical subjects their passports, if they require to travel,
when it can be proved that they have neglected their Easter
duties—an odious abuse of authority, tending to bring religion
into contempt.
I remember hearing of the astonishment and indignation
of some members of the V—— family, the first year they
passed in Ancona, when the priest, having taken the statistics
of the household, and ascertained that they professed
the Roman Catholic faith, handed to each of them in succession
a printed ticket requiring them to conform to this
law. In France, they declared, they had never heard of
such a measure; and they could not, even before us, forbear
from expressing their disgust. It required all their mother's
persuasions, and the example of her unquestioning
submission to whatever emanated from priestly authority,
to stifle the murmurs of the young ladies and enforce their
obedience.
On Holy Thursday, after mid-day, an unwonted silence
seemed to fall upon the town, unbroken till the same hour
on Saturday. No bells were tolled, no matins or vespers
rung, no mass celebrated in the churches; while the streets
were filled with people hastening to the sepolcri, or sepulchres,
of which seven must be visited by the faithful. Each
church has its sepolcro, varying in the details, but agreeing
as to the general characteristics of the representation. The
high-altar is divested of its usual ornaments, in token of
mourning; and on the platform immediately before it, surrounded
by all the emblems of the Passion, is a figure in
wax, of life-size, of the Saviour, as if just removed from the
cross. All around and on the steps leading up are a profusion
of natural flowers and tapers; and sentinels with
arms reversed are stationed at intervals to keep back the
crowd.
In some churches more figures are introduced—such as
Joseph of Arimathea, the Beloved Apostle, the three
Maries; others have a greater display of flowers and wax-lights,
but the pervading effect in all is invariably the same.
The complete stillness; the ceaseless, noiseless swaying of
the crowd, as those who occupy the foremost places, after
a few minutes' admiring inspection and a few muttered
prayers, quietly give room in their turn to fresh comers;
the indiscriminate blending of rich and poor, as the lady in
her silken robes kneels on the pavement beside the tattered
beggar; the motionless forms of the Austrian soldiers in all
the glittering panoply of war, surrounding the marred and
blood-stained effigy of the Prince of Peace; the saturnine,
matter-of-fact faces of the attendant priests and sacristans,
who hover about, re-lighting any taper that is accidentally
extinguished, or adjusting any of the arrangements that
may be displaced; the air heavy with the scent of flowers
mingling with the exhalations of the vaults beneath, where
moulder the remains of those who in their day have gazed
upon this spectacle, for centuries repeated, for centuries unchanged:
all this has struck each stranger in his turn, and
is but a feeble transcript of the varied impressions it produces.
On Good Friday there is always a procession through
the principal streets of the town, which, without any of the
devotional accessories of the sepolcri—the time-worn
churches, the subdued light, the hushed voices—cannot fail
painfully to impress the English spectator who has not been
inured to sights of this description.
By the people it was eagerly looked forward to as a
pleasant variety in the monotony of their lives, an opportunity
of sauntering about, of looking out of the windows,
of nodding to their acquaintances, and furthering some
flirtation or intrigue. Any idea of investing the pageant
with a religious significance seemed foreign to the minds of
the great majority of the assembled throng.
When the muffled drums were heard announcing that
the procession was approaching, and a detachment of troops
began to line the street under our windows, I remarked a
thrill of excitement, but certainly not of awe, as every head
was impatiently turned in the direction from whence the
torches and banners of the confraternity of Passionisti first
came in view. Men of all classes belonged to this campagnia,
all similarly dressed in loose robes and cowls of grey linen,
which concealed the features, a crown of thorns round the
head, and a girdle of knotted cords; the difference of rank
being discernible only by the whiter feet of some amongst
them, and the evident pain with which they trod the sharp,
uneven pavement. I must however pause to observe here,
that a bent head and hoary hair would be the general
accompaniments to these marks of gentle birth, were the
drapery in which they are enshrouded to be suddenly
thrown aside.
Next came friars and priests, all walking according to
established rule and precedence—Capuchins, Franciscans,
Carmelites, Dominicans, Augustinians, carrying lighted
tapers and chanting litanies. Following these were more
Capuchins, to whom was especially delegated the office of
carrying all the objects belonging to the Crucifixion; and
thus they passed on, white-bearded, tottering old men, bearing
successively an emblem of this day's great sacrifice, profaned
by being paraded, like some mummery of old, before
the idle crowd, who gazed, and sneered, and talked, indifferent
to the awful event thus commemorated. The crown of
thorns, the purple robe, the scourge, the nails, the dice with
which the soldiers had cast lots, the spear, were all carried
slowly along; the sacred form itself, in the utter prostration
of death, stretched upon a bier, coming next in view. A
few knelt here, not one in twenty though; the rest all listless,
unthinking, or unbelieving.
Some paces behind, upon a sort of platform, appeared a
huge image of the Madonna, considerably above the size of
life, dressed in violet robes, with long brown ringlets, and
pierced through with seven daggers—all the spiritualized
beauty with which the “blessed among women” should be
invested, lost in the vulgarity of this most material representation.
This, with the dignitaries and magistrates of the
town walking two and two, closed the procession; after
which marched more soldiers, those who had been stationed
along the streets falling into the ranks, and the band performing
a funeral-march—the same the Austrians always
play after the interment of any of their comrades.
I have not exaggerated this description. To some
enthusiastic poetic minds, to whom such things seem beautiful
in the abstract, I know my account will prove distasteful.
But thus it always is: a close insight into the countries
where these time-honoured traditional ceremonies are
still maintained, strips them of the mysterious charm with
which, to a foreigner, they might seem to be invested, and
accounts for the levity with which they are witnessed by
those familiarized to them since their earliest childhood.
As another instance: there was the custom of blessing
the houses on Easter Saturday, which I had heard of long
before visiting Italy, and imagined must prove equally edifying
and impressive. But when I saw a very dirty priest
in his alb—I think that is the name—a sort of linen ephod
worn over the black gown, attended by a still more dirty
little boy carrying holy-water, walking hastily through the
house, muttering a few unintelligible words on the threshold
of each room, only pausing a little longer in the kitchen to
crack a few jokes with the servants, without the least
semblance of devotion on his side or of reverence on theirs—and
gratefully accepting a few pauls sent out to him by
the family—why, I fell from the clouds, and my cherished
illusions were dispelled. It seemed almost as hollow as
blessing the horses on the 17th of January, the festival of
St. Anthony, the patron of animals, which had previously
greatly astonished me.
All the post and vetturino horses, all those belonging to
private families, were taken on that day, gaily decked out
with ribbons, to a square in front of one of the principal
churches, where priests, standing on the steps of the portico,
sprinkled them with holy-water, and pronounced a formula
of benediction. A small gratuity was given for each horse,
and in return the donors were presented with a little wax-taper
and a small loaf of bread, by which the grooms, rather
than the poor quadrupeds, were the gainers. There was a
favourite cat in my uncle's establishment—a cat of great
size and beauty, and of doglike sagacity—which the servants
were in vain desirous he would send to be blessed, though
prompted by no other motive than the pleasure of dressing
it up, and of joining in the crowd of idlers before the
church.
Generally however it would appear as if some vague
idea of averting ill-luck, of deprecating some sinister influence,
must linger in the hearts of the coachmen and postilions
who still adhere to this custom, which is practised by
the priests—so Young Italy will tell you—solely to maintain
their hold upon the superstitious fears of the lowest
ranks of the populace.
But stay—I am wandering from my more immediate subject,
although all the church-bells let loose, and ringing
their merry peals, proclaim it is noon on Holy Saturday,
and that Lent is over! There is something very heart-stirring
in this rejoicing: I wish we had the same custom
in England to usher in the triumphant glories of the Easter
morn. Why it should be anticipated here by twelve hours,
and the bells give forth their jubilee, and salvos of artillery
be fired at mid-day, instead of midnight, I do not exactly
know: I think I have somewhere read an explanation of
this usage, of which I retain no clear remembrance, save
that it is of very remote antiquity. Be this as it may, a few
hours sooner or later are of little import; it is the pleasing
impression on which I dwell, and it is one of the customs
that, even with my hard matter-of-fact notions about the
“good old times,” I should gladly see revived amongst us.
On Easter Sunday, every one who has scraped the
wherewith together, puts on new clothes, and dines on roast
lamb; baskets of stained eggs are sent about as presents,
and children feast on cakes embellished with the figure of
the Paschal Lamb. In the week following, many marriages
take place, as, except under particular circumstances, weddings
are never solemnized in Lent.
Dinner-parties are also frequently given at this season
amongst intimate friends; more formal ones sometimes on
Easter Monday or Tuesday, by the principal families, to
some great personage, the delegate or the bishop, for instance.
But throughout all, whether on a social or more
ceremonious footing, the same kindly feeling, the same absence
of ostentation, invariably prevail. Would that we resembled
the Italians in this respect! They literally follow
the evangelical precept of asking to their banquets those
by whom they cannot be bidden in return. At every
dinner-party there are always to be met three or four old
gentlemen, friends of the family, neither useful nor ornamental
accessories, not distinguished by sprightliness, riches,
or good looks. They would be classed as insufferable bores
by us, and if asked at all, only grudgingly, to fill up a
vacant place; but here, on the contrary, their age and infirmities
constitute their title to admission; and unfailingly,
whenever a trattamento is given—as any gathering for the
purpose of making good cheer is denominated—are these old
friends, seen in their accustomed seats at the table, not the
least tinge of patronage being mingled with the cordiality of
their reception.
CHAPTER XII.
Festivals of the Madonna—The Duomo—Legend of San Ciriaco—Miraculous
picture—Course of sermons by Padre G———General
irreligion of the Anconitans—Ecclesiastical tribunal of 1856—The
Sacconi.
The celebration of the festivals of the Madonna, to whom
the month of May is especially consecrated, and of San
Ciriaco, the patron saint of Ancona, followed quickly upon
those I have been just now describing; and a concourse of
peasants, daily flocking in, by their bright-looking costumes,
and picturesque, handsome appearance, enlivened the town
to a very unusual extent.
Indeed, the weather was so lovely, the air so balmy, the
atmosphere so gauze-like and softening to the objects it surrounded,
that an irresistible charm seemed resting upon the
land; and it became easy to comprehend how a colony of
Dorians, establishing themselves upon its shores, crowned
its lofty promontory with a temple where Venus was
invoked.
A cathedral, dedicated to San Ciriaco, one of the oldest
in Europe, now occupies the site of the heathen shrine,
nobly situated on the very summit of the hill, overlooking
the town, which rises for some distance along its sides, but
terminating about half-way, leaves the duomo undisturbed
in its hoary majesty and impressive solitude. We used to
delight in walking up here, and, sitting on the steps of the
portico, of which the columns were supported on two colossal
lions of red granite, gaze forth on the grand prospect
which this position displays. At our feet, sloping downwards
in a semicircle, lay the town, the mole with Trajan's
celebrated arch, the harbour and shipping, commanded
by the citadel, and background of mountains stretching
far along the curve of the coast, with higher ranges more
dimly seen, forming part of the great chain of the Apennines
by which Italy is intersected. Turning away from
this, you seem transported to a different region, for on
three sides of this bold headland, a broad expanse of waters
alone meets the view. The walls of the cathedral are not
six paces removed from where the cliff abruptly ends, presenting
a rugged face of rock, which towers some two or
three hundred feet perpendicularly above the sea. The
wild music of the waves, on a stormy day, as they surge
against its base, is borne upward by the wind, and, distinguishable
amid the strains of the organ and the voices of
the choir, produces an effect not easily forgotten. Unfortunately,
the existence of this venerable pile is threatened
by the inroads of the sea, which slowly, but perceptibly, is
undermining the cliff; and in a hundred years, it is calculated,
the duomo will be in ruins. The votaries of San
Ciriaco say, however, that he will not fail to protect his
church, and defy the ravages of the elements.
The body of the saint, clad in his episcopal robes, for
he was bishop of Ancona, is preserved in a subterranean
chapel, and is annually exposed, for the first eight days of
the month of May, to the veneration of the people.
The legend runs, that after undergoing in the east the
martyrdom of boiling lead being poured down his throat,
his remains floated in a stone coffin back to the scene of
his former labours.
In the duomo is also kept the famous picture of the
Madonna, attested to have opened her eyes in 1795, at a
moment of great peril to the State, which was overrun by
the armies of the French Republic. Fifty years after, in
1845, this miracle received the confirmation of the papal
authority; and the petitions from the gonfaloniere (mayor)
and magistrates, the clergy and the nobility, imploring that,
“as an acknowledgment of being thus privileged, they
might be permitted to place Ancona under the immediate
protection of the Madonna, who, by opening the eyes of
her venerated image, had signally shown her favour towards
it”—received a gracious response. Fireworks, processions,
a general illumination, and nine days of religious ceremonies
at the duomo, inaugurated this event, which at every
succeeding anniversary is still commemorated with great
solemnity.
It was my good fortune to hear a course of sermons
delivered in honour of the holy image by a Barnabite friar,
Padre G—— of Bologna, one of the most celebrated
preachers of the day; and the scene presented by the illuminated
church, the enthroned picture—a meek and lowly
face, shaded by a dark-blue mantle, but resplendent with a
star and rose of brilliants, with which it had been adorned
by Pius VII.—the eager upturned countenances of the
crowd, as their kindling glances wandered from the impassioned
orator to the half-closed eyes of the motionless effigy
he was apostrophizing—the enthusiastic appeals, the fervent
action of the priest as his lofty form towered in the
pulpit, and his powerful voice swelled like an organ through
the aisles—all rises vividly before me, resembling some
dream of enchantment, with that strange fascination that
such pageants in Italy possess.
Not less remarkable than his startling eloquence was
the ingenuity with which the preacher diversified nine consecutive
days of discourses upon the same topic. One day
he surprised his auditors by a dissertation on the invention
of gunpowder, the destructive missiles employed in modern
warfare, the disastrous sieges and the fearful loss of life, all
attributable to this discovery. Then depicting the horrors
of two or three well-known bombardments and pillages
with thrilling power, he asked triumphantly whence it was
that Ancona, often surrounded by hostile armies, and invested
by foes as watchful as relentless, had always been
preserved from a similar fate? Whence, if not by the
miraculous presence of that heavenly portrait, whose modest
eyelids had been raised, in moments of the greatest
peril to the church, to give courage to the dejected, and
faith to the wavering!
On another occasion he commenced by a vivid description
of the early youth, the education, the first exploits of
Napoleon. He led you on step by step in his career; he
successively brought him before you as the sullen, sensitive
boy at Brienne, the aspiring lieutenant of artillery, the young
general of twenty-six, making Italy ring with his fame. On
he went, gathering fresh ardour, more striking similes, more
startling vehemence, as he dwelt on the resistless might
which hurled down thrones and swept away kingdoms in a
breath, till he brought him, flushed with conquest, to Ancona.
“And here,” he continued—“here, beneath this
venerable dome, standing before the sacred picture, prepared
to scoff and ridicule its divine powers—that man,
with eagle eyes and folded arms, gives one hurried glance
and trembles.... Yes! The haughty brow which the
fabled thunders of Jove might have encircled, is bent before
that benign though reproachful gaze. His sallow cheek
grows ashy pale as those heavenly orbs unclose upon him!
His limbs totter; the sacrilegious hand which was stretched
forth to lay hold on the venerated image is withdrawn, and
he hastens away, sternly forbidding its removal or inspection!”
As a last specimen of this attractive, but certainly peculiar
style of pulpit oratory, I ought to quote from a magnificent
delineation, with which he opened another of his
discourses, of the terror that marks the progress of the
Destroying Angel, scattering pestilence from his sable wings,
with desolation and mourning in his wake. But my limits
forbid anything beyond a mere sketch of the subjects on
which he enlarged with a graphic power, a scenic effect—if
I may use the term—of which it is impossible to convey any
just conception. The dread judgment on the first-born of
Egypt, the plagues sent on the murmuring Israelites—the
dire records of the dark ages, when cities were made
desolate, and whole populations swept away by similar awful
visitations—all were detailed with harrowing power. Passing
on from these to modern times, he addressed himself
more particularly to the feelings of his auditors, by recalling
the ravages which the cholera had made a few years previous
in Ancona, when, out of its then population of 25,000,
1000 were swept away; and finally bade them ascribe their
own preservation—the final disappearance of the scourge—to
the wondrous picture having been borne, amid the tears
and supplications of the inhabitants, in solemn procession
through the streets. “Give me, O Maria!” he here cried
with transport, striking himself upon the breast—“give me
a spring-tide of roses and hyacinths to weave in garlands
for thy shrine; give me the laurel-wreath of genius, the
monarch's crown of gems; give me all that earth holds
beautiful or rare, to cast in tribute at thy feet. Give me
eloquence to inspire, fervour to excite, persuasion to reclaim—give
all to me, who yet am nothing, to be consecrated to
thy service. Let me gaze on those celestial eyes which so
benignly opened upon Ancona, and gather there undying
ardour and unconquerable love, our only hope, our only
refuge!”
After an address of this description, an approving murmur
used to be discernible among the crowd, while now and
then an irrepressible “bravo,” or a patronizing “bene, bene,”
would be heard. But, apart from the peasants—who, as I
have said, flocked in large numbers to these ceremonies—and
the poor old women, whose withered lips and palsied
fingers were ever busy in saying their rosary and counting
its beads, I should be sorry to have to estimate how much
real devotion dwelt in the hearts of the multitude which
daily congregated at the duomo.
On the last evening of the Novena, I remember well the
utter failure of the Chevalier V——, the * * * Consul, to
elicit a spark of devotional enthusiasm. We were all standing
on the duomo steps, looking at the fireworks which concluded
the solemnity, when a triumph of Anconitan pyrotechnic
art disclosed a star, with the initial M. At this the
good man, thoroughly honest in his convictions, waved his
hat in the air, and shouted to the crowd, “Let us have an
Evviva for Maria;” but not a man's voice responded.
There was a feeble quaver of cracked trebles and then
silence. He looked sad and mortified, but did not repeat
the experiment. He never discussed the subject with us; but
I know that he implicitly accepted the authenticity of the
miracle. He would have considered it as a sin to permit
his mind to wander into any questionings on that to which
the Church had set her seal.
But there were few like him in Ancona. I could count
on my fingers, without passing those of one hand even,
such amongst the Codino nobles as entered with any earnestness
into the Novena. The dominant feeling with persons
who still held belief in their religion, yet whose
judgment was not denied its exercise, was profound regret
at the whole proceeding; they rightly estimated it as only
calculated to spread irreverence and scepticism.
Upon the vast majority of the thinking classes,—the
lawyers, the physicians, the young priests (many of whom
are materialists), and the merchants,—precisely this result
was produced. The official attestation of the miracle was
set down as a clumsy device to rekindle the faith of the
peasants and lower orders, and bind them more closely to
the Papacy; and religion only reaped contempt and derision
for lending herself to such practices.
Other attempts of the Roman See to stimulate decaying
zeal in the Marche, have proved equally unsuccessful. As
if the Inquisition was not sufficient for the defence of the
Faith, with its independent jurisdiction, its dignitaries,
familiars, secret lay-members and prisons, special episcopal
tribunals were established in 1856 for enforcing the precepts
of the Church, and inflicting summary punishment
for their contravention. For the detection of swearing and
blasphemy, “confraternities of pious persons were instituted”
(I quote the words of the edict), “who, dressed in
sackcloth and cowl, were authorized to present themselves,
either singly or in couples, wherever bad language was most
likely to be heard.” Ten to thirty days of prison, or of religious
exercises in a convent, were to be awarded to the
offender. Also in order to ascertain whether innkeepers
and private families observed the canonical law with respect
to the days of fasting and abstinence, these Sacconi, as they
were termed, were directed to search the premises. Very
inquisitorially indeed did they exercise this faculty. I have
heard of these agreeable apparitions taking off the lids of
saucepans on the fire to see if they contained meat. Depositions
from other quarters were also received; and as it
was specially provided that the names of informers and
witnesses should be kept secret, and as they had the half of
the mulct imposed, a boundless field was open to domestic
spying and treachery of the basest description.
I once saw a man tied to a church door with a gag in
his mouth. On his breast was an inscription, signifying
that he was thus punished for having spoken sacrilegiously
of the Madonna; but so little were the bystanders impressed,
that it was not judged advisable to familiarize them
with such spectacles.
CHAPTER XIII.
Political condition of Ancona—Arrogance of the Austrian General—Strictness
of the martial law—A man shot on the denunciation of
his wife—Application of the stick—Republican excesses—Proneness
to assassination—Infernal Association in 1849.
Except passingly I have not yet touched upon the
political condition of Ancona. This town, ever since June,
1849, had been occupied by a large Austrian force, holding
it in the Pope's name, and ostensibly for the maintenance
of his authority.
Never was a garrison more overbearing, or less popular.
Even the most uncompromising among the Codini,—attached
by their own interests as well as hereditary sympathies
to the absolute party,—even they were sometimes
startled by the measures pursued, and could not conceal
their disapprobation. Although aware that they stood indebted
to the Austrians for the maintenance of things in
their accustomed train, they seemed, notwithstanding, to
fret under their yoke; and held back from any intercourse
beyond what absolute necessity demanded. As for the
population in general, they kept determinedly aloof; its
long continuance had evidently not reconciled them to
military rule, and the line of separation continued unbroken.
The caffè the officers frequented was still deserted
by the natives, and any house, even of foreign residents,
where Austrians were received, was sedulously avoided.
Thus repulsed alike by friend and foe, the feelings of the
Austrians were naturally not of the most amicable description;
but they were particularly bitter against the supporters
of the Government, who, owing all to them, were so
backward in displaying their adherence; and whenever
brought into contact with the municipality, or other authorities,
the General lost no opportunity of manifesting
his profound disgust.
In all their dealings with this stern old potentate, the
papal agents reminded me of Frankenstein and his monster;
they cowered before the presence it had been their
desire and effort to call forth, and the consciousness of the
servile timidity with which he was regarded, served to render
him doubly imperious and exacting. One day, having
encountered some delay in complying with his demand for
a large and immediate supply of fuel for his troops, he sent
for two members of the town-council, and swore that if
within two hours' time the wood was not forthcoming, he
would have the whole municipio shot without mercy.
To hear this affront dolorously recounted by some of
the worshipful corporation, accompanied by the pantomime
and varied intonations with which an Italian dramatizes
any recital, was inexpressibly amusing to those who, like
us, had no personal interest in the question; while others
again were not displeased at the humiliation inflicted on
the Pope's functionaries by his trusty allies. But this
was not the first instance of vehemence shown by General
* * *. Some months previous, he had subjected one of the
leading nobles to the indignity of being marched through
the streets, surrounded by soldiers, on the charge of having
forcibly opposed an officer's being quartered in his house.
The real state of the case was simply that, on returning
home from a journey, the principe found installed in his
own private apartments a stranger, whose peremptory refusal
to exchange them for another suite of rooms in the same
palazzo caused high words to ensue, which ended in the
young proprietor's summary arrest, and the uncontrollable
indignation of the General. Twenty-four hours were given
the prisoner to choose between immediate execution or a
formal apology to the officer—unpleasant alternatives both,
but of which it is needless to say the latter was accepted.
An incident of a darker nature occurred soon after,
which cast a gloom over every heart, and made one remember
that more than mere threats and passing alarms are
connected with martial law and its inexorable rigour.
The prohibition against possessing or secreting any species
of weapon, necessarily issued by the Austrians on first entering
the country, was still in activity, and the penalty
for transgressing it was death. It entered into the heart
of a reckless, abandoned woman, the wife of a poor, honest,
elderly artisan, to have recourse to this enactment to rid
herself of her husband, and make way for a younger and
more attractive suitor. Unknown to him, she had in her
possession a sword belonging to his son by a former marriage,
a youth who had served in the Guardia Civica, but
was then absent from Ancona; and one day, after some
angry words had passed between them, she thrust the weapon
into a mattress, hurried to the main guard, and denounced
her husband as having concealed arms in his
house. A party of soldiers at once repaired to the spot,
a search was instituted, the fatal sword soon discovered,
and the miserable man, franticly protesting his innocence,
was carried off to confinement. His known good conduct,
his harmless demeanour, availed him nothing; and the
next morning, the terror-stricken captive, almost senseless,
and so strongly convulsed that he was obliged to be propped
up to receive the soldiers' fire, was shot in the courtyard
of the prison—the accusation of his guilty wife having
been considered sufficient to convict him. I have heard
that the woman went mad from remorse; but this sounds
too like the retributive winding-up of a tragedy to be implicitly
believed. Such, however, was currently reported
to be the close of a tale of horror, which, frightful as it
appears, has had but too many counterparts wherever the
Austrians have held sway.
Almost more terrible than death to the keen sensibility
of the south was the infliction of the stick, applied for minor
infractions of martial law. A blow to an Italian is the
deepest degradation. He is taught to regard it as such
from his earliest childhood. The school-boys are never
flogged or caned; even home discipline never goes beyond
a mild schiaffo, i. e. a slap on the face. For a man, a gentleman,
to be subjected to corporal punishment, was an
outrage never to be forgotten. Two young men of good
family underwent this cruel indignity in Ancona. A few
ounces of powder and shot, and a broken bayonet, were
found in their lodgings. The latter belonged to a musket
which its owner, who was in the Guardia Civica, gave
up at the general disarmament; as it was broken, he had
inadvertently kept it back, little dreaming of the consequences.
The other culprit protested he fancied the ammunition
was innocuous so long as he had no fire-arms. But
these reasons availed nothing. They were conveyed under
a guard to the citadel, and there underwent their sentence.
Out of very shame, their friends kept what had occurred as
secret as possible, and I believe they left the country. But
the anguish, the bitterness, the hatred which this incident
aroused, are indescribable.
Still one must be just. Insolent, tyrannical as are the
Austrians, crushing everything beneath the iron heel of
military despotism, it would be gross partisanship to pass
over in silence the anarchy and bloodshed which preceded
their occupation of Ancona, on which they founded the
justification of their severities.
The people of the Marche have always been noted for
their propensity for assassination—an imputation which,
far from denying, I have often heard the lower orders excuse,
with the remark that, since there was no other way
in the Papal States for the poor to obtain redress, it became
a necessity to take the law into their own hands.
Before the accession of Pius IX. these acts of vendetta
(their perpetrators would have scouted their being termed
murders) were astonishingly frequent, while, through the
indolence or connivance of the police, they commonly escaped
detection. During the first golden period of the new
pontificate, however, in the universal concord which prevailed,
the stiletto seemed rusting in its sheath; but ere
long, amid the disturbances and ferment brought upon Italy
by the spread of democracy, these evil tendencies revived
in Ancona with tenfold vigour.
Political animosity was now brought into play, and
suffered to give a colour to the most lawless excesses. A
band of twenty or thirty of the lowest dregs of the populace
formed a league for the extirpation of the enemies of
freedom. Self-styled the Infernal Association, they met
every night to decree what lives were to be offered up to
the public good, and then became themselves the executioners
of the doom they had pronounced. It was in
January, 1849, that the existence of this self-instituted
tribunal was first whispered about the town, and that three
or four assassinations every week attested its reality; from
which time its members went on increasing in audacity
and thirst for blood till the month of April, when the
strong remonstrances of the foreign consuls compelled
the Government to employ adequate means for its suppression.
It is the greatest blot on the reputation of Mazzini,
who, as chief Triumvir, held power during that eventful
winter which succeeded the Pope's flight to Gaeta, that he
did not instantly use prompt and vigorous measures for
the punishment of these wretches. He did not, as was
asserted by the Austrians, organize the Infernal Association—it
was already in being when the Roman Republic
was proclaimed, and the materials of which it was formed
had their origin in long-gone-by years of corruption, national
debasement, and misrule. But he suffered it to
exist, fancying that by striking terror into the supporters
of the Papacy, the Republic would be strengthened; a
most miserable adaptation of the miserable maxim that
means are justified by the end.
A word in disapprobation of the existing authorities,
or of regret for the Pope, was laid hold of by the assassins
as a pretext for their awards. At last, emboldened alike
by their immunity from all judicial control, and the palsy
of fear which had fallen upon the inhabitants, they ceased
to wait for the shades of night to perpetrate their crimes,
and stabbed or shot at their victims in broad daylight.
These men were all well known by sight and by name (one
amongst them, by the by, was of English parentage, but
had been educated by the Jesuits at Loretto), and used
to stand in groups on the Piazza, laying down the law on
all the political intelligence of the day, and causing the
passers-by to tremble at their frown. The relations of
those they had murdered were forbidden to wear mourning;
and a gentleman who, a few days after the assassination
of his brother, appeared abroad with a crape-band
round his hat, was threatened with a similar fate unless
it was instantly removed.
A diary kept by one of my cousins, a girl of fifteen,
during this time, is really a curious document, being full
of entries like the following:—“18th March. We are
now in the midst of anxiety and confusion; one or two
assassinations occur every night. 30th.—Sad news has
come! The Piedmontese have been defeated at Novara by
the Austrians. This so enraged the assassins that they
went about seizing all the papers which had brought the
intelligence; and murdered the Marchese Nembrini at the
Casino because he ventured to expostulate with them.
Four other people were stabbed last night. 3rd April.—Seven
people stabbed, three of whom died immediately;
their bodies remained out in a pouring rain all night.”
And so on: but not to multiply horrors, and yet give a
really faithful portraiture of this extraordinary state of
things, I will simply transcribe verbatim a conversation I
held one evening with a lively young Roman, whom family
affairs occasionally brought to Ancona. It was at a somewhat
ponderous accademia, or concert, held at one of the
most precise and old-fashioned houses, where the women
sat immovably round the room, and the men crowded helplessly
together in the centre, that he contrived to get
behind my chair, and startled me by saying,—
“Do you know we are in the company of five assassinati?”
“Assassinati!” I repeated, in astonishment.
“Oh, you do not understand,” he rejoined, laughing.
“I did not mean assassinated outright; but merely those
whose lives have been attempted. Look at that shrivelled
yellow man, with a face like a vulture, and an eye like a
stone, the Marchese.
“Well, his share came before our political movement,
About ten years ago, towards dusk, he was standing in the
street, on the very threshold of his house—next door to
where your uncle lives—when he was stabbed; the assassin
ran away. It was believed to have been an act of private
vengeance; and being pretty well deserved, nobody troubled
himself much about it. A similar motive, also, is supposed
to have been the cause of my good friend, Count
F——, being waylaid, as he was returning from the
theatre, about a twelvemonth after, and very severely
wounded—in fact, he was at first given over. Then there
is that tall, white-haired man, the Cavaliere V——.
Well, he was both stabbed and shot at, poor diavolo,
during the Reign of Terror here, as he was taking a walk
about three in the afternoon. The wounds he received
were very serious; and in addition, the shock to his system
was so great, that brain-fever came on. He was known to
be a Codino—that was his only crime; but the hatred of
the rossi[4] against him ran so high, that during his illness
they used to come and shout, 'Death to V——! Death
to V——!' under the very windows of his sick-room;
and threatened the doctors who attended him with their
vengeance if he recovered. Poor creature, his hair became
blanched as you see it now from terror!”
The gay manner with which he commenced his narration
had now quite subsided, and he looked distressed at
witnessing the mingled horror and incredulity my face
depicted.
“You scarcely can believe all this,” he said; “and then,
if you are once penetrated with its truth, you will never
be able to understand how any of us can yet hope for
improvement in a people that so miserably abused their first
dawn of freedom. All you English reason in this way now.
But I must finish the account of the personages on our
canvas. There stands the young Marchese D——; he
was greeted with two bullets whizzing past his ears about
the same period, as he was returning from a stroll in the
public gardens—their Pincian Hill, their Villa Borghese
here!” he added, contemptuously. “Ah, then, to make
up the fifth; there is that little talkative man, who is conversing
with the cavaliere whose misfortunes I have already
narrated. He was stabbed, or shot at, or something of
the sort, in our late troubles; and, per Bacco! it is a pity
they did not make an end of him, for retrograde as he was
before, he has become thoroughly Austrian since!”
At this moment, my companion fancied he could detect
some scrutinizing glances cast upon him, and carelessly
changing the low, earnest tone in which he had
been speaking, to one of sportive badinage, said something
very trifling and ludicrous, which, for a few moments,
apparently gave a completely new current to our conversation.
Then, as soon as he thought himself no longer
observed, he resumed, “I am not half cautious enough,
even with only these poor Rococos[5] to deal with, deaf and
purblind as most of them are. Yet, one never can tell
who is listening; and the very walls have ears, I think,
sometimes. Amongst Codini, I endeavour never to mention
the word politics and all its concomitant delights.”
I told him we had noticed this reserve in others besides
himself; and that it was only at my uncle's house that
one ever heard anything like the true expression of their
feelings.
“Yes,” he said; “it is a compliment we pay you. We
can trust strangers—not ourselves! What a miserable
people we are! In this late revolution of ours, what
opportunities have been lost—what errors committed—what
fatuity and treachery displayed! How difficult will
it be for future historians to unravel the tangled web of
all the events of those memorable three years—from the
accession of Pio Nono in '46, to the sieges of Bologna
and Ancona, the capitulation of Rome, and the re-establishment
of Papal authority. For instance, take as a detached
episode the scenes enacted in this good city of Ancona,
and you will tell me that a people who could commit such
crimes on the one hand, or suffer them to be committed on
the other, deserve no better fate than their present servitude.
Basta! You have doubtless heard your cousins
speak often enough on this subject?”
“Sufficiently so to make me wonder how they lived
through such horrible anxiety.”
“Oh, they grew used to it, poor things!” he rejoined;
“and they tried to keep up their courage for their father's
sake, whose affairs did not admit of his leaving, and they
would not go away without him. I remember being at
the house one evening, when we heard screams in the
street; we all ran to the window, and there was the servant
of the Count ——, wringing his hands, and calling for
help, over the prostrate body of his master, whose yells of
agony mingled with the attendant's cries. Another time,
one of them, walking with your uncle in broad daylight,
saw a poor Irish friar shot dead at a few paces' distance.
Ask them, too, if they remember that Easter Sunday,
when, a little after dusk, they were startled by the report
of fire-arms; and on sending to investigate the cause,
their emissary returned, pale with horror, to say that he
had stumbled over two dead bodies yet warm, lying before
the Exchange, in the principal street of the town.”
“And all this time the local authorities never interfered?”
“Interfered! They were utterly powerless. Whether
the assassins had a secret understanding with the Governor,
or Preside, a certain Mattioli, a creature of Mazzini's, has
never been ascertained. All I can vouch for is, that people
repairing to him to implore justice on the murderers of their
relations, found those murderers familiarly surrounding him
in his audience chamber. The utmost lengths of severity
he went to was one day to harangue his friends from the
balcony of the Palazzo del Governo, and say, Figliuoli, state
buoni; and another time to publish a manifesto, in which
he deplored that 'the streets of Ancona were too often
stained with the blood of citizens,' and begged them to
'place bounds to their patriotic ardour.'”
“But he put them down at last with a strong hand?”
“Not he! The order came from Rome; that respected
demagogue had nothing to do with it. Towards the end of
April, two envoys arrived from the Triumvirate, aroused at
last to the magnitude of the evil, with private instructions
to the preside to put an end to this overflowing patriotism
in the most summary manner possible. The greatest caution
was observed; the officers of the Guardia Civica, on
whom the most reliance could be placed, were summoned
and sworn to secrecy; then instructed as to what had been
decided on. In the dead of the night, the tocsin sounded,
the drums beat the générale, and different detachments of
the civica marching to the haunts of the assassins, captured
some twenty-five of them before they were well awake. Oh,
there was such joy all over the town the next morning.”
“I can well imagine that,” said I; “but not how a
population of thirty thousand people endured this bondage
for three months without an effort at deliverance.”
“As for that,” he said, “I think, signorina, there are
more wonderful examples in history of submission than even
this affords. What is all I have been telling you to France
under Robespierre?”
“And the siege—when did that begin?” I inquired.
“The siege,” he said—“let me see. It was in May—on
the 24th of May—that the Austrians came in sight of the
town, and summoned it to surrender. It was a mad idea
that of holding out against them; still, I am glad it was
attempted, and kept up, too, for twenty-eight days. Your
cousins were safe, and away at that time, or I think even
their English courage would have been sorely tried. And
how the shells used to come hissing through the air, and
then fall crashing down, as if the very skies were riven!...
In due succession came the capitulation, and the entrance
of the enemy, and the fall of Rome: and now behold us!
Austrians here; French there; a despised and vindictive
Government; a sullen people; an exhausted treasury; and
foreign troops. We are in a bad way, signorina,” he continued,
as he rose to take his departure; “and were it not
for Piedmont and the Rè galantuomo, it would be useless to
think of better times. A constitution, such as we see in
that noble State, is the just medium between the ravings of
the Mazzinians and the drivellings of the Codini. As long
as we remain in the hands of the Pope, we shall never be
more than a nation of buffoons, opera-dancers, singers,
fiddlers, priests, and slaves!”
CHAPTER XIV.
Execution of a criminal—Sympathy for his fate—The Ghetto—Hardships
of the Jews—The case of the Mortara child not without precedent—Story
of the merchant and his niece.
An event of no small importance in public estimation,
which took place during my stay in Ancona, the execution of
a culprit condemned according to the civil legislature, gave an
insight into many curious features of the national character.
The criminal, who was a porter employed in landing goods
from vessels in the harbour, murdered his master, a Jewish
merchant, in revenge for having been discharged from his
employment, on account of his idle and insolent habits:
watching his opportunity, he came behind him at dusk, as
he was walking in a very narrow lane, and plunged a dagger
into his heart. Contrary to what occurs in nine cases out
of ten in this country, the assassin was captured, and,
stranger still, convicted, after having been in prison only six
or seven months. Usually two or three years elapse between
the commission of the offence and the punishment
awarded to it, so that all recollection of the crime is well-nigh
lost, and the predominant feeling becomes one of sympathy
for the prisoner.
The whole town was in commotion for two or three days
preceding the execution, and numerous were the inquiries
as to the state of the convict—whether he was sanguine in
his hopes of a reprieve, whether his health had suffered from
imprisonment, and so forth; topics that divided public
attention with the expected arrival of the boja, the dreaded
functionary of the law, who was brought into the town in a
close carriage escorted by gendarmes—precautions always
required to protect him from the fury of the populace.
Every one was interested: the men pitied the criminal, the
women prayed for him; while the Jewish residents, fearful
of incurring general odium, kept much within the Ghetto,
the quarter of the town especially assigned to them; moreover,
a deputation of some of their most influential members
had gone up to Rome to ask pardon for the murderer, so
great was their apprehension of the vengeance that might
be visited upon the whole community if the execution took
place. But the offence had been too flagrant to be passed
over, the opportunity was also advantageous for a display
of justice and impartiality, and the Government held to
their previous decision.
The prisoner meantime was kept in uncertainty of his
fate, until the night before the day fixed upon for execution,
when the officials, entering his cell, informed him
that his appeal for mercy had been rejected, and bade him
prepare for death the following morning. According to
long-established custom, he was allowed the singular boon
of selecting whatever he most fancied for his supper; no
rarity was denied him; and I remember hearing it announced
that he had chosen some particular kind of fish
held in great esteem, which was with difficulty procured.
This meal over, a confraternity called the Compagnia della
Buona Morte—literally of the Good Death—comprising
some of the old nobles, merchants, and tradesmen—a relic
of the countless religious associations of the Middle Ages,
still held together by a bond more of custom and kindly
feeling than of faith—entered upon the office of ministering
to the last hours of the condemned. Some remained with
him all night, accompanying him to the prison-chapel,
where the appropriate services were performed; and the
others, dispersed about the town, went from house to house
collecting money to be applied in masses for his soul.
They did not proffer a word, but stood like spectres at the
door, completely enshrouded in their black robes and
peaked cowls, and rattling the box in which the alms were
to be deposited, whereon a death's-head and cross-bones were
rudely painted. It was one of those successful appeals to
their senses, more especially to their terror of aught connected
with death, to which these people are so peculiarly
sensitive; and none, I verily believe, not even of the most
determined increduli, but turned pale, and hastened to
make his offering. The very existence of such a brotherhood,
in the midst of so much unbelief, is a paradox, and is one
of those inconsistencies which meet one at every step in
attempting any analysis of the Italian character. As soon
as day broke, many women repaired to the churches to hear
the first mass, with the intention, as it is termed, of rendering
it available to the soul of the departing sinner—some
remaining upon their knees until they knew he was no
more.
The good offices of the Buona Morte extended to the
last; they accompanied the criminal to the scaffold, besides
a long train of priests and friars, and then followed his
remains to the place of interment. As may be supposed,
crowds of the populace flocked to the execution; but from
the common report, it would appear that far less of that
revolting ribaldry and indifference was displayed than has
been so loudly protested against as stigmatizing the English
under similar circumstances. As a means of enforcing the
moral lesson, many fathers took their children to the spot;
and when all was over, and the guillotine had done its
ghastly office, beat them severely, to impress upon them the
fatal consequences of crime; yet, in spite of this discipline,
it seemed too probable that the unbounded interest manifested
for the departed, the praises lavished upon his penitence,
and upon his courage in encountering death, must
completely have done away with any salutary reflections
the terrible spectacle had produced.
“Well, he died like an angel!” said one lady to us.
“He was so obedient to his confessor, that he took a cup of
coffee at his request just before leaving the prison, although
he had previously declined any refreshment.”
“Yes,” said another; “and he confessed everything,
and seemed so resigned! Certainly he had an edifying
end!”
“He must have been a good man at heart,” remarked a
third; “it was a pity almost to sacrifice him under the circumstances.
There was great moderation, too, amongst the
people; for they all felt that. Many have thought it hard
a Christian's life should suffer for having caused the death
of a Jew!”
A singular idea this, to the English untravelled reader
at least; but if he will accompany me into the Ghetto of
Ancona, and take a glance at the condition of the inhabitants
he will find greater cause for surprise at discovering, in the
middle of the nineteenth century, so many of the remains of
the oppression and tyranny under which the Hebrew race
once universally groaned. The Jewish community in Ancona
comprehends upwards of 3000 persons—a large proportion
where the entire population does not exceed 30,000,—and
these are by law restricted to a small and densely-crowded
part of the town, in which the streets are so narrow that
two people literally cannot walk abreast; and the marvel is
how the process of construction could ever have been
carried on, or such massive buildings erected, in such extraordinary
proximity. The want of cleanliness, of light, of
air, in this miserable region, is indescribable; yet great as
are these evils, they seem mere trifles in comparison with
the contempt and vexatious enactments and privations by
which its occupants are perpetually harassed.
They cannot carry out their dead for interment in the
wild desolate burying-ground beyond the gates by day, as
they would inevitably be exposed to the taunts and hisses
of the populace, who have been known to throw stones at
the coffin as it passed: it is under favour of the dusk alone
that the Hebrews venture forth to consign their departed
brethren to the grave. They cannot go from one town
of the State to another without a permission from the
Inquisition, in addition to the usual police formalities
common to their Christian fellow-subjects. Their lives are
embittered by perpetual fear and distrust. The incident of
the secret baptism of the Mortara child by a Christian
maid-servant, and his seizure by the ecclesiastical authorities,
which has made such noise throughout Europe, is by no
means the first of a similar description. But some years
ago there was no free press in Piedmont to bring such facts
to light, and hold them up to public condemnation. The
story which I shall briefly relate, and for the perfect truth
of which I can vouch, seems to me even sadder than that of
Edgar Mortara.
About twenty years since, a Jewish merchant and his
wife, being childless, adopted a niece, who grew up beautiful,
affectionate, and the delight of their old age. Like many
other children of the community, she had been sent in her
infancy to be nursed by a peasant-woman in the country,
whose extreme poverty alone induced her to stoop to what
is considered the degradation of rearing a Jewish child.
This woman, dying when the girl was about eighteen,
divulged to the priest who attended her death-bed that she
had baptized her nursling, then an infant of only a few
months old; but had ever since kept the secret shut up in
her own heart, where it gnawed and preyed upon her. The
confessor applauded her for her zeal, declaring that by her
instrumentality a soul was rescued from perdition; and
scarcely had she breathed her last, when he hastened to the
Inquisition in Ancona, and announced the discovery he had
made.
Without a moment's delay, a body of Dominican monks,
the implacable enemies of the Jews, accompanied by the
requisite officials of the police, repaired to the merchant's
house, and peremptorily demanded that his niece, as a
Christian convert, baptized in infancy by her nurse, should
be given up to them. The most frantic remonstrances
proved unavailing; she was torn from her adopted parents,
and placed in a convent, as well for the purpose of religious
instruction, as to secure her from all intercourse with her
family.
Meantime, the poor uncle took the most energetic
measures for her liberation, and secretly wrote, exhorting
her to hold firm, with the promise of 10,000 dollars for her
dowry, if she succeeded in returning to him. The letter
was intercepted, and fell into the hands of the priests, who
did not, however, bring it forward until their plans were
matured. He was kept for some months in suspense, being
in total ignorance of his niece's proceedings, and denied all
correspondence with her; when it was at length intimated
to him that she had readily imbibed the tenets of her religion,
was happy at her miraculous deliverance, and willing
to receive a husband at the hands of her spiritual directors:
in furtherance of which desirable end, the sum of money he
had proffered in the event of her restoration to him, was
now claimed as her marriage-portion. Inexpressibly mortified
and indignant, he yet had no alternative but to submit,
and the dowry was made over to the ecclesiastical
authorities.
From the day on which she had been borne shrieking
from their home, the merchant and his wife never again
set eyes upon their child, never learned whether old affections
yet stirred within her, and never knew whether she
ever became really satisfied with her lot. The youth to
whom she had been united was an obscure impiegato in
some little town of the interior, where, I believe, she still
resides. The aunt, quite heart-broken, quitted the scene of
so many agonizing recollections, and removed to Tuscany,
where greater religious liberty was at that time enjoyed;
while the old man divided his time between his wife and
Florence and his business in Ancona, to which he still
clung with characteristic eagerness: but the charm of life
was gone, and he moved about his accustomed haunts a
changed and sorrow-stricken man.
With the possibility of a similar fate awaiting their
children;—continually threatened with the revival of certain
old laws which treated Jews as the very pariahs of society,
and which were actually repromulgated seven or eight years
ago, although the energetic proceedings of the Rothschilds,
who held the needy Roman government in their grasp,
caused them to be suddenly withdrawn;—excluded from all
social intercourse with the Christian population;—looked
down upon even by the lowest, who consider they lose
caste by acting as their servants,—it seems wonderful to
find this persecuted race holding merry-makings in the
Ghetto, and seemingly indifferent to their degraded position.
CHAPTER XV.
A wedding in the Ghetto—Contrast between the state of the
Christian and Hebrew population—Arrival of the post—Highway
robberies—Exploits of Passatore.
A great wedding taking place during my residence
in the town, in the family of one of the wealthiest Jews,
my uncle, who was well known to him in the course of
their commercial transactions, was invited to the ceremony,
and earnestly requested to bring his signorine to witness it.
As it was the only opportunity ever likely to be given us
of seeing the interior of one of their houses, or of forming
the least idea of the manners of the Jews, we were delighted
to accept the invitation, and on the appointed day
repaired to the dismal Ghetto.
The house was situated in the principal street, which
was about five feet in breadth, wider far than any of the
rest, and considered quite an enviable locality: it was
lined with very ordinary shops, presided over by frightful
old women, who darted out upon us from their dens, clamorously
inviting us to purchase; and screeched and chattered
in a manner which, used as we were to Italian
loquacity, was yet well-nigh overpowering. The staircase
was dark, very dirty, and very steep; for here the wealthiest
people live on the highest floor, to enjoy more light
and air; and it was not until we had climbed at least 120
steps that we reached our destination.
Two or three stout elderly ladies, all with strongly-marked
Hebrew physiognomies, came out to receive us,
and led the way to a saloon hung with green silk, and
lighted with chandeliers, although the sun was shining:
here we were introduced to about a dozen portly matrons,
who, besides an unlimited amount of courtesies and compliments,
kissed us on both cheeks—a salutation I could willingly
have dispensed with. They all wore rich silk dresses,
made high up to the throat, and magnificent diamond earrings
and brooches, which, indeed, were almost the only
indications of their reputed wealth that met the eye; but
I have been told they are fearful of making any display of
their riches, lest it should subject them to fresh extortions.
The tone of their manners was decidedly vulgar, and it
was impossible not to be struck with their mode of speaking
Italian—their native language of course—but accompanied
with a peculiar nasal intonation that was extremely
disagreeable.
The bride, a very pretty girl, dressed in a light blue and
white silk, with a veil and orange-blossoms, was seated
on a sort of throne at the upper end of the room, surmounted
by a canopy of white silk; and, as a peculiar
mark of distinction, chairs were placed for us next to
her. Besides ourselves, no unmarried women were present;
for all the young Jewesses were kept apart, and
not admitted till the conclusion of the ceremony, when
they came rushing in, and saluted the bride and bridegroom
in a tumultuous manner.
As for the religious rites, which commenced soon after
our arrival, or rather the concluding portion, which we
witnessed, for the prayers and chants had been carried
on at intervals since the preceding day, I shall not attempt
to describe them; for, being common alike to the
whole Hebrew race, wherever settled, they cannot with
propriety enter into a picture of Italian life. All the
ceremonies observed on this occasion were according to
ancient Jewish customs, we were told by the bride herself,
who was occasionally handed down to the centre of
the room, where stood the rabbi, the bridegroom, and the
male relations of the parties, all wearing their hats, and
black-silk horns fastened on their foreheads. Once the
young pair drank wine jointly from one cup, which was
immediately dashed into a brazen vessel; and at another
time they stood together beneath a scarf which was held
above their heads; but when not immediately taking part
in what was going forward, the sposa looked on unconcerned,
neither very timid, nor anxious, nor devout, and
with about as much reflection on the duties of married
life, I should imagine, as any of her Christian country-women
in the like position. As for the women who
stood round, they did not join in any of the prayers, but
were evidently mere spectators, and thought the length of
the service rather tedious, whispering to us over and over
again that it was all'uso antico, to please the bridegroom's
father, and was almost as new to them as to ourselves.
At last, after the wedding-ring had been put on—being
previously tested as to the purity of the gold by
a jeweller who was in attendance—a little more chanting
seemed to conclude the ceremony, for there was a general
move, and the bride said, “Tutto è finito per me—My part
in it is over; the others,” pointing to the rabbi, and some
of the old men, “have yet a few more prayers to say,
but I have nothing to do with them;” then descending
from her throne, she received the kisses and congratulations
of all present, augmented by the onslaught of the
liberated damsels, who seemed to think her the most enviable
of human beings.
The whole company were then conducted for refreshment
into an adjoining saloon, not illuminated like the
first, where lemonade and sugar-plums were handed round,
and sonnets in honour of the newly-wedded pair distributed
to every guest. These poetic effusions, which are of
about the same merit as the mottoes encircling bonbons
at our supper-tables, seem in Ancona to be considered indispensable
to every wedding; and printed copies, embellished
with little emblematic wood-cuts, of a very low
order of art, are profusely showered about. The poor
Jews, however, were not allowed the latter privilege—they
might have their sonnets if they so chose, but not
printed ones; so they were fain to content themselves with
elaborate specimens of calligraphy, on which the best
scribes in the town had been displaying their ingenuity.
The apartment in which we were assembled was very lofty
and spacious, with six large windows, through which the
sun found its way cheerily enough, and a domed ceiling,
painted, as well as the walls, in fresco, with scenes from
the Old Testament, embellished with a profusion of gilding
and handsome chandeliers; but as a contrast to all
this magnificence, the floor was of brick, and the furniture
merely benches, while dust and dirt met the eye in every
direction. Some of the family accounted for this apparent
inconsistency, by telling us they were not rich enough to
fit it up in a style analogous to the decorations; but the
real motives we ascribed to a fear of drawing too much
attention to their means of expenditure. This, however,
had nothing to do with the absence of brooms and scouring-pails,
so curiously apparent, which confirmed the charge
the Anconitans triumphantly brought forward against their
Hebrew neighbours, of want of cleanliness; and certainly,
if aught could surpass their own shortcomings on that
score, things must have been in a woful condition!
Before we went away, they insisted on showing us the
house, which contained nothing further worthy of remark,
except the presents for the bride, spread out upon a long table,
and seeming to consist principally of innumerable loaves
of sugar and bundles of wax candles, tied together with
gay-coloured ribbons. There were also one or two large
cakes, stuck all over with pins and brooches, none, however,
of any great value. The bedrooms were scantily
furnished, without any attempt at comfort or elegance,
and miserably dark, for they looked into a side-street,
where the opposite houses appeared crushing in upon us,
communicating a horrible sense of suffocation, and bringing
to my mind the German legend of the prisoner who
was gradually stifled in a dungeon that daily narrowed
itself round him.
I was so tormented with this notion, that it was quite
a relief when our visit came to a conclusion; and emerging
from the mazes of the Ghetto, we found ourselves on the
Piazza del Teatro, which looked quite spacious and animated
in comparison. A stream of vetture, carts, porters
carrying merchandize, soldiers, priests, and all the motley
population of an Italian town, were constantly passing and
repassing through this square, furnishing food for amusing
observation to the gioventù, who usually sunned themselves
on benches outside the caffè, or, on those rare occasions
when it rained, sought refuge in an opposite cigar shop—quite
an aristocratic resort—where, swinging upon the
counter, or leaning against the door, they gazed complacently
at all that was going on, and discussed the news and
scandal of the day. Without a future to look forward to,
without a present—unless this miserable frittering away
of existence day after day, and year after year, can be so
called—they yet seem in that genial sunshine, beneath that
bright blue sky, to forget their poverty, the gloom of their
political condition, and the degradation of their country.
Perhaps the Government has a deep motive in so grievously
oppressing its Hebrew subjects; for the others, in considering
the fate of these Helots of the land, may think
themselves comparatively well off, and sit down contented
with their lot.
As the hour draws near for the arrival of the post, a
little more stir is perceptible; and when, only a few hours
behind its time, a lumbering diligence containing the mail-bags
makes its appearance, a crowd follows to the office,
and impatiently awaits the distribution of the letters.
Those persons who are expecting friends are here also, of
course, drawn up in readiness to receive them, and you see
the most affectionate greetings interchanged between tall
black-bearded men, who loudly kiss each other on both
cheeks, and pour forth their expressions of delight at meeting,
with a volubility no Englishman could ever attain. It
is a pleasant feature in their character—not the kissing,
but the kindness with which they always go forth to welcome
a friend's arrival, or speed him on his travels. An
Italian would think it hard, indeed, to return from an
absence of even a few days without finding somebody awaiting
him; and as to his departure, a perfect train always
attends the adventurous traveller who sets out on an expedition
to Rome or Florence, quite as much sensation
being excited as there would be amongst us were he going
for an indefinite period to the Arctic regions.
The perils of the road may, however, be brought forward
to account for the importance attached to any feat
of locomotion, and the congratulations attending the wanderer's
safe return; for it is by no means uncommon for
the passengers to announce, as they emerge from the diligence
into the arms of their rejoicing friends, that they
were waylaid and robbed somewhere near Bologna, or else
between Forli and Rimini, that very unpromising region I
passed through on my journey from Florence to Ancona.
These events were of too frequent occurrence to excite
much attention; still, any interesting particulars concerning
them never failed to find their way into every circle,
and we used to hear the details either at the houses of our
acquaintances, or else when they came to fare un whist
(play a rubber) at my uncle's, and were initiated into the
mysteries of the game which he had introduced that
winter among them. To obtain an insight into this new
pursuit, supposed exclusively a British pastime, the greatest
ardour was displayed; many of the società took to studying
the Vade Mecum—a little pocket-guide to whist—with
laudable perseverance, carrying it always about with them,
and questioning each other concerning the progress they
had made; while the zest with which they assembled to put
in practice the theory so diligently acquired, materially
assisted in dispelling the monotony of Lent.
These little assemblies were very lively and sociable.
Tea was drunk by the very conscientious without milk,
while they heroically abstained from ploomkek; and after
the customary bows and complimentary phrases, the conversation
became very animated. Anecdotes of robberies
were of course rife on such occasions. “By the by,
marchese,” said a card-player one evening, “this reminds
me of that story of the man who singly robbed thirteen
people: do you remember it?”
“E come!” was the reply; “it did not happen so many
years ago, and was, besides, the drollest thing I ever heard
of. He hung up a number of hats and cloaks among the
bushes on the wayside, with poles projecting, which in
the dim uncertain twilight looked like men drawn up with
guns presented. He then fastened a cord right across the
road, and awaited the diligence, the horses of which, encountering
this obstacle, were of course thrown down, and
all was terror and confusion. At this moment, our friend
rushed forward, shouting, as if to his followers, 'Attenti,
figliuoli! but do not fire till I give the word!' and demanded
their purses and watches from the passengers,
threatening them with an instantaneous volley if they did
not at once comply. They were all so completely taken
by surprise, and so glad, moreover, to be let off thus easily,
that they obeyed without a moment's hesitation, and the
contents of their pockets were quickly handed to the captain
of that formidable band, who, in return, raised the
struggling horses, and dismissed them amicably on their
way, rejoicing at their escape from rougher usage. Ah, he
was a genius, that man! He had the makings of a Napoleon!
It was a pity he was taken and hanged, for he had
committed no murder, and, according to law, his punishment
should have been imprisonment; but an exception
was made in his case—the Government was so angry at his
stratagem.”
“Well, that is an amusing story,” said the little contessa.
“I had quite forgotten it, so that it is as new to
me as to the 'Signorina forestiera,'” smiling at me, whose
spirit of inquiry always excited her amazement. “At any
rate, he was a harmless sort of creature, this hero of
yours, caro marchese, not like that dreadful Passatore who
ravaged all Romagna lately.”
This led to an account of many of the feats of this
freebooter and his band, who for nearly two years had infested
the country, and rendered property and travelling
very insecure. His most celebrated exploit was taking possession
of the theatre at Forlimpopoli, a small town a few
miles to the south of Forli, on the high-road to Cesena.
It was an evening in the Carnival of 1851. The spectators
were assembled, the orchestra had tuned their instruments,
and the curtain drew up. Instead of the usual
performers, the stage was occupied by Passatore and his
followers, armed to the teeth. He was as polite, however,
as circumstances permitted; and addressing the terrified
audience, begged them not to be alarmed, nor to be so rash
as to attempt any resistance: a superfluous recommendation,
seeing that the whole population could not have
mustered a single weapon, offensive or defensive, amongst
them.
Passatore then called, one by one, on the principal personages
who were present, and requested they would repair
to their homes, under the escort of some of his men, and
deliver up all their valuables.
While this was going on, none but those he named
were permitted to leave the theatre. As the booty was
brought in, it was all deposited on the stage at his feet,
until every one who had anything to lose had been laid
under contribution. He then rose, bowed his thanks, and
wishing them a “buon divertimento,” retired.
His career is supposed to have ended in a skirmish with
Austrian troops; but his body not having been secured by
the conquerors, considerable mystery for a long time hung
over his fate. The remnants of his band continued their
old calling, and kept up the bad reputation of the roads in
Romagna and the Marche. Near Ancona country houses
were often attacked; and in some districts, proprietors were
fain to compromise with them for the payment of a certain
sum annually. Not having any means of defending their
property, they were completely at the brigands' mercy.
These facts ought to have furnished more food for melancholy
than amusement; but they did not come amiss
to the società. And thus laughing, talking, pausing in
their play to relate some new evidence of their country's
miserable condition, or rallying each other upon an oversight
in the game, the evening would pass on, with as many
variations as the light and shadow cast by a tree stirred in
the autumn wind; and if I seem to shift waywardly from
one subject to another in delineating the Italian character,
it is that this apparent instability is required to give
greater accuracy to my picture, and truthfulness to its
details.
CHAPTER XVI.
A visit to Macerata—The journey—The Marziani family—Volunnia
the old maid—The Marchesa Gentilina's midnight communications.
I was invited to her house in the ancient and aristocratic
city of Macerata, by the Marchesa Gentilina Marziani,
a lady well known not only in the provincial circles
of the Marche, but in those of Rome, where, in the
lifetime of her first husband, who held one of those
lucrative monopolies of the necessities of life which the
Pontifical Government farms out to its adherents, she
had occupied rather a conspicuous position. As a sort
of protest against her sexagenarian lord's principles and
party, to which and all else pertaining to him she had
vowed opposition, the fair Gentilina delighted in assembling
numbers of artists and men of letters, both native and
foreign, under her roof, where she promoted the discussion
of political topics, and the free expression of opinion, by a
hardihood and boldness of speech that none of the other
members of the coterie would have dared to imitate, and on
which the protection of her uncle, a wealthy cardinal, alone
enabled her to venture with impunity.
When, after many weary years of wedlock, the death of
the old appaltatore left her at liberty to form less irksome
ties, the choice of the buxom and well-endowed widow,
amidst a crowd of aspirants, fell upon the Marchese Alessandro
Marziani, a young noble of Macerata, several years
her junior, and with apparently little but his good looks
and old name to recommend him. To universal surprise,
the marriage proved on the whole a happy one. The marchese
looked on his wife as a model of genius and wit;
never questioned her opinions, though careful to avoid compromising
himself by uttering any of his own; and grateful
for the support she furnished to the declining fortunes
of his house, and the grace with which she consented to
reside several months of each year with his family—thus
enabling him to pay that dutiful attention to his father's old
age which Italians are so solicitous to discharge—showed
her a respect and esteem which amply atoned for the
absence of shining qualities in himself.
In one of the visits to Ancona, whither a natural desire for
change used occasionally to lead her, I made the marchesa's
acquaintance; and, through the same seeking for variety,
she was doubtless prompted to the novel experiment of introducing
the Signorina forestiera into the heart of her husband's
family, moulded after the most approved fashion of
ancient Italian households.
Macerata is about forty miles distant from Ancona, on
the high-road to Rome, finely situated on the loftiest point
of a ridge of hills running midway between the sea and the
grand chain of Apennines which form the noble background
to most Italian scenery. Even at that early period of the
year the country through which we passed was remarkable
for its beauty and fertility; but the marchesa talked too
much and too energetically to permit me to observe anything
in detail; so that it was fortunate I was enabled some
months later again to see and thoroughly enjoy what the
natives, with pardonable pride, designate as “the Garden of
Italy.”
We travelled in the marchesa's carriage, a party of four,
or rather five; for, in addition to her, her good-humoured
spouse, and myself—the three padroni—there was
the cameriera, whom they would have thought it most inhuman
to have seated on the outside, and the parrot. This
last occupied a great circular tin cage, and wore a dejected
aspect, which perhaps arose from jealousy at his mistress
engrossing the whole of the conversation, though the marchese
attributed it to indisposition, and vainly strove to
cheer him by proffering cakes and sugar, or his own finger
to be pecked at, thus beguiling the tediousness of the well-known
road; while his wife, charmed at having a new
listener, held forth about the abuses of the Government,
the frauds of Cardinal Antonelli, the weakness of the
Pope, and the insolence of the Austrians, requiring nothing
beyond a shrug of the shoulders, or an affirmative groan,
when she appealed to her husband to corroborate her statements.
Every hour, at least, there was a stoppage at the
foot of some hill, while cows or oxen were summoned from
the nearest peasant's house to assist the horses in dragging
us up these ascents, which for steepness exceed everything
that can be imagined, except indeed the corresponding precipitousness
of the declivity on the other side.
With this single drawback, the journey was very pleasant.
We dined at Recanati, a very small but ancient
town, crowning an eminence, like most of the cities in this
country, which were built at a period when a position from
whence a good view could be obtained of any advancing foe
was an indispensable requisite for security; and here the
parrot so far recovered his spirits, that the whole inn was
thrown into ecstasy with his performances, which the marchesa,
from being seriously occupied with partaking of
needful refreshment, allowed him to exhibit without a competitor.
The sala in which we took our repast was crowded
with an admiring audience, the beggars who infested the
courtyard and stairs having also crept in unreproved; and
their comments and exclamations at every fresh proof of
the pappagallo's loquacity seemed to afford unqualified pleasure
to his owners, without any thought of offended dignity
at the intrusion—such as would have disturbed the equanimity,
and spoiled the digestion of British travellers—ever
entering their minds.
It was night when we arrived at the Palazzo Marziani—a
handsome pile of building, of a massive style of architecture,
faced with large square slabs of marble, like the
old Florentine palaces, wide balconies projecting from the
windows, and a grand portico, surmounted by armorial
bearings in alto rilievo, through which the carriage passed
into a court that in olden time had evidently been surrounded
by an open arcade, with a fountain in the centre.
The interstices between the columns, however, as a daylight
view revealed, had been filled up with brickwork; the
fountain no longer played; and the grass sprouted up in
tufts between the pavement, or waved in rank luxuriance
amid the rich cornices of the façade.
On one side of this piazza were the stables—perceptible,
alas! to other senses besides the ocular—and on the opposite
one rose the staircase, in broad and easy flights, with marble
busts of various ancestors of the family in niches upon each
landing. The apartments of the marchesa, as wife of the
eldest son, were upon the first floor, and thither were we
lighted, with great jubilee and welcome, by an old white-headed
man in plain clothes—the maestro di casa, whose real
name had merged into that of Rococo—and one or two
subordinates in livery-coats of faded blue and yellow, just
like the lackeys who come forward upon the stage in Italian
theatres to carry away the moss-grown seat upon which the
rustic primadonna has been reclining.
The second brother, the Marchese Oliverotto Marziani,
whose patronymic was a superfluity, inasmuch as I never
heard him addressed by it;—his wife, the Marchesa Silvia,
a quiet little body, with two or three children clinging to her
side, the proprietorship of whom alone enabled her to make
head against the overwhelming supremacy of her sister-in-law
Gentilina;—the Marchesina Volunnia, the eldest
daughter, unmarried, and with a great reputation for learning;—and,
finally, a very old man, with a quavering voice
and infirm gait, appeared to greet our arrival.
The brothers, both tall and handsome, fine specimens of
the manly style of beauty of which this part of Italy retains
the distinctive type, loudly kissed and brushed their black
beards against each other with great affection, while the
ladies embraced with clamorous demonstrations, but little
warmth; and then, on the approach of his father, Alessandro,
hastening to meet him, bent over his hand, and raised it to
his lips with an air of unaffected tenderness and respect.
These salutations over, they all paid their compliments to
the new-comer with great politeness, eyeing me all the time
with very allowable curiosity, for I am sure it was the first
occasion on which a foreigner and a heretic had ever come
thus familiarly amongst them.
After this, supper being announced, we all betook ourselves
to that meal, descending the grand cold staircase, already
described, to the eating-room, which was on the
ground-floor, in the vicinity of the kitchen, and not particularly
remote from the stable. We were here joined by a
priest, Don Ciriaco, who lived in the house as a sort of
secretary and companion to the old marchese or papà, as they
all called him, and imparted the rudiments of Latin and the
Catechism to the children. He was evidently in a very
servile position, being treated with perfect indifference by
all assembled, except the Marchesa Silvia, who now and then
addressed to him a few words, though always with an implied
and unquestioned sense of his inferiority, which reminded
me of Macaulay's delineation of the footing of domestic
chaplains in England at the close of the seventeenth
century. Two of the children sat up to supper, one on
each side of their mother, muffled in huge napkins tied
round their chins, and completely engrossing her attention
by the cutting up and preparing of their food.
I thought their presence at this meal was an indulgence
conceded to celebrate their uncle and aunt's return, never
dreaming that such a custom as infants of their tender age
sitting up till past ten o'clock to eat heartily of soup, roast-meat,
and salad—of which viands the repast consisted—could
ever be habitual. Such, however, was the case; for no other
reason, as the marchesa humorously confided to me, than its
being in accordance with the practices of former days;
which, to a mind so full of scruples as poor Silvia's, she
added, were second only to the decrees of the Council of
Trent or the dictates of her confessor. After hearing this,
and ascertaining that in those families who partook of supper—some
only indulging in one ample meal in the middle of
the day—the custom of the children joining in it was very
general, it was not difficult to account for the variety of
ailments with which the rising generation seemed afflicted,
more especially the vermicular affections—in all the varied
phenomena of which, from hearing them so constantly discussed,
I became quite a proficient.
Being tired with our long day's journey, we were glad
to retire to rest; and I was conducted to my room by the
marchesa and the erudite Volunnia, who, I speedily found,
was less occupied with lore than with the vanities and heart-burnings
of her sex. My spinsterhood in this case, however,
proved a passport to her affections: albeit nearly
twenty years my senior, she took me to her heart, as her
equal in age, and partner in misfortune—promising, as she
kissed me at parting for the night, to summon me early in
the morning, that she might have the pleasure of introducing
me to her own apartments, books, and studies.
The marchesa lingered for a few more words.
“I need not tell you, carina, that poor Volunnia is a
character. In fact, this whole family are originals. Nature
formed my Alessandro different from all the rest, and
evidently broke the mould that he was cast in.—First of
all,” she continued, raking up the embers in the scaldino
over which she was warming her hands, “there is that poor
old papà, who, with his obstinacy and prejudice, has ruined
himself by lawsuits. His celebrated processo against his
brothers, I daresay you have already heard of: it lasted
twenty-five years, because either side, whenever sentence
was given in favour of its opponent, appealed to some
other court, which, under our happy system, can annul the
judgment previously pronounced. At last, this worse than
siege of Troy drew near its close. The case had been
brought before every tribunal in the Roman States, and
was finally submitted by the last defeated party, papà's
brothers, to the supreme court in Rome—the conclusive
one of appeal in such instances. My Alessandro was
there, awaiting the result, but comparatively with little
anxiety, so confident was he of success. Poveretto, he was
too good. Had he known me then, I would have taken
care things should turn out differently! The night before
the judgment was to be pronounced, he was privately
warned that unless he offered a large bribe to one of the
prelates of the Rota, before whom the suit had been pleaded,
it would be given against him; that the other side had
bid high, and all he could do was to outbuy them! 'Bah!
bah!' he said; 'this monsignore whose influence will have
so much weight with the other uditori in our cause to-morrow
is above all venal motives: he is too high in the church.'
(He was one of those ecclesiastics, my dear, who wear
violet stockings, and talk so sweetly to your fair compatriots
in Rome.) 'O no,' he reasoned with his heart, da
galant'uomo, 'the thing is impossible: it is merely a trick
of the enemy,'—and so went to sleep without any misgiving.
The next day”—snapping her fingers expressively—“he
found out his mistake, and the famous causa was irrevocably
lost! Poor old papà—they tell me he has never been the
same man since: the very want of the accustomed excitement
must be a blank to him. Now and then he pricks up
his ears, in the hopes of finding some source of litigation
with his sons-in-law about his daughters' portions, or
searches out old family claims, which he wants to revive,
and so on—but we take care nothing shall come of it. So
he sits with Don Ciriaco, going over legal accounts and
rummaging among title-deeds in the morning, and spends
his afternoons in conversazione at the Casino, listening to
all the stories people can remember of lawsuits as intricate
and unfortunate as his own. All know his passion for such
relations, and good-naturedly try to amuse him with them.
The family affairs Alessandro takes care of now, and is
really getting them into order. Though he says so little,
he has a great head for business.”
To the marchesa's honour, be it added, that it was not
from herself I learned that something beyond Alessandro's
clever management had been requisite here, which she
liberally supplied. But on the good services she thus rendered,
as well as her own extensive charities, though so
communicative in other respects, she was always silent;
and, perfectly unostentatious in her dress and other personal
expenses, never seemed conscious of being richer
than any of her surrounding kindred.
But I have digressed, while the marchesa is still talking.
“Volunnia, poor soul!” she went on, clearing her
voice, I grieve to record, to the detriment of the floor—“Volunnia
has been the chief sufferer by all these troubles.
She was the eldest of the family, senior even to Alessandro,
and considerably older than her sisters. While her parents
were in all the furore of this lawsuit, they had no time to
think about getting her married, or it was not convenient
to bring forward a dote suitable to their position and reputed
wealth. So years and years rolled by, and the poverina
not augmenting in good looks, saw her chances of being
settled fast diminishing. It is ten years since I came
into the family, and then she was nearly thirty-four! I
soon found two partiti for the younger sisters; but as for
Volunnia, though I have made immense researches, hitherto
they have been without success. In fact, she is too full
of instruction—at least the men think so, and they are
afraid of her—and yet, with all her studies, she is consumed
by mortification at not being married. As for Oliverotto,
what you see him, that he is,—a buon diavolo—his only
fault an unhappy propensity for play. He has already
eaten up part of poor Silvia's dowry, which he managed to
get into his hands. We have secured the rest now as well
as we can, and he has promised to reform. But what will
you have? With such a little stupid bacchettona (that is,
bigot) as that for his wife, it is not surprising he should
seek some distraction. Per Bacco!” she exclaimed, as the
midnight chimes were heard, “I had no idea it was so late!”
and lighting a small taper at my massive silver lucerna, the
marchesa at last retired, carrying with her the scaldino, and
saying she would desire one of the women-servants to come
and take my commands.
CHAPTER XVII.
Comfortless bed-room—National fear of water—Waste of time—Occupations
of the different members of the family—Volunnia's sitting-room—Her
acquirements.
When the marchesa was gone, I proceeded to take a
survey of my apartment, which, had I not resolutely set
aside all comparison with England and English customs,
would have been mentally noted down as exceedingly uncomfortable.
There was no fireplace or stove, no carpet on
the stone floor, no curtains to the bed, at the head of which
was placed a bénitier for holy water, a palm that had been
blessed at Easter, and a little print of some saint. The
rest of the furniture consisted of an old-fashioned inlaid
chest of drawers, surmounted by a small looking-glass; four
walnut-wood chairs, with cane seats; and a washing-stand,
or rather tripod, just holding the basin, and beneath it a
very small jug. But what redeemed the otherwise meagre
aspect of the room was the profusion of oil-paintings, in
massive gilt frames, with which the walls were closely covered.
Of many, the colours were too darkened by time,
or they were hung too high, to enable me to make out their
subjects; but, judging from those I could more easily distinguish,
I concluded the collection related either to the
martyrdoms of saints, in their most varied form of suffering—one
picture especially quite disturbed me, St Apollonia
kneeling, a tray full of bleeding teeth in one outstretched
hand, while she clasps the instrument employed
in their extraction to her breast with the other—or to
scenes from mythology, singularly inappropriate—all evidently
belonging to the school of Bologna, which, diffused
by the numerous pupils of the Caracci, is the predominant
one in the Marche.
The meagreness of the lavatory arrangements, I confess,
however, no pictorial embellishments could redeem; and I
made interest with the good-humoured girl who speedily
came to offer her services, to bring me that British desideratum,
a tub, which for the period of my stay should be considered
exclusively as mine. She was much puzzled at first
at this request.
“Is the signorina ill?—has she taken cold, that she
wishes, con rispetto parlando, to have a foot-bath?”
It is a curious but authentic fact, that in the middle and
south of Italy feet or foot gear are never spoken of without
a prefatory apologetic expression, such as, “saving your
presence,” “with all respect,” and so forth. The most
inadmissible topics, to our way of thinking, are unblushingly
discussed, but an Italian will pause in a story to ask your
pardon for mentioning his boots.
“No, I am not ill,” I said, laughing; “but it is the
custom of the English to be very fond of washing.”
“Madonna mia! signorina! Be careful. Too much
may disagree with you. Shall I bring you a little white
wine to mix with the water? The Marchesa Silvia always
does so when the children require to be washed. The baby
is sometimes bathed in broth.”
I was so amused I could scarcely decline with becoming
gravity.
“At least for your face, signorina: with that fine complexion”—remember,
reader, her mission as a waiting-maid
was to flatter—“you surely do not risk spoiling it with
water. A little brodo lungo (weak broth) of lean veal, every
particle of fat carefully skimmed off—that is what many
ladies in Macerata use; it softens, and yet nourishes the
skin. Others have a custom of spreading a handkerchief
out at night to imbibe the early dew, and then gently rub
their faces with it, soaked as it is with the cooling moisture;
but that can only be done in summer. Then there is milk
just warm from the cow—some prefer it to anything else.
Would the signorina at least try that?”
But as I was deaf to all her persuasions, the abigail
at last left me to repose, having first inquired whether
she was to bring me a cup of caffè nero at seven in the
morning, according to the custom of some members of the
family; or whether I would prefer not being disturbed,
or at least not breaking my fast until ten, when caffè e
latte would be served to me in my room, as it was to
all the padroni: which latter alternative I willingly acquiesced
in.
It is difficult to give an account of the occupations of
people who are never occupied, or, at best, have so slender
an amount of employment, so few interesting pursuits, that
what they contrive to expand into an entire day's avocations,
would not engage two hours with a person to whom the
economy of time was a precious consideration. The healthful
excitement of a day divided between intellectual employment
and active bodily exercise—the eagerness with
which every spare moment is husbanded, as if time were
wanting for what it is thought needful should be done; all
this is comparatively unknown amongst a class which has
found, by bitter experience, that energy of mind and pre-eminence
in learning are dangerous gifts, tormenting, or
even fatal to their possessor.
Italians are not great sleepers in general, and several
members of the family, after the early cup of black coffee,
would be dawdling about their rooms in dressing-gown and
slippers, though not visible till after the second refection of
café au lait which was served to me, with a little round
plateful of cakes, on a waiter of silver, richly chased, but
rarely cleaned. Amongst the early ones were papà, who
rose with the lark to pursue, barnacles on nose, his legal
researches; the marchesa, who carried on a tolerable amount
of letter-writing with political malcontents—the manœuvres
and harmless intrigues attending which were an
indispensable stimulus to her existence—though, for the
sake of Alessandro, as well as to avoid the unpleasantness
of banishment or sequestration, she took care to eschew
directly compromising herself or any of her correspondents;
and Silvia, engaged from morning to night with the children,
who were bribed with sweetmeats to be quiet, deluded
by promises of visionary rewards into submission when rebellious,
and taught to wreak their vengeance on the chairs
and tables whenever they gave themselves a knock. Besides
the two small individuals I had seen at supper to claim
their mother's care, there was a most important personage
wholly dependent on her—an uninteresting infant of eight
months old, just released from his swaddling-clothes, and
already attired in high frocks, long sleeves, and trowsers;
the light costume peculiar to English babies, technically
termed “short coats,” being looked upon, it may interest
British mothers to know, as exceedingly incorrect.
As to the others, they appeared at different hours,
Oliverotto the latest: he never showed himself till noon,
when, dressed in a very elaborate morning costume, he sauntered
out to the caffè to hear the news, play a game at
billiards, and get an appetite for dinner. The good Alessandro
always went to far due passi, and have a little conversazione
before three o'clock also, but then he had been
busy for two or three hours in his scrittojo with the fattore
or bailiff, who was his prime-minister in the complicated
family concerns. The revenues of landed proprietors in
this country, as I have already explained in detail, being
derived from the division of the produce of their farms with
the peasants by whom they are cultivated, much vigilance
is required in looking after the different contadini, and
ascertaining that each one sends in the padrone's moiety of
wine, oil, wheat, and Indian corn, without more peculation
than is inevitable; which done, there is the care of disposing
of the stores of grain and other articles of consumption,
which, after retaining what is necessary for the household,
the possidente sells to traders, either for home supply or
foreign exportation.
According to her promise, Volunnia came to fetch me,
that I might be introduced in form to her own apartments,
which were on the second floor. On our way to them, we
passed through the two saloons and large entrance-hall
appropriated to the marchesa, which had evidently been the
state-rooms of the palazzo in its palmy days, and in their
general arrangements resembled others of the same description
with which I had become familiar in Ancona:
gilded sofas and arm-chairs, covered with faded damask,
stationed immovably along the walls, a profusion of pictures
and carved consoles, embellished by tall mirrors. In the
one, where she told me her sister-in-law habitually received,
there were a few modern additions, some light chairs, a
round table, strewn with such newspapers as she could
contrive to get together, and a number of little squares of
carpet placed in array before the grim, high-backed seats,
that seemed to look frowningly on these tokens of that
modern degeneracy which shrank from contact with the
marble floor whereon, in their day, the feet of the best and
fairest had contentedly reposed.
Volunnia's sitting-room contained tokens of her tastes
and attainments, which, to do her justice, were of no common
order, especially when it is borne in mind how much
difficulty she must have overcome in acquiring the accomplishments
of which a piano, or rather spinet, a harp, and a
number of paintings on ivory, gave the indication—to say
nothing of the severer studies that a score or two of Latin
and old French and English authors, on a dusty book-shelf,
revealed to my gaze.
After she had played a sonata from Paesiello, and taken
down some of her paintings, framed in those circles of
ebony familiar to our childhood as containing effigies of old
gentlemen in bag-wigs and white frills, for my approving
inspection; after reading aloud a page of English to show
me her proficiency, and obtaining a promise that I would
give her a lesson every day while I remained there; after
permitting me to turn over her books in the vain hope of
finding anything more modern than Young's Night Thoughts
and the Spectator in the English department, or Pascal and
Madame de Sévigné in the French, while she proffered, as
some light reading in Italian, Alfieri's translation of Sallust's
Conspiracy of Catiline—after, I say, all these preliminaries,
Volunnia laid aside her homage to the Sacred Nine,
and, betaking herself to a minute inspection of my toilet,
seemed more intent upon a sacrifice to the graces, than the
singular négligé of her attire had at first led me to anticipate.
Having made her very happy by the assurance that she
might have whatever she liked in my wardrobe copied for
her own wear, she took me into her bed-room to see an
elaborate bonnet that had just come from Rome, which she
intended to appear in at Easter. As she tried it on complacently,
the droll effect of the smart coiffure over the
dingy wrapper and coarse woollen shawl pinned round her
throat to conceal all sorts of deficiencies, irresistibly
reminded me of Miss Charity Pecksniff in the wedding-bonnet
and dimity bed-gown. The one in question was
a bright yellow, and Volunnia asked me, as she adjusted
it before the glass, whether it did not become her complexion,
which, she had been told, was quite Spanish in its
tints.
Of course I did not disturb the harmless conceit, and
we went down-stairs to turn over my stock of finery as
lovingly as possible.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Volunnia's inquisitiveness—Her strictures on English propriety—The
Marchesa Silvia's dread of heretics—The dinner—The Marchesa
Gentilina knits stockings and talks politics.
I was very much diverted, during the investigation of my
wardrobe, at noticing how keenly Volunnia eyed the make
and quality of my garments, as if furnishing some clue to
my position in society; still further to elucidate which, she
proceeded to a diligent cross-examination respecting my
birth, parentage, and the reasons which had brought me so
far from my own country.
Strange as it may seem, there was nothing I felt disposed
to take offence at in these interrogatories. They showed so
much ignorance of the world beyond the narrow limits in
which she lived; so much curiosity to learn something of a
country that, despite her school-learning, was almost as
much an Ultima Thule to her as to her Roman ancestors;
and displayed besides so amusingly the impression left upon
foreigners by some of our everyday customs, that I should
have been foolishly sensitive, as well as have deprived myself
of a good deal of entertainment, had I resented Volunnia's
inquiries, or her comments upon my answers. But I was
evidently an enigma to her, which it would have required a
second Œdipus to unravel.
“Ma, ma,” she said at length, as if musing upon the subject—“when
you return to England, will it not hinder your
ever marrying to have it said that you have been abroad,
away from your nearest relations?—and who, after all, will
be able to certify where? We, in these parts, know and respect
your uncle and his family, and can answer for their
manner of life; but supposing a partito in your own country
is found for you, might not injurious inferences be drawn
from your long absence? Who will vouch for your having
been really under the care of your uncle, or furnish proofs
of his excellence and fitness for the charge?”
I had not weighed all these important considerations, I
told her gravely—nevertheless had no fear, in the event of
their being mooted, that any unpleasant remarks could be
applied to my stay with my relations in Ancona.
“I suppose you know best, carina; but a person who
contemplates marriage has certainly a right to be particular
as to the previous proceedings of the young lady who
may be proposed to him as a wife—and who can satisfy
the doubts of a man in such a case? With us, believe me,
the injury to a woman's prospects would be incalculable.”
I rejoined meekly, that in England it was not usual, and,
above all, not deemed advisable, for persons to enter into
matrimony without such knowledge of each other's characters,
and mutual trust and confidence, as rendered it impossible
that suspicions like those she hinted at could ever be
entertained.
“You are a singular people, you English!” she exclaimed;
“such licence allowed women when single—such
severity shown towards them when married. I saw a little
of your manners several years ago, when I spent a winter
with my parents in Rome. Alas! we were drawn thither
by that ill-fated processo, and became acquainted with a
family of your compatriots. I was astonished! Young
men were allowed to come constantly in the evening to the
house, and would stand by the piano while the young ladies
played, and turn over the leaves of their music-books, or
assist them in the duties of the tea-table, laughing and talking
without the least restraint; nay, more, hold tête-à-tête
conversations over an embroidery-frame or a chess-board,
while the mother sat at the other end of the room, perfectly
indifferent as to what they might be saying.”
“Because she, doubtless, had confidence that neither the
young Englishmen she permitted to visit at her house
would dream of uttering, nor her daughters so far forget
themselves as to listen to, a single word incompatible with
the strictest propriety.”
“Precisely: that is what this lady said when my poor
mother, buon'anima, ventured some remark on these proceedings,
so singular to our eyes. Then, what astonished
us exceedingly was the great familiarity with their brothers,
by whom I have frequently seen them kissed, without any
motive—such as saying farewell before a long absence, or a
return from a journey—to authorize it; while they were
permitted to walk or ride out without any other escort—one
or two of the sons' most intimate friends sometimes
even joining them; the mother calmly acquiescing, nay, encouraging
them, by saying her sons were the natural
guardians of their sisters, and would admit no one to their
society unworthy of that distinction! But the crowning
stroke of all was when a marriage was combined with some
milor for one of the young ladies, or rather when she had
combined it for herself—for he spoke to her before declaring
himself to the parents—she was allowed to take his arm on the
Pincian Hill or the Villa Borghese, with only a sister or a
young brother of nineteen or twenty as a chaperon; and I
myself have seen them, under their mother's very eyes, stand
for half-an-hour in the evening on a balcony, under pretence
of looking at the moonlight, and unconsciously turning my
head in that direction, I could not help witnessing ... Ahem!”
Volunnia blushed and hesitated.
“A little of the same proceeding you had objected to in
the brothers?”
“You are right! At the moment I was so amazed I
hardly dared tell my mother what I had beheld; she would
have been too much scandalized!”
“And yet you did not count it worthy of remark,
among your own Roman friends, to see a young woman, but
two or three years married, surrounded by a bevy of admirers;
carrying the arts of coquetry to their utmost height,
and taking pride in inspiring attachments and receiving
declarations which would be esteemed an insult to a modest
English wife. And you did not feel shocked, when the first
novelty of her gay life was over—when the society from
which she had been shut out in her girlhood had lost its intoxicating
influence—to hear of her exchanging the homage
of the many for the exclusive devotion of a recognized
cavaliere, replacing, by his daily assiduities, the presence of
a husband who has found similar occupations for himself
elsewhere! Scusi, Signora Volunnia: you are at liberty to
call us a strange people, but permit me to say our system,
even taken from your own point of view, is a thousand times
preferable to yours.”
“Via, via,” she replied; “you exaggerate a little.
What you say might be applicable fifty years ago, when it
used to be stipulated in the marriage-contract that the wife
should have but one cavaliere servente, and the husband
often selected a friend whom he thought trustworthy for
that office. But things have changed now: it is no longer
looked upon as indispensable; and I could tell you of several
ladies of my acquaintance who have never had a cavaliere,
nor the shadow of one. My own mother, dear soul!
I can cite as an instance—a remarkable one, I admit, for the
period when she was young—but then she had a singular
affection for my father, who on his side was always ready to
accompany her to the theatre or the casino; or else, as I
myself remember, whenever she was indisposed, for two or
three hours together would sit in her room, talking most
agreeably: altogether, he showed extreme amiability in
paying her those little attentions which others, less fortunate
in their marriage, are glad to receive from their cavalieri.
Then take Silvia for another example: I do not think she
has ever had an idea upon the subject; in fact, she has no
taste for amusements, and never cares for anything except
her children and her religious duties, in which last, indeed,
she is exemplary.”
The conversation was here interrupted by a servant
coming to inquire whether the marchesina intended to drive
or walk before dinner, which reminded her of the lateness
of the hour, and the necessity of retiring to dress. About
one o'clock, the ladies of the family went out—not together,
nor indeed frequently, except Silvia, who daily repaired with
her pale children and two nurses to an avenue of trees outside
the gates of the town, where they descended from the
carriage, and crawled up and down for an hour or so, and
then drove home again.
The marchesa seldom cared to leave the house; she
always had visitors at that hour, and preferred talking to
any other exercise. Volunnia was the only one who found
any pleasure in a walk—a taste in which she had no sympathy
from the other members of the family, as even her
brothers never dreamed of going further than the caffè, or,
at the utmost, a few steps upon the public promenade. She
was, therefore, glad to enlist me as a companion, and, followed
by one of the liveried attendants, who was especially
dedicated to Volunnia's service—being her nurse in sickness
as well as body-guard in health—we took several walks
in the environs of Macerata. Sometimes, too, I went with
the marchesa to pay visits; and once or twice, to propitiate
Silvia, I accepted her invitation to drive with her and
the children; but we never became cordial. I was too
much at variance with all her preconceived ideas of propriety
ever to find favour in her eyes; besides, my being a
Protestant was an insurmountable disqualification. I accidentally
discovered she firmly believed that the transmigration
of human souls into the bodies of animals was a
dogma of the Church of England—a conclusion founded upon
the circumstance, that some years before, an English
family holding this theory had resided in Macerata, where
they excited much notice by purchasing and fondly cherishing
sundry diseased horses, half-starved sheep, and other
suffering quadrupeds, in whom, they declared, dwelt the
spirits of their departed relations. Silvia could never quite
believe that I did not hold this tenet. She did not, indeed,
like conversations on such subjects; and once, when
I said something laughingly in allusion to myself, thus retorted,
“Well, what does it signify, after all? You do not
pray to the Madonna, so the rest matters little.” And on
my offering to lend her an Italian translation of the English
Prayer-book, she shrunk back, colouring deeply, and abruptly
declined.
But stay, it is three o'clock, and Rococo stands with a
napkin under his arm, knocking at each door—“Eccellenza
in tavola.” And their excellencies being very hungry, no
time is lost in assembling in the room down-stairs, where
the parrot, on a lofty perch, is sounding the note of preparation
with right good-will. “Presto! Presto! La Zuppa.
Ho fame—Ho fame!”—he exclaims in shrill accents, flapping
his wings, while the family, hastily crossing themselves,
are taking their places, and addressing each other in voices
almost as piercing to the ear; for the high key in which
Italians carry on their familiar discourse is one of the peculiarities
to which an English person finds it the most difficult
to become reconciled.
The large table is very simply laid; the dinner-service is
of the plainest white-ware, and the glass is equally ordinary.
Between every two places there is a bottle of wine—the
growth of their own vineyards—and a decanter of water;
and beneath every napkin a small loaf of bread. In the
centre, a number of small dishes are disposed in a circle,
called the ghirlanda: these contain anchovies, caviare,
olives, Bologna sausage cut into thin slices, butter, pickles,
and raw ham, and are partaken of after the soup; broth,
thickened with semolina, has been served out from a sideboard
by the maestro di casa, and handed by the other servants,
of whom there are three in attendance. Then are
brought round, successively, boiled fowls stuffed with chestnuts;
fried fish; roast lamb; a pie of cocks' combs and brains,
with a sweet crust; polenta—Indian-corn meal—in a form
enshrining stewed birds, and seasoned with Parmesan
cheese; onions dressed all'agro dolce with vinegar and
sugar; and, lastly, chocolate cream—each dish being carved,
where carving is necessary, by Rococo.
When these comestibles have been fully done justice to,
the cloth is swept, the ghirlanda is removed, and the dessert,
in the same sort of white dishes, put upon table: apples
and pears piled together, oranges opposite; cheese and
celery—all taken indiscriminately on the same plate.
The repast occupies a long time, for tongues, as well as
knives and forks, are busy, and as great an amount of talking
as of eating is got through. Being the first general
gathering of the day, there is all the out-door gossip, as
well as domestic intelligence, reciprocally to be imparted.
In the conversation, the servants even occasionally join,
volunteering an opinion as to whether it will rain the next
quarter of the moon, or announcing that the Signora Marchesa
So-and-so is laid up with a tooth-ache, or that Monsignor
the Bishop has the gout; and as for Rococo, he is
continually appealed to, being evidently recognized as an
authority by the whole house.
In conclusion, finger-glasses, with slices of lemon floating
in the water, are presented to us, and we adjourn to
the marchesa's drawing-room, where coffee is served; and
after a few minutes, the majority disperse—Silvia to her
babes, the priest to his breviary, Volunnia to her bower.
Papà calls for his cloak and stick, and departs for the
casino, leaning on the arm of Oliverotto, who, having dutifully
accompanied his father thither, adjourns to the caffè,
and will probably not reappear in the bosom of his family
until supper.
I remain with the marchesa and Alessandro, who always
passes the early hours of the evening at home, only going
out to pay some accustomed visit or look in at the casino,
from eight to ten, at which early hour, to their great discomfort,
they sup on account of papà. It soon grows dark,
and a large lucerna is brought in, before which the servant
adjusts a green shade, effectually precluding the possibility
of reading or working by its light, except, indeed, that marvellous
knitting which the marchesa carries on mechanically,
never looking at her needles, and yet producing all
sorts of complicated patterns for her stockings, the fabrication
of which is her sole manual employment.
It is unusually cold for the middle of February, and
there is a contention about the fire, which they insist upon
lighting out of compliment to me; but this I stoutly refuse,
knowing that every indisposition of the family or their
visitants for the next fortnight at least would be attributed
to it. So I wrap myself in a large shawl, have a cassetta
filled with live embers for my feet, and feel quite comfortable.
But I must learn to knit too, for then I shall be
able to keep my attention from wandering while the marchesa
talks, and really she is worth listening to, though
Alessandro yawns so audibly. She is holding forth warmly
against the English Government for having deluded the
Italians, and especially the Sicilians, by encouraging them
to revolt in 1848, and abandoning them to their fate when
defeated in 1849. It is indeed a sorry tale, and there is little
to be said in extenuation, though naturally one tries to
make the best of it. Not with me, not with the English
people, is she angry, the marchesa over and over again repeats;
it is with that cold selfishness which is here considered
the blot upon English policy in all its relations with
foreign nations.
There is a ring at the bell! Alessandro rouses himself.
It is past six. The friends who form the conversazione begin
to arrive, each person staying from one to two hours,
according to the number of other houses at which he also
habitually visits. Though they come every evening, they
never shake hands, at least not those of the old régime, and
they have always something new to say.
CHAPTER XIX.
A conversazione verbatim—Admiration for Piedmont—An attack of
banditti—The Marchesa describes the actual wretchedness of the
country—Cardinal Antonelli's addition to the calendar year—Monopoly
of the Corn trade—Entrance of the Knight of Malta.
The conversazione, in its outward features, I have elsewhere
sufficiently dwelt upon; but its portraiture of domestic
life, of fettered thoughts, of quaint opinion, as exhibited
in one evening at the Palazzo Marziani, I would fain
reproduce for the English reader, who may probably live to
see the day when a mighty revolution will uproot all traces
of the system of society feebly, though truthfully, mirrored
in these pages.
I should, however, be sorry to convey any idea of the
ponderous formality of some of the frequenters of the
Marchesa Gentilina's circle; or the fatiguing effect which
the unvarying ceremoniousness of their demeanour on entering
produced upon me. Though accustomed to visit
the family every night for scores of years, having formed
part of the old Marchesa Marziani's società while she
lived, as regularly as they now did that of her successor,
they never presented themselves without the same profound
bow, and the same “Marchesa, I rejoice to see you well!
How is the Marchese Alessandro? I met your esteemed
father-in-law, the marchese, not long since, on his way to
the casino. I concluded, from this circumstance, that his
cold was better; the violet-tea he was ordered to take last
night, doubtless produced a copious perspiration.” Or
else: “I hope the Marchesa Silvia and her children are
in good health. I thought her looking rather fatigued
when I saw her taking her accustomed airing to-day. Perhaps
nursing does not agree with her;” and so on, uniting
the most punctilious etiquette with the most detailed
minutiæ of everyday life, such as is now seldom seen except
in the heart of Italy, where intercourse with foreigners
is still too rare to have any influence in modifying the
old-fashioned tone of conversation.
Then the budget of news would be unfolded, and every
murder or highway robbery within the circuit of fifty miles,
every accident that has taken place in the town that day,
is as circumstantially related as if a reporter from Scotland
Yard had been in attendance. Next, there are the
maladies of all their invalid acquaintances to be discussed;
while any remarkable complaint amongst members of the
mezzo cetto and shopkeepers, whom of course they all
know by sight and name, is also gratefully admitted to
the general repository. Add to these the births, present
or anticipated, in the high world of Macerata, and, above
all, the marriages—an unfailing source of speculation and
interest—and a tolerable idea may be formed of the home
department of the Colloquial Gazette, which supplies the
place of newspapers and weekly periodicals, &c., to an
Italian interior. The foreign intelligence is almost equally
well supplied, though not so widely, or, more properly
speaking, not so unreservedly communicated. How they
contrived to know all they did of what was passing in other
countries, considering that the newspapers allowed to be
circulated only gave the official report of some events, and
pertinaciously ignored others, was always a surprise to me,
though fully weighing the stimulus to inquiry of which
the Government's senseless restrictions were naturally
productive.
But this information, as I have remarked, was not
common to all, nor dispensed to all equally. The happy
possessor of any contraband political novelty could be detected
by his air of mysterious importance, his unwonted
sententiousness, his impatience till the one or two old codini,
who had devolved like family heir-looms upon the marchesa,
had taken their leave; when it would be related, with
the accompaniment of many gleeful expressive gestures,
how such and such tidings had been received, that must
have been like gall and wormwood to the existing powers.
Piedmont—constitutional Piedmont, progressist Piedmont—generally
furnished the substance of these discourses.
One day it would be whispered that a law was
being contemplated in that contumacious little kingdom,
for the suppression of many among the monastic orders;
another, that its clergy were rendered amenable to civil
tribunals for offences unconnected with ecclesiastical discipline:
or else it would be ecstatically reported that the
minister Cavour snapped his fingers at the threatened
interdict, and answered the vituperation of the exiled
Archbishop of Turin by fresh concessions to liberty of
conscience. These graver themes were but interludes, however.
As if fearful of lingering too long upon them, they
used to pass to more trivial subjects with strange versatility,
though losing no opportunity of levelling a shaft
against their own Government, and inveighing at the existing
and daily-increasing grievances, which not even the
respectable codini any longer attempted to defend.
The marchesa's società had not more than four or five
unvarying frequenters; but in a small town like Macerata,
where most of the ladies received, this was considered quite
a brilliant circle. No refreshments of any kind were served
or thought of, and no other light was supplied than what
the lucerna furnished. If the reader, who has followed
me through my first day in the bosom of the Marziani
family, likes to hear something of its conclusion, he may
fancy himself seated on a brocaded chair in that corner—he
need not fear being discovered, the lucerna's rays do
not penetrate so far—he may put on his cloak if he is cold—there!
I have pushed a little square of carpet towards
him for his feet, while for the first time he assists, to use a
foreign idiom, at a genuine Italian conversazione.
“Has the marchesa heard of the strange adventure at
the Villa D——, two nights ago?” inquired a young
physician, who, uniting some poetical to a considerable
share of medical reputation, had the entrée to the palazzo,
which its mistress was only restrained by the fear of compromising
her husband, from throwing open to all the
disaffected professional men in Macerata and its environs.
“The house was attacked soon after midnight by a number
of banditti, some of them with fire-arms, of which the
people left in charge were of course destitute—our new-year's
gift from the Austrian general having been, as you
remember, a peremptory refusal to our petition that country-houses
in isolated situations might retain one or two fowling-pieces
as a defence. Well, the wind was high, so that
the unfortunate inmates feared their cries for help, and the
ringing of the alarm-bell, would be alike unheard; while
the robbers, finding the coast clear, after having, luckily
enough, lost a good deal of time in trying to force open
the strongly-secured house-door, bethought themselves of
undermining it. They had almost finished their labours,
when the storm beginning to lull, the beleaguered garrison
succeeded in attracting attention. A picket of finanzieri
(custom-house officers) who chanced to be patrolling, on
the look-out for smugglers, hastened to their assistance;
and the enemy, hearing them approach, precipitately dispersed.”
“Ehi poveri noi!” sighed the old Marchese Testaferrata,
the strongest advocate of retrogradism in the società,
“we are indeed in a bad case! The boasted improvements
of this century, its fine liberalism, its socialism, its toleration
to heretics, ahem, ahem!—it is all being visited now
upon us! I grant you, yes, even I confess, that this
military law is a little severe. But if we had not this,
ugh! we should have worse. This is what the Mazziniani
would give us if they could. We can speak of that with
some experience, ehi?” and tapping his heart with his
forefinger, to denote stabbing, he then extended it horizontally
as an emblem of shooting; after which he drew in his
two hollow cheeks, so as to form a still greater cavity, and
slowly nodding his head, looked as if he thought quite
enough had been said upon so unpleasant a subject.
The young doctor shrugged his shoulders; the marchesa
took up the gauntlet.
“If we had not this! Per Bacco, you are right, we
should have worse. If the Austrians go on in this way,
who will reap the harvest of the odium they have plentifully
sown? Why, the priests, of course, whom they are
now supporting with their bayonets and the stick! They
are safe from popular vengeance. What has an army like
theirs to fear? But let their backs be once turned—let
the last sail of the fleet which will bear them from our
shores have sunk beneath the horizon, and who can estimate
the violence with which the torrent, so long forcibly
restrained, will break forth? Who can assign any limits
to popular fury under provocation, such as daily, weekly,
yearly, is crying to Heaven for redress? And who will
be the sufferers along with the priests? Why, we nobles,
of course, whom the people, right or wrong, identify with
them, and hate with equal hatred.”
“Per carità, marchesa,” interposed a very timorous-looking
little man, turning pale, and wiping his forehead,
“let us not speak of such things. Those who have outlived
the Reign of Terror of '49, have reasonable grounds
for not expecting to see anything so horrible again. Besides,
we are all friends here; but still, walls have ears.”
“It cannot be denied, however, that we are in a cruel
position,” said a quiet, benevolent-looking man, with a
stoop of the shoulders, and a great weakness of sight—the
latter an appanage of old descent in many of the noble
families in the Marche. “It is quite true that the people
place us in the same category with the priests, while the
priests drain us like a sponge! We shall have soon to
choose between the excesses of Mazzinianism or beggary.
This additional claim for the land-tax from us poor possidenti—coming
after the long-standing prohibition to sell
our grain for foreign exportation, and the losses consequent
upon the low price at which we have been compelled to dispose
of it—is really almost too much for mortal patience to
endure.”
“Come, come? What do you mean?” cried old Testaferrata,
one of the largest landed proprietors in the country.
“I pay the bi-monthly tax upon the produce of my estates
every two months in anticipation. It is heavy enough
already, in all conscience; but I remember an army of
occupation cannot be maintained for nothing, and they who
necessitated the Austrians being here are those we have to
thank for it. Ma, ma, I think we bear our part sufficiently.
You surely do not mean to say anything more is expected
from us?”
“Caro mio,” answered the lady of the house, “in this
extremity, miraculous powers have developed themselves to
aid the suffering Church. The calendar year, without disturbing
the order of nature, will henceforth consist of
fourteen months! No new measure is in contemplation;
tranquillize yourself on this point; simply, we are to pay
seven bimestri, instead of six, as heretofore, to supply the
exhausted coffers of the treasury—or, in more straightforward
terms, to line the pockets of a certain eminentissimo
and his amiable relations.”
“Impossible! impossible!” groaned the poor codino,
“it is too hard. Surely some distinction should be made.”
“Without arguing upon differences of opinion,” mildly
remarked the good Alessandro, whose office it was to spread
oil upon the troubled waters of political discussion, “I am
sorry to assure you, marchese, that what Gentilina tells you
is too true. You may always trust to her sources of information.”
“Yes, he is right,” said the marchesa, looking at her
husband with a pleased expression. “Alessandro knows I
have never misled him yet in any news of this kind; and
you will see that, at the end of this month, although you
paid punctually at the beginning of last, you will be again
summoned to do so; and then, just as if it was in the proper
course of things, your usual bimestre will, a few days
afterwards, be called for!”
By way of parenthesis, I must state that the correctness
of the marchesa's information, in the course of a few days,
was fully demonstrated, while this singular arrangement is
still continued yearly.
“But this is not the worst,” she continued. “Our
good Conte Muzio there”—indicating the quiet man who
had first alluded to the increased taxation—“lamented our
losses by this long prohibition upon the exporting corn-trade—a
measure rendered indispensable, we were told, by
the fears entertained respecting a scarcity after next harvest;
so, although commerce languished, and in the seaports
thousands of people were thrown out of their usual employment,
we did not complain, but acquiesced in its necessity.
We sold our grain meantime—at low prices, it is true—but
still we sold. There was a silent yet almost a simultaneous
demand for it all over the country. Once or twice I had
my misgivings, and asked who the buyers could be, and
what part of the State it was principally intended to supply.
'The interior, the interior,' was always the answer. There
was nothing to say against that. Notwithstanding, I remarked
once or twice to Alessandro: 'There will be some
diavoleria here yet.' Now my words have come true! The
prohibition is removed for a limited period; the ports are
open again. At Civita Vecchia it is known to-day; the
welcome news will reach Ancona to-morrow morning. For
a moment there will be great joy. The merchants will
scour the country to buy grain, but there is nothing left for
them. It has all been sold—sold unsuspectingly into the
hands of one person, the Cardinal Antonelli's brother.
He has it all—a perfect monopoly of the corn-trade. Ha!
ha! was it not cleverly done? There will be just time
given for it to be all shipped, and then down comes another
courier. The ports are once more closed, and the curtain
falls upon the brother—or somebody else—chuckling over
a few hundred thousand dollars he has realized by this
pretty little transaction.”
“I cannot believe that till I have seen it,” said Testaferrata.
“You need not shake your head, marchese,” she retorted;
“it is as true as that we are all sitting here. As for ourselves,
nobody forced us to sell our corn: so, although to a
certain degree we have been dupes, I see no particular
cause of complaint. But it is the juggling, the pretence of
sparing the country's resources, only to drain them tenfold
more than by legitimate commerce, which it stirs my bile
to contemplate! And if the coming harvest is not plentiful,
and the price of bread rises in the autumn, what will become
of the miserable population, already poor enough?”
The entrance of another personage at this moment gave
an opportune turn to the conversation. The new-comer
was a handsome, graceful young man about thirty, with an
ease and sprightliness of manner that was remarkably
opposed to the formality and ceremoniousness of those who
had previously appeared. He was hailed with evident
pleasure by the whole società; and the marchesa, with an
exclamation of joy, gave him her hand to kiss, and inquired
what good-fortune had sent her dear Checchino (the diminutive
of Francesco) down from Rome.
“I am only here di passaggio, dear lady! My duty
summons me to Ancona, to await our grand-master who is
expected there next week from Venice; and my affection
prompted me to leave Rome a few days earlier than necessary,
that I might stop at Macerata with my friends.”
While the marchesa asked half a dozen questions in a
breath about her Roman acquaintances, Alessandro, who
had not yet gone out, told me, sotto voce, that this Checchino
was a young cousin of theirs, a knight of Malta, whom they
were all very fond of.
“A knight of Malta?” I answered, surveying him with
increased interest. “I had fancied the order no longer
existed.”
“No more it ought, to say the truth. You should hear
Gentilina rave about it,” he said, raising his eyebrows, and
emitting a sibilating sound from his lips, to denote the
excess of her eloquence; “and I cannot deny that she has
reason. It is un voto iniquo, a wicked, unnatural vow—an
order which, if I were Pope, I would abolish the very first
hour of my reign. The knights of Malta are rich; they
have large revenues: Checchino receives one thousand
dollars a year (£200), and has his apartments rent free in
the palace of the Order in the Via Condotti in Rome,
besides other advantages; so, for a single man, he is amply
provided for. Then it is a distinction in society; only
members of the best families are admitted; and a cavaliere
di Malta is fit company for kings. But he cannot marry:
he is bound by a vow as irrevocable as that of priests or
friars, although exposed to far greater temptations; for he
may go to every ball, theatre, or concert in Rome, or
wherever he may be, without censure. He dances, he
dresses in the height of fashion, he pays court, and yet he
cannot marry—anything but that! What will you have?
Gentilina has too much justice in all she says!”
CHAPTER XX.
Conversazione continued—Match-making—The Codini opposed to
travelling—Hopes of the liberals centred in Piedmont—Volunnia's
pleasantries—Story of the young noble and his pasteboard soldiers.
Meanwhile the representative of the knights-hospitallers
of St John of Jerusalem, and the defenders of Rhodes
and of Malta, did not seem at all to regard himself as an
object of commiseration, but went on talking and laughing
in the highest spirits, giving a rapid summary of all the
recent Carnival gossip of Rome, and then asked, in his turn,
the news of Macerata in the same gay, careless strain.
“So the Marchese Ridolfi has married his gobbina
daughter at last, I am told? It was no easy achievement,
I should say. Who arranged the affair?”
“As for that, I do not exactly know,” answered the
timid old count, brightening up as he entered on a genial
topic; for having disposed of his own daughters very
advantageously some years before, he assumed an air of
superiority whenever the subject was introduced, conscious
that he was regarded with a sort of admiring envy by
fathers still burdened with the care of settling theirs. “I
do not exactly know,” he repeated, rubbing his hands,
“whether it was some amico di casa (family friend) or a
matrimonial broker, who arranged the partito; but whoever
did, it was clumsily done enough! The sposo, a Neapolitan
baron, thought the dote very fair, and was tolerably satisfied
with the portrait they sent him before he signed. Ridolfi,
on his part, had no cause to complain of the information he
received concerning the young man, his fortune, and so
forth; and accordingly, near the end of Carnival, he arrived
for the celebration of the marriage. Then corbezzoli!
there is a pretty piece of work! The baron perceives that
one of the young lady's shoulders is much higher than the
other, a fact the painter had omitted in her portrait—by the
by, it was only a medallion that was sent—merely the
head, ha! ha!—and says, tutto schietto, just in two words,
that unless a bag of three thousand additional dollars is
produced, to give her form its required equipoise, he will go
back to his own country as he came, and annul the contract!
You should have seen the way Ridolfi was in.
Nothing could bring him to reason for some time, and a
lawsuit seemed inevitable. But then I and some others,
who had not been consulted before, came forward, and we
mediated, and we talked. Basta! there was a compromise,
and the wedding took place the last Tuesday of Carnival.
I was really glad, for I had it upon my heart to get that
poor girl married.”
“I don't deny the sposo had some reason on his side,”
said the other Nestor of the group, the Marchese Testaferrata.
“But if Ridolfi had taken my advice, after what we
heard of his vagabond dispositions—instead of thinking it
rather a fine thing that his future son-in-law had been to
Paris, and who knows where—he would have had nothing
to say to the match. 'Senti, caro,' I said to him, 'I have
lived a few more years than you, and I never yet saw any
good from wandering about the world. Let each man stay
among his own people, where his fathers lived and died.
What did for our parents, is surely good enough for us.'
But he thought he knew better, poveretto; he would not
listen to me, so I washed my hands of the business.”
“What was he to do?” returned the other. “There
was the girl to find a husband for, and he was obliged to
adapt himself to what he could get. Besides, it is agreed that
the sposi are to spend alternately six months with her family
here, and six with his in Calabria.”
I could not help mentally pitying the young couple
when I heard of this arrangement; but the next moment's
reflection served to remind me that a ménage tête-à-tête
between persons united under such circumstances could
present nothing very inviting, and accordingly I withdrew
my superfluous sympathy.
“And young Della Porta?” ashed Checchino, “he has
got into a lawsuit about something like Ridolfi's affair—has
he not?”
“No; not precisely. It appears he employed a regular
sensale (broker) to negotiate his marriage with a rich heiress
of Ancona; and as she was really a capital match, and
several other candidates were in the field, he promised him
a large percentage—I do not recollect how much—upon the
total amount of her fortune, should he succeed in arranging
it. Everything went on smoothly, and the marriage took
place; but somehow our good friend did not find it convenient
to fulfil his agreement. So the broker cites him
before the Tribunal, where Della Porta justifies himself by
declaring it is through other channels that success was
obtained, and that the plaintiff's boasted influence alone
would have been ineffectual. So they have gone regularly
to law, and a fine affair they will make of it. To crown the
whole, the father of the sposa is furious, for he finds the
broker purposely deceived him about Della Porta's fortune;
he is not half so well off as he gave him to understand.
Ah, well, I can pity him, poor man: I pity all those who
have daughters to marry.”
“And I am sure I pity those who have married his
daughters!” cried Checchino, as the door closed upon the
two old gentlemen, who always went away together at the
same hour, to the evident relief of the rest of the company.
“And that old Testaferrata, too, with his still more
ultra-codino theories. He ought certainly to have been a
Chinese. I remember when his grandson wanted to visit
the Great Exhibition of London. Corpo di Bacco! he might
as well have requested leave to go to the infernal
regions.”
“Oh, as for that, I could tell you of scores of young
men whose passports were refused them by our most enlightened
Government for that dangerous expedition.”
“If I was to repeat that in England,” I said, “I should
either be accused of wilful exaggeration, or of being misled
by party feeling.”
“The signorina is right!” exclaimed the doctor. “It is
easy to conceive that these miserable puerilities, these
minutiæ of despotism, are below the comprehension of a
people who have never been denied either freedom of action
or of speech.”
“This condition of things cannot last, however,” said
the Conte Muzio, who, since the departure of the two codini,
had become more animated; the presence of the old conte,
so exulting over all those oppressed with matrimonial cares,
always sensibly affecting him—so they afterwards told me—burdened
as he was with five marriageable nieces, for whose
sake he had long laid aside all projects for himself, devoting
his little patrimony to augmenting his widowed sister's
scanty resources. “No, no, it cannot last. From what
my nephew writes me from Turin, of the steadiness of the
ministry amidst the attacks of the two extreme parties—the
Retrogrades and Republicans—and their determination to
uphold the constitution to the utmost, I augur better times
for ourselves. Let it be but consolidated by a few more
years, that precious constitution, the only reality left of the
dreams and hopes, and alas! the excesses of a period so
bright in its dawning, so dark in its close—let this be, and
all of us, lifting up our drooping heads, looking to Piedmont
as our example and regenerator, will yet find those beautiful
words, 'Italia unita,' are no delusion.”
“Then he is as enthusiastic as ever with his adopted
country, your nephew, ehi?” inquired Checchino. “He is
quite a Piedmontese.”
“He is Italian, I hope,” said Muzio, quietly. “I look
for the day when that will be the only designation of all
born within the length and breadth of the fairest country in
Europe.”
“You are an optimist, caro, as well as the king of uncles.
I hope we shall see him a general some day. Do you know,
signorina,” turning to me, “that this unparalleled Conte
Muzio, to gratify his nephew's martial genius, took him to
Turin, and has placed him in the military academy, where——But
who have we here at last? Signora Volunnia, I
congratulate myself on seeing you so well. It appeared to
me a thousand years till I saw you again!”
Volunnia received her cousin's greeting with great
friendliness, reciprocating his compliments on the pleasure
of meeting, but assured him her health was far from good,
and announced that she purposed taking some cream of
tartar the next morning as a rinfrescante, and would stay all
day in bed. These particulars having elicited great sympathy
from the assembled friends, she next playfully tapped
the knight of Malta on the lower part of his waistcoat, remarking:
“Ah, Checchino mio, comminci a metterti un po'
di pancia,” which, delicately translated, signifies, “You are
growing rather corpulent;” a proceeding I could not help
looking upon as singular, especially after her strictures on
English propriety.
Checchino, who evidently piqued himself upon his figure,
bore the laugh this sally elicited with tolerably good grace,
but revenged himself by telling Volunnia of the marriages
of two or three young ladies in Rome whose mothers, he
well knew, had been her contemporaries; and asked with
tender interest after her sisters and their children, which
last topic always irritated her extremely.
Then, when he thought her sufficiently punished, with
the tact that is almost instinctive to an Italian, he brought
back the conversation to the Conte Muzio's nephew, on
whom the good uncle's hopes and affection were evidently
centered.
“So he passed his examinations well on entering? That
must have been a great consolation to you, after all the
sacrifices you made, and the difficulties you had to overcome
beforehand. Ah, it is a fine service, no doubt: the Piedmontese
are soldiers!”
“My friend,” said Muzio, “they are also sailors and engineers,
and manufacturers and politicians—in a word, they
are MEN. I would sooner my nephew had chosen another
than the military profession: to some honourable employment
I had always destined him; for I resolved at any cost
to emancipate him from the life of caffès and theatres, which
foreigners say is the sole aim of an Italian's existence, but
that, more truly speaking, he is driven to by the peculiarities
of his social position; and it would have suited better
with our limited fortune had the boy made a different
selection. But the bias was too strong: it would have been
cruel to resist it.”
“If he had not had you for his uncle,” cried the marchesa,
“he would have turned out a second Paolo Pagano
with his toy-soldiers.”
“Who is he?” I asked. “Is not Pagano the name of
the old gentleman who went away with the Marchese Testaferrata?”
“Per appunto,” she answered, “he is his father; but
you do not hear so much of poor Paolo, though he is more
than thirty years old, as of the blessing of having disposed
of all his daughters. He wanted to be a soldier too, but it
was not to be thought of; so his military tendencies, denied
their natural vent, have displayed themselves in a ludicrous
form. For years he has been employed in the construction
of thousands of little pasteboard figures, which he paints
and equips with the utmost care, according to the uniform
of different nations. To place these in line of battle, to repeat
manœuvres he sees the Austrians practise while out
exercising, to go through the routine of drill, parade, and
bivouac, constitutes the occupation and enjoyment of his
life.”
“But you should see the order in which he keeps them,”
said Checchino: “the last time I was here, I got a sight of
the army, all equipped for the winter campaign. You must
know, it is believed that, being perplexed as to the means of
providing for so large a body, he once appropriated the ample
cloak of his uncle, a canon, and cut it up into wrappings
for his soldiers!”
“We laugh at this,” broke out the young doctor, rather
fiercely; “but we have more need to weep at the reflections
it calls up on the condition of our country, where it is impossible
to gratify the yearning for military life so common
to young men, unless by following the example of Conte
Muzio, and, in addition to great personal sacrifice, incurring
the suspicion and resentment of the Government—which
there are few ready, like him, to brave. Here, in our
States, to be a soldier is synonymous with disgrace! No
career, except the church, is open to the patrician youth.
And yet it is in presence of these abuses, this palsying idleness,
that you find men of good faith, like Testaferrata and
Pagano, whimpering after the good old times, which means,
if possible, a greater state of slavery than the present, and
anathematizing every prospect of reform!”
“Carissimo dottore,” said Checchino, taking up his hat,
“one must be just after all. Trees of liberty bearing bullets
and poniards, do not tend to enlarge the understanding,
or give a taste for another season of such fruits and foliage.
We laugh at Testaferrata, and those who think like him;
but, upon my conscience, if you or I had been stabbed and
shot at in the open daylight, as both he and Pagano were in
Ancona in 1849, simply because it was known we did not
coincide with the party which had got the uppermost (it
was during the Pope's absence at Gaeta, and the short-lived
republic at Rome, signorina), I don't imagine we should
ever entertain very amiable sentiments towards the system
whose advocates indulged in such questionable pleasantries.”
“Those were exceptions, not the rule,” cried the marchesa.
“Who can be answerable for the excesses of a
faction? It is not fair to bring up the assassinations of
Ancona to the signorina.”
“I am just—I am just,” he answered, laughing; “it is
but right to show the reverse of the medal. You were having
it all your own way, if I had not put in a word on the
other side. You have enough left to make out a very good
case, my friends: console yourselves with that. As for me,
I do not expect to see better times, whatever our excellent
Muzio may say to the contrary; so I do not kill myself
with care, and endeavour to make the best of what we have,
laugh and amuse myself, and keep out of politics.—Signori
miei, good night.”
CHAPTER XXI.
Unwillingness of the Italians to speak on serious topics—Indifference
of the majority to literature—Reasons for discouraging the cultivation
of female intellect—The Marchesa Gentilina relates her convent
experiences—Admiration of English domestic life.
One day so closely resembles another in the general
course of existence in the provincial towns of Central and
Southern Italy, that it would be difficult, with any regard
to truth, to throw much more diversity into the description
of twelve months than of twelve hours; the only variation
of any importance being connected with the seasons when
the Opera is open, for which the majority of the population
retain the absorbing attachment that grave thinkers, like
the good and enlightened Ganganelli, so far back as a century
ago, lamented as the bane of the inhabitants of the
Marche. On this, however, as on a variety of other matters,
his successors held different opinions from Clement
XIV.; and by their encouragement to the taste for theatrical
performances, fostered the levity which that pontiff
in his correspondence so much deplores—well content to
see the eagerness, the interest, the hopes which in other
countries men are taught it is more fitting to bestow on
questions of science, politics, and religion, centre among
their own subjects on the trilli of a prima donna, or the
legs of a ballerina.
That which, perhaps, out of a hundred other traits, most
forcibly attracted my notice, as evincing the most striking
contrast to English manners—for, he it remembered, I
never set up for a cosmopolite, but, conscious of my inherent
insularities, measure everything by the gauge of English
opinion and English custom—was the complete absence, in
their familiar conversation, of all allusion to a topic which,
more or less, for better or for worse, is always a predominant
one with us.
It was some time before I could assure myself that the
silence connected with religion, in all save its most material
forms—such as just saying, “I am going to mass;” or, “How
tiresome! to-morrow is a vigil, and we must eat maigre!”—did
not arise from reserve at the presence of a heretic; but at
length I was convinced that there was no design in this avoidance
of themes which, in England, you can scarcely take up
a magazine, or a fashionable novel, or pay a morning visit, or
go twenty miles in a railway, without encountering. Instead
of interweaving their conversation with phrases akin
to those which, either from piety, or habit, or, alas! from
cant, are so frequently upon the lips of English people, the
Italians seemed anxious to put aside whatever tended to
awaken such unpleasant considerations as the uncertainty
of life or a preparation for eternity; casting all their cares
in this last particular—when they considered it worth caring
for—upon their priests, with a confidence it was marvellous
to witness.
Never, certainly, judging them as a totality, was there
a set of people who “thought less about thinking, or felt
less about feeling;” who went through life less troubled
with self-questionings of what they lived for, or whether
they lived well; or who, dissatisfied and listless as they
might be in their present condition, manifested less inclination
to dwell upon the hopes and prospects of futurity.
Yet, although thus opposed to any serious reference to
sacred things, they resemble the French in the levity with
which they will introduce them on the most unseasonable
occasions, without any apparent consciousness of impropriety.
Nay, there was thought to be nothing profane in a
tableau vivant which I heard them talking of, as having recently
taken place at the house of one of the noble ladies of
the society; the subject—a Descent from the Cross, or the
Entombment, I know not which—impersonated from an
ancient picture. Suffice it to say, that our Saviour was
represented by a remarkably handsome young student from
Bologna, whose style of features and long brown hair resembled
the type which all painters have more or less followed
in their pictures of Christ; and that the Magdalen
was the lady of the house, a Florentine contessa, whose
Rubens-like colouring and billowy golden hair had first
suggested her fitness to sustain a part for which her detractors,
of course, added she was also in other respects
well qualified.
The sentiments I expressed at this exhibition evidently
caused surprise, as, in fact, was invariably the case at the
manifestation of any religious tendency on my part. I think
I have before mentioned that Protestant amongst these
worthy people was but a polite term for Atheist; as in the
case of the Marchesa Silvia when I offered her one of our
prayer-books, the superstitious shrink from being enlightened
upon our tenets; while to the unbelieving, they are
a matter of profound indifference, respecting which they
never dream of asking information. And under these two
heads, with but rare exceptions, and a vast and increasing
preponderance to the side of infidelity, it is no want of
charity to say that the population of the Pontifical States
may be classified.
Second only to the avoidance of all serious subjects,
that which most struck me was their complete indifference
to literature, even in its simplest form. Unknown
to them is the veneration we cherish for the popular
authors of the day, our familiar reference to their works,
our adoption of their sayings. During childhood they
have no story-books to fill their minds with images which,
converted into pleasant memories in advancing life, it is
like letting sunshine upon the soul to muse over. Their
ripening years see them with the same void; for, however
it may be objected that a nation possessing Dante and
Tasso, Filicaja and Alfieri, Monti and Leopardi, should never
be taxed with the barrenness of its literature, I reply that
I am here speaking of the requirements of the generality of
the masses, for whose capacity such authors range too high.
The only attempts to supply this deficiency which the
present time has witnessed—or rather, it should be said,
the jealous surveillance over the press has permitted—have
been half-a-dozen historical novels from the pens of Azeglio,
Manzoni, Guerrazzi, and one or two others. But as yet
the experiment has failed: you may say of the Italians as
of a backward child, “They do not love their books!”
Reading is looked upon as inseparable from study; as a
monopoly in the hands of a gifted few; and the most hopeless
part of the case is, that they are not sensible of their
deficiency, nor lament the deprivation! Were scores of
what we consider unexceptional works for youth to be
spread before Italian parents and preceptors—tales, travels,
and biographies—they would not bid the rising generation
fall to and read. “Let them alone,” they would say; “the
boys must attend to their education: reading for mere
amusement will distract their thoughts.” As for girls, the
refusal would be still more decided, for they could be expected
to gather only pernicious notions about seeing the
world, or independence, or choosing for themselves in marriage,
from the perusal!
I talked this over one day, not long before my return to
Ancona, with the Marchesa Gentilina, who was sufficiently
free from prejudice to listen quietly to some of my remarks,
and sometimes even to acquiesce in their justice. But on
this last point she was not amenable to my reasoning.
“It is all very well, carina; in England, I daresay, it may
answer. But your women are of a different temperament,
and society is differently constituted. As long as parents
have the right, as with us, of disposing of their daughters
in the manner they think best suited for their eventual
benefit, the less they learn beforehand of the tender passion,
the better. There are reforms enough wanted amongst our
political abuses, without seeking to introduce innovations
into private life. The whole system must be changed, or
else girls had better be left in their present ignorance and
simplicity.”
“But, marchesa——! This from you, who are such an
advocate for progress!”
“Cosa volete? I do not think the warm hearts of our
daughters of the south could read as phlegmatically as
Englishwomen those tales in which love and courtship are
ever, must ever, be predominant.”
“And if they could thereby learn to form a more exalted
idea of what we tax you Italians as regarding in too
common-place a light? If they were led to look upon marriage
less as a worldly transaction than as a solemn compact,
not to be lightly entered into, but to be lovingly and faithfully
observed?”
“If, if, my dear Utopist! If, instead of all these fine results,
you gave them glimpses of a liberty and privileges
they could never know, and so ended by making them miserable?
Take my own case for an example. I was sixteen.
I had never left the convent for nine years; I was always
dressed in cotton prints, of the simplest make and description,
and thick leather shoes, with great soles, that clattered
as I walked along the mouldy old corridors, or ran about
with the other pupils in the formal alleys of the garden, of
which the four frowning walls had so long constituted our
horizon. My pursuits and acquirements had varied but
little from what they were when I entered the convent; and
to give you in one word the summary of the infantile guilelessness
in which the educande were presumed to exist, I
had never seen the reflection of my own face except by
stealth, in a little bit of looking-glass, about the size of a
visiting-card, which I had coaxed my old nurse to bring me
in one of her visits, and that we smuggled through the
grating of the parlatojo concealed between two slices of
cake!
“I knew this was to go on till a partito was arranged
for me, for my parents did not like it to be said they had
an unmarried daughter at home upon their hands; besides,
many men prefer a bride fresh from the seclusion of the
convent, and in those days especially, this was the strict
etiquette. I had seen my eldest sister discontented and
fretting till she was nearly twenty, before the welcome
sposo could be found, and I had no inclination to be incarcerated
so long, though hope, and certain furtive glances at
my mirror, kept encouraging me to look for a speedier deliverance.
“At last, one Easter Sunday—how well I remember it!—I
was summoned to the parlatojo, and there, on the outer
side of the grating, stood a group of my relations: my
father and mother, my sister and her husband, and one or
two of my aunts. I was so flurried at the sight of so many
people, and so taken up with looking at the gay new Easter
dresses of my visitors—my sister, I recollect, had an immense
sort of high-crowned hat, with prodigious feathers, as
was the fashion then, which excited my intense admiration
and envy—that I had not time to bestow much notice upon
a little dried-up old man who had come in with them,
and who kept taking huge pinches of snuff and talking in a
low tone with my father. My mother, on her side, was
engaged in whispering to the Mother-Superior, and from
her gestures, seemed in a very good humour; while the
rest of the party drew off my attention by cramming me
with sweetmeats they had brought for my Easter present.
“The next day but one, I was again sent for, and, with
downcast eyes, but a bounding heart, presented myself at
the grating. There I found my mother, as before, in deep
conversation with the Superior, who, on my bending to kiss
her hand, according to custom, saluted me on both cheeks
with an unusual demonstration of tenderness.
“'Well, Gentilina,' said my mother, 'I suppose you
begin to wish to come out into the world a little?'
“I knew my mother so slightly, seldom seeing her more
than once a month, that I stood in great awe of her; so I
dropped a deep courtesy and faltered, 'Si, signora;' but I
warrant you I understood it all, and already saw myself
in a hat and feathers even more voluminous than my
sister's!
“'The Madre Superiore does not give you a bad character,
I am glad to find.'
“'Ah davvero!' was the commentary upon this, 'the
contessina has always shown the happiest dispositions. At
one time, indeed, I hoped, I fancied, that such rare virtues
would have been consecrated to the glory of our Blessed
Lady, and the benefit of our order; but since the will of
Heaven and of her parents call her from me, I can only
pray that in the splendour and enjoyments that await her,
she will not forget her who, for nine years, has filled a
mother's place.' At the conclusion of this harangue, I was
again embraced with unspeakable fervour.
“In my impatience to hear more, I scarcely received
these marks of affection with fitting humility; while forgetting
all my lessons of deportment, I opened my eyes to
their fullest extent, and fixed them on my mother.
“'Ha, ha! Gentilina,' she said, laughing, 'I see you
guess something at last! Yes, my child, I will keep you
no longer in suspense. Your father and I, ever since your
sister's marriage, have never ceased endeavouring to find
a suitable match for you. The task was difficult. You are
young, very young, Gentilina; and we could not intrust
our child to inexperienced hands. It was necessary that
your husband should be of an age to counterbalance your
extreme youth. On no other condition could we consent
to remove you from this so much earlier than your sister.
But at last a sposo whom your parents, your family, the
Madre Superiore herself, think most suitable, has been selected
for you; and——'
“But I waited to hear no more. The glorious vista of
theatres, jewels, carriages, diversions, which we all knew
lay beyond those dreary convent-walls, suddenly disclosing
itself before me, attainable through that cabalistic word
matrimony, was too much for my remaining composure;
and clapping my hands wildly, I exclaimed, 'Mamma mia—mamma
mia, is it possible? Am I going to be married?
Oh, what joy, what happiness!' and then checking my
transports, I said earnestly, 'Tell me, mamma, shall I have
as many fine dresses as Camilla?'
“I declare to you, signorina, that the name of my destined
husband was but a secondary consideration; and
when they told me he was rich and noble—the same individual
who had come to the grating on the previous Sunday
to satisfy his curiosity respecting me—I acquiesced without
repugnance, ugly, shrivelled, aged as he was, in the selection
of my parents. Knowing nothing of the world, having
scarcely seen a man except our confessor, the convent
gardener, and my father, I went to the altar eight days
afterwards without a tear!—This sounds very horrible to
you, I dare-say,” she resumed, after a short pause, in which,
notwithstanding her careless manner, I saw some painful
memories had been awakened; “but let me ask you—had
my head been filled with notions of fascinating youths, as
handsome as my Alessandro when I first remember him
kneeling at my feet, and saying, 'Gentilina, I adore you!'—should
I not have added a vast amount of misery to what,
Heaven knows, was already in store for me—in resisting a
fate which was inevitable, or whose only alternative would
have been the cloister? No, no; since our domestic code
is thus constituted, and as long as parents retain such arbitrary
sway, let girls be left in happy ignorance that they
have so much as a heart to give away! If they are to be
married, they will then not dream of any opposition; if, on
the contrary, as in the case of my poor sister-in-law, a suitable
match has not been attainable, why, they will not,
like her, be full of romantic ideas gathered from their
books: and so, instead of wearying their family with their
blighted hopes, will take the veil, and retire contentedly to
a convent, limiting their notions of happiness to standing
high in the good graces of the father-confessor, or the preparation
of confectionary and cakes.”
“If I believed you to the letter, marchesa, you would
have me conclude that all the women of the Roman States
are, or should be, totally uncultivated.”
“Before marriage, I meant, remember that! Afterwards,
all is changed. A woman of intelligence soon gets
wearied of the frivolities she has been brought up to prize
so highly, and will eagerly seek to instruct her mind.
Study will then be her greatest pastime and her greatest
safeguard.”
I knew she alluded to her own experiences, but I could
not forbear pressing the subject: “And for those who have
no refined understanding to cultivate, no desire to study,
and yet have learned too late they have a heart which they
were not taught must be given with their hand—what safeguard
is there for those, marchesa?”
“Per Bacco!” she cried, shrugging her shoulders,
“that is the husband's affair; nobody else need meddle
with it! You see, my dear,” she added, laughing at my
dissatisfied air, “we are a long way off from the state of
things you would desire to bring us to; and if you would
wish for any reformation in this as well as in any of our
other abuses, you must request your friends the English
ministers, next time we try to shake them off, not to lure
us on by sympathy and approbation, and then abandon us
to worse than our former condition.”[6]
Subsequently, I ascertained that the marchesa did not
advance any more than the opinions generally held by her
country-people upon this subject; although there seems a
strange inconsistency in persons ever disposed to rail at
the defects of their internal policy, upholding these rococo
ideas, alleging in their justification that the impulsive Italian
character in youth is unsuited to the liberty conceded
at so early an age to Englishwomen.
A lady I conversed with upon this system, some time
afterwards in Ancona—supposed to have had a liberal education,
having been brought up in Northern Italy under her
mother's roof—told me that, although she did not marry
till twenty, she had not previously been allowed to peruse
any work of fiction, excepting one after she was betrothed,
and that was Paul and Virginia! For which restriction,
it may be parenthetically remarked, she fully indemnified
herself in the sequel, being of a studious turn, by devouring
all the French novels she could lay her hands upon. I
must add, however, in fairness, that although they considered
our national manners in respect to the training of
young women ill adapted to themselves, they were all warm
admirers of the virtue and harmony in married life which
they believed to be the general characteristic of English
people. Un Matrimonio all'Inglese, meant mutual fidelity,
love, and devotion. In arriving at this conclusion, they
were aided by an example of twenty years' standing constantly
before their eyes: that of the English Consul at
Ancona. From my uncle they judged that Englishmen
make good fathers. Mr * * * showed them what an
English husband is like. His family lived retired in the
country, and mixed but rarely in the society of the place;
but they were sufficiently known and respected to be still
quoted as an illustration of English wedded happiness.
CHAPTER XXII.
On the study of music in the Marche—Neglect of painting—The young
artist—His hopeless love—His jealousy—His subsequent struggles
and constancy.
I must now devote a little space to speak of the cultivation
of the fine arts in the Marche; which, judging by the
limited patronage and still scantier remuneration accorded
to their professors, would seem to be considered by many as
dangerous as reading to a maiden's peace of mind. Of late
years, however, music enters much more frequently into the
Italian programme of female education. Though not yet
introduced into the native convents, it is taught at the
Sacré Cœur at Loretto, and in many private families, happily
as yet with more discrimination than in England—the
absence of voice or ear being considered insurmountable
disqualifications. The art, especially in its vocal department,
can boast, even in so remote a corner of Italy, of instructors
superior to any procurable in England, except at those rates
which some parents complacently mention as if to set a
higher value on their daughters' acquirements. Blessings on
the Italians in this respect, for they have no purse-pride!
If you admire a lady's singing—and it is no rarity to hear
streams of melody poured from those full rounded throats,
such as would electrify a London drawing-room—some
member of her family will not immediately inform you that
she learned from the first masters at two guineas a lesson;
that no expense was spared, and so forth. They do not understand
John Bull's delight at framing all he does in rich
gilding, and can enjoy the fine singing of their country-women,
notwithstanding that, in Ancona at least, instruction
from no mean professor was attainable at two pauls (ten-pence)
a lesson.
The music-master who taught my cousins was director
of the opera, composed and understood music thoroughly,
and devoted himself, heart and soul, to his profession: to
these recommendations he added a very handsome exterior,
great attention to his dress, gentlemanly and respectful
bearing, and, nevertheless, gave twelve lessons, of an hour
each, for a sum equivalent to ten shillings, and thought himself
lucky too to get pupils at that rate!
Painting, the twin-sister of Music, does not enjoy the
same amount of popularity. In a country, of which the
churches and palaces teem with evidences of the estimation
in which it was held scarcely two centuries ago, I saw only
one instance, that of Volunnia's miniatures, where, even in
its humblest branches, it was studied by one of the higher
ranks. It is cast as a reproach upon the modern Italians
that they can no longer furnish good painters; but the censure
is more applicable to those who do not care to foster
the talent so often doomed to languish in the ungenial atmosphere
of poverty and neglect. The young artist, whose
only pupils in Ancona were those furnished by my uncle's
family, had studied several years in Rome, Florence, and
Venice, had distinguished himself in his academical career,
was full of enthusiasm and feeling, and yet so little encouragement
did he receive in his native city, that it was difficult
for him to earn his bread. It is almost superfluous to
add that he was as poor as any painter need be. He had
one coat for all seasons; never ate but once a day, besides
a cup of coffee at six in the morning, which he procured at
a caffè, no fire being lighted so early at his mother's, where
he lived; and had a starved, hungry look, like a lean grey-hound,
with large hollow eyes, and an attempt at an artistic
beard. Poor fellow! his story presents so perfect an illustration
of a new phase of Italian life, that I must not be
considered too discursive if I fill this chapter with an account
of it.
He had known my uncle's family for years, and considered
himself under obligations to them, so that a little
of the old Roman patron and client system was kept up in
their intercourse; a respectful affection on his side, and a
kindly interest in his welfare on theirs. His knowledge of
art was really wonderful. As a boy, he had drawn his first
inspirations from Raphael's frescoes in the Vatican, and
worshipped him almost as a divinity; then ascending a step
higher in purista principles, he devoted himself to the study
of that branch of the Florentine school of which “Il Beato
Angelico da Fiesole” is the chief; and to hear him descant
on his purity of outline and grace of composition, was in itself
a lecture on design. A timely removal to Venice luckily
saved him from the exaggerations into which all votaries of
any peculiar style, however excellent in itself, must inevitably
fall; on which, in fact, he was fast verging, as two or
three pictures he had in his possession, painted while the
impressions of Florence were still predominant, of ashy-hued
saints, with marble-like draperies, abundantly testified: and
leaving his legitimate admiration for the Beato Angelico
unsubdued, yet sent him back, at the conclusion of his
studies, glowing with rapture for Titian and Paolo Veronese.
From the great works of the former, he had made a number
of sketches and spirited copies; while he thought—as what
young artist does not think?—that he had discovered his
peculiar secret of colouring, detailed to us as he held forth
triumphantly upon his flesh-tints and impasto. In addition
to all these artistic disquisitions, he used, while we were
taking our lessons, to give us all the political news, or rather
the whispers which were stealthily in circulation, and
often repeated that ours was the only house in which it was
safe to express an opinion.
Then he would tell us a great deal about the crying evils
of his country, much to the purport of what I have already
stated; the ignorance of the women, the idleness of the
nobles, the extortion and injustice of the Government, and
the insolence of the Austrians who supported it—all being
related in beautiful and poetic Italian; for he spoke his own
language with great refinement, although he did not spell it
correctly.
And yet, notwithstanding these constant discussions
and conversations, never was he known to pass the limits
of difference tacitly laid down, never once to venture on
the verge of familiarity: years of intercourse, resumed at
intervals since his boyhood, made no difference. He never
came to the house but as a teacher; and at the end of
each lesson, he always bowed with the same ceremonious
respect, and backed out of the room with the same “servo
umilissimo” as if he had been a mere stranger.
I wish I could detail some of the stories we heard from
him—little romances in themselves, and, admirably illustrative
of the quick feelings and exaggerated sensibility of
the Italian temperament, allowed more room for the development
in the mezzo cetto than in the strict etiquette of
the nobility. How a young cousin, becoming desperately
in love with a young man she had only seen from an opposite
window, pined rapidly away; and on hearing he was
already affianced, insisted on taking the veil in a convent
of a very strict order: how his own sister, a very beautiful
girl, nearly broke her heart from the cruelty exercised by
her mother-in-law, who tried to sow discord between her
and her husband, opened all the letters she received from
her parents, took away all her best clothes, and distributed
them among her own daughters—in fact, behaved like a
suocera in all the acceptation of the term. But nothing
interested us so much as his own history, in which he at
last made us the recipients of the misery and uncertainty
that were destined to be inseparable from his existence.
We had observed that for some weeks he looked more
than ordinarily woe-begone, scarcely spoke, and his unbrushed
hair stood erect with an air of distraction it
was pitiable to witness. The usual inquiries about England,
the lectures upon art, the pæans to Raphael, were
all at an end, and our lessons were becoming very stupid,
common-place affairs, when, one day, as he was cutting a
crayon, he suddenly laid it down, and said, falteringly:
“Signorine, will you excuse my temerity, if, knowing all
your benevolent interest in me, I tell you what makes me
so ill. I have fallen in love.”
“Indeed!” we exclaimed; “tell us all about it. Where
is the lady?—how long has it been going on?—when will
the sposalizio take place?”
“Alas!” he replied, “what can I say? I have never
spoken to her; it is two months since I first saw her; it
was one evening outside the gates: she was with her
mother. I beheld that modest ingenuous face, and my
fate was decided. Miserable was I born, miserable have I
always been, but never so miserable as now.”
“Wherefore?” I inquired, with a perplexed expression.
“Because I have no means of maintaining her—not
even a few hundred dollars of my own: therefore it is of
no use attempting to make the acquaintance of her family,
or presenting myself as a suitor. O signorine! I have
suffered so long, my secret was wearing me to the grave.”
“But you have an avvenire—a future, at least,” said my
cousin Lucy, who, under all her sedateness, was rather of
an enthusiastic turn.
“Ah!” answered he, shaking his head, “that is easy
to say for you English: we poor Italians have no future;
we never can rise; we are but fools to dream of it.”
“Then do you not mean even to try to improve your
fortunes, so as one day to be able to marry?”
“Heaven knows whether I do not try,” was the rueful
response; “but the days for art in Italy are gone by. You
are witness, ladies, to the patronage accorded to me here.
What have I to look back upon since I established myself
in Ancona? One or two commissions from convents for
the apotheosis of some new saint—a few portraits—at such
rare intervals, and on such hard terms, that I verily believe,
if I were a house-painter, I should succeed better than
with my aspirations to be an historical one.”
“Yet, why despair?” I persisted; “why not obtain
an introduction to the family of the fair incognita, explain
your views, and if they hold out any hopes of your ultimately
being accepted, you will work away with redoubled
energy. You might go and paint signs in California.”
(That was all the rage just then.)
“The signorina is laughing at me, I see; but it would
not be right according to our ideas. She had better know
nothing of me; her peace of mind might be disturbed.
Those friends whom I have consulted, tell me I ought even
to avoid passing her when she is out walking, or going to
look at her at mass. Her character is evidently so full of
sensibility that it would be easy to destroy her happiness.”
“How can you be so sure of all this, if you have never
spoken to her?”
“I see it all perfectly in her face,” he answered, with a
determined belief in his own powers of observation, which
no ridicule or reasoning could shake. His romantic passion
amused us all excessively, and as he evidently liked to talk
of it, the disclosure having been once made, we were in
future kept fully informed of all his tortures, fears, and
despondency; but fancied that an attachment, hopeless and
baseless as this, could not be of long duration. Contrary,
however, to what we anticipated, he became more and more
in love; he looked every day thinner, his hair more wiry,
his eyes unnaturally brilliant and deeper sunk.
One morning—a real wintry morning, one of the few
we ever saw—he came in, livid and trembling, with a wildness
in his appearance that was startling. He did not
leave his hat in the hall, as was his custom, but entered
with it in his hand, and making a few steps forward,
paused abruptly, and said in a hoarse voice:
“The signorine will excuse me if I pray them to dispense
me from my attendance for a few days. I am going
into the country—yes, into the country!”
When an Italian goes into the country at such a season
of the year, he must be in a desperate plight, and we
anxiously demanded the reason of this rash step.
“Signorine, I am mad—I am jealous! Yesterday I was
looking up furtively at her window; another man was
standing in the street near me; I fancied I had seen him
there before: still a suspicion never crossed my brain when
the window opened, and she looked out. Never had she
deigned to do this for me. As I live, her eyes rested upon
him! All the furies seized me; I rushed to the house of
my friend, my best friend, the Avvocato D——. I raved,
I tore my hair, I imprecated curses upon her. He took
me by the arm. 'To-morrow, you must go into the
country,' he said; 'I will accompany you.' Yes, signorine,
with twelve inches of snow upon the ground, I go
into the country!”
And into the country he went, and from the country he
returned in two or three weeks' time, unrecovered; although
convinced that his jealousy was groundless, the national
specific had failed in this case. Then I fear we did him
harm, for on the “nothing venture, nothing have” principle
we counselled him to embody his hopes, prospects, and
honest determinations in a letter to be submitted to the
young lady's family, belonging, like his own, to the middle
classes, though more affluent in their circumstances.
Taking an injudicious mezzo termine, he humbly presented
this epistle to the fair Dulcinea herself, as she was
coming one day out of church under the care of some aunt
or elderly female relation.
Haughtily flinging it on the ground, the damsel indignantly
said, “I do not know how to read letters of this description,”
and passed on. Her virtue and discretion
increased his admiration, while the repulse almost broke his
heart. He never made any further attempt to press his
suit, but moped and pined away perceptibly; in fact, he
was dying of mortification and grief—so common an occurrence
in this part of Italy, that they have a distinct name
for the affection, and call it passione.
At this juncture, some friends of his, who had emigrated
to Tunis in the recent troubles of Italy, wrote to recommend
his joining them there; and urged on by the representations
of all who were interested in his welfare—his desperate
condition sanctioning so desperate a step as foreign travel
was usually looked upon—encouraged especially by ourselves,
with our restless, enterprising British notions, he embarked
in a small trading-vessel, almost reduced to a skeleton.
Months, nay, years have passed since then, and it
seemed as if all clue to the poor young painter were completely
lost, when, by a strange coincidence, I received a
letter from him at the very moment when the ink was still
wet upon the page where I had been relating his ill-starred
attachment. I wish I could transcribe the whole of this
letter—I wish it could be laid tangibly before my readers—so
clumsily, squarely folded, with its coarse red seal, stamped
with some copper coin very probably, its stiff handwriting
and deficient orthography; and its contents, so simple, so
poetical, so unassuming, of which a few extracts, to give the
continuation of his vicissitudes, can furnish but a very
imperfect idea.
After relating the failure of the hopes with which he
had landed at Tunis, he says that, resolved to leave no path
that might lead to independence unexplored, he even set
his beloved art comparatively aside, and had betaken himself
to whatever honest employment he might find. Entering
the service of the Pacha of Tripoli, he had been sent as a
mineralogist—“for amongst the Turks,” he naïvely remarks,
“one may do anything—far into the interior, amongst men
and manners completely different from our own, to explore
a mine reported to be of silver, but which, with my usual
ill-luck, turned out of very inferior iron.” Then, encouraged
by the Pacha's promises, he accompanied him to Constantinople,
where, finding to his cost that he must put no faith
in princes, he turned to his painting again. But the city
was swarming with Italian refugees, artists among the rest,
all contending for the bare means of subsistence; so, after a
few months of painful struggles, he went back to Africa, and
entered into some trading speculations. Neither in this
new career was he successful. Perhaps he worked with a
sinking heart, for the tidings reached him that the young
girl so faithfully loved was about to be married; and “what
imbittered this announcement, was learning that the
character of her future husband offered but slender prospects
for her happiness.” His little ventures failed; his
resources were exhausted; and he was under the necessity
of returning to his native country. There he found strange
reverses had suddenly befallen her whom he had schooled
himself to look upon as irrevocably lost. Her parents were
both dead; the marriage had been broken off; and from
comparative affluence she was so reduced as, jointly with a
widowed sister, to have opened a day-school for little girls.
“I saw her then,” he goes on, “under the pressure of
sorrow. I found her, in the words of Petrarch, più bella,
ma meno altera; and yet, even at that moment, my cruel
destiny prevented me from saying, 'I am here to comfort
and sustain you!'”
Once more he went forth, hoping against hope, with the
aim of establishing himself as a portrait-painter and drawing-master
at ——, on the shores of the Mediterranean,
whither many English families annually resort; and the
object of his letter was modestly and unaffectedly to request
that if I knew any of my country-people intending to winter
there, I would recommend him to their notice.
I felt very sad to perceive how he overrated the
signorina forestiera's influence, and the extent of her
acquaintance; or else in his simplicity imagining that to be
English is synonymous with belonging to a vast brotherhood,
giving and demanding the hand of fellowship on every
side. I wish it were thus in this instance at least, for the
first use I should make of this blissful state of fraternity,
would be to claim patronage and encouragement for the
poor artist, whose history then could soon be pleasantly
wound up like orthodox story-books, in these words, “and
so they were married, and lived very happily all the rest of
their days.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
From Ancona to Umana—Moonlight view—The country-house—Indifference
of the Anconitans to flowers and gardening—Ascent of
the mount—Magnificent prospect at sunrise—Trappist convent.
The famous Santa Casa, or Holy House of Loretto, has
long been recognised as the principal attraction of the
Marche; indeed, it is so well known to tourists, that I
should have left my excursion thither unrecorded, had not
this omission rendered my picture of local manners and
customs incomplete. Little as the Anconitans are given to
locomotion, I never met an instance of one who had not
visited the shrine at least once in his or her life, whilst a
few make it a point of conscience to repair thither every
year. The distance from Ancona, by the high-road, is
twenty miles—a journey of five hours, in that country of
steep hills and slow coaches; but travellers are generally
disposed to overlook the tedium of the way in their admiration
of the scenery it discloses. Few, however, have any
conception of the still more picturesque features of the
circuitous route through which, one lovely evening in June,
we pursued our pilgrimage to Loretto.
There was nothing very original or brilliant in our party.
The V—— family—the same with whom we went to the
rural christening—joined the expedition, too adventurous
for any of our Italian friends; the consul, the Chevalier
V——, this time escorting his wife and lively Polish
daughters, very proud, as he protested, of the charge my
uncle had delegated to him as his representative towards my
cousins and unworthy self. He was a good man, that dear
chevalier, in every acceptation of the term, but his sphere
was certainly not a scrambling gipsying enterprise, such as
we contemplated, and his presence would have proved
hopelessly depressing, had it not been for the antidote furnished
by the indomitable spirits of a lieutenant and two
little midshipmen belonging to an English frigate lying in
the harbour, who had obtained permission to accompany
us. The fair hair and ruddy cheeks of the middies, reminding
Madame V—— of her own absent boys, had pleaded
irresistibly in their favour; their extreme juvenility too,
she argued, screened her from any breach of the convenances
she was always so solicitous to maintain. As to the young
lieutenant, he was a married man, carried about his baby's
likeness in a locket, and spent fabulous sums in presents for
his wife. No anxiety could therefore be felt on his score,
no dread of exciting the remonstrance of a certain black-browed
parish priest, who, I very well know, left the poor
lady no peace on the impropriety of throwing her daughters
into the temptations of English male heretical society.
It had been arranged that we should walk the first five
miles of the way, with the exception of the consolessa, who
was provided with a donkey, as far as an occupied country-house,
or casino, kindly placed at our disposal by its owners;
thence, after needful rest and refreshment, we were to ascend
the Monte d'Ancona, a lofty mountain, famed for a
Trappist convent on its summit, and a magnificent range of
prospect. To reach the top before daybreak, in order to
see the sun rise, was an essential feature in our programme;
it was the only subject connected with nature on which the
Anconitans ever showed any enthusiasm. Several of our
acquaintances had, in their youth, they told us, braved the
exertion and loss of rest to witness the levata del sole from
the mount. Others regretted they had not the energy to
attempt it. None ridiculed our undertaking. I felt very
curious to behold what awoke such unusual admiration.
We were all in a cheerful mood, and not a little diverted,
as we passed through the narrow streets on our way to the
gate, at the astonishment excited by the appearance of
Madame V—— on a very antiquated chair-saddle, upon her
long-eared steed. The people flocked to look at her with
unrestrained curiosity, till the consul turned suddenly
round, and apostrophizing the gazers, inquired sternly
whether they considered the foreign custom of riding upon
an ass more wonderful than their own of being driven by a
cow. The justness of this reasoning, or rather the energy
with which it was enunciated, having produced an instantaneous
effect in the dispersion of the crowd, we were suffered
to proceed unmolested, followed by a second donkey
laden with provisions.
Our route, immediately after quitting the town, lay near
the cliffs forming the line of coast behind the promontory
on which Ancona is built, in singular contrast to the sandy
beach extending northward towards Sinigaglia and Pesaro.
Sometimes the road quite skirted the edge of the precipice,
and deviating from the undulations of the cliffs, would
change the marine to a pastoral landscape, and lead to paths
shaded by trees and flowering hedges, admitting occasional
glimpses of mountains in the distance.
For the next two or three miles, our course lay entirely
between hedges, screening the possessioni, or small farms,
into which the land is subdivided, from the road. It was
rapidly growing dark; for it must not be forgotten there is
no twilight in Italy, and the moon was not yet visible; so
we had nothing to do but admire the fireflies which the
midshipmen ruthlessly persisted in ensnaring in their caps
and handkerchiefs, or laugh at the efforts of l'officier marié,
as our friends had named the young lieutenant, to sustain a
conversation in French. No fear of robbers crossed our
minds; the consul and our countrymen were armed, it is
true, but more as a security against danger in the vicinity
of Loretto, than in the unfrequented districts we were
traversing, where there were no travellers or wealthy house-holders
to attract the gangs which swarmed on the papal
highways.
At last, after the consul's lamentations on the weariness
of the way had begun to find an echo in our own hearts, we
emerged from a narrow path, shut in by steep banks, upon
the casino. But it was not on its open doors, or the hospitable
lights kindling for our reception, that our eyes were
turned. I do not remember being ever so enchanted by
any view as that now presented to us. I know not whether
daylight would rob it of any portion of its beauty and
soothing influence; I can only speak of it as it impressed
me then—so calm, so pure, so still. We were standing on
the verge of a lofty cliff that stretched precipitously forward
like a crescent, and formed a bay on whose waters the moon,
which had just risen, poured a flood of trembling silvery
light; while, on one side, dark, ominous, and frowning, rose
the mount, projecting far into the sea, and towering in its
sullen grandeur above the rippling waves which bore their
snowy wreaths of foam in tribute to its feet. Clear and
defined against the moonlit sky, with no trees or verdure to
clothe its rocky steeps, there was something inexpressibly
sublime in the aspect of this mountain, and the lonely character
of the surrounding scenery. No sound invaded the
perfect quietude of the hour except the reverential murmur
of the sea, and faintly in the distance, the voices of some
fishermen, whose barks were gliding forth, their sails filling
with the evening breeze, and glistening in the moon-beams.
The preparations for supper were soon completed. The
peasants left in charge of the house had eggs and fruit and
wine in readiness, and Madame V—— had taken care that
our donkey's panniers should contain all the substantial requisites
for a repast. The midshipmen delightedly superintended
the laying of the cloth, and then summoned us to
table, where their libations of the sparkling Muscatel, profusely
supplied, did credit to the excellence of our friend
the conte's vintage.
When the meal was over, the old contadina, who officiated
as housekeeper, her Sunday costume and strings of
pearls donned in honour of our visit, recommended us to
take a little sleep before midnight, at which hour we were
to set out for the mount in birocci—those primitive-shaped
carts drawn by oxen or cows, that I have elsewhere minutely
described. This reasonable advice the consul forthwith enforced
by example as well as precept, and was soon slumbering
sonorously on a sofa in the dining-room. Not feeling
inclined to follow his admonitions while the moonlight
shone almost as bright as day, we all preferred exploring
the casino and strolling in its vicinity, accompanied by the
dear patient consolessa, who evidently did not think the
convenances permitted her to lose sight of us, and consequently
protested that she was not in the least fatigued.
The house was soon looked over. No arm-chairs, no
couches, no ottomans; nothing but stiff high-backed cane
sofas, that seemed intended for anything but repose. There
was a billiard-room, and a little chapel, or rather recess,
divided by a pair of folding-doors from the principal sitting-room,
where mass was celebrated when the family were in
the country: but we could discover no books or traces of
aught resembling a library. In fact, as I have before remarked,
as most Italians consider reading a study, and have
no idea of it as a recreation, all appliances thereto are generally
left behind when they come professedly in search of
health and mental relaxation to their villeggiature. From
six weeks to two months is the utmost amount of time they
devote for this purpose. What with looking after their
farms and a little shooting, the men get through this period
with tolerable satisfaction; to the ladies, it is always fraught
with intense ennui.
The resources of floriculture, with rare exceptions, are
unknown to the women of the Marche. There was one
lady of rank in Ancona who had laid out a garden at one of
her country-houses with considerable taste. It was the
only innovation I witnessed upon the orthodox quadrangular
enclosure, fenced in by high walls with espaliers of lemons,
and little three-cornered flower-beds, intersected by gravel-paths,
which graced a few of the casini of the wealthiest
proprietors. Her example, however, found no imitators;
and with a soil and climate exquisitely adapted for their
cultivation, flowers receive less attention and seem less
prized in the Roman States than in any other part of Italy.
Here, in this secluded villa, where the interest and occupation
attendant on such a pursuit would have beguiled the
weariness of the contessa's banishment from the fleas, bad
smells, and stifling atmosphere which render Ancona, during
the hottest months, a somewhat questionable Elysium,
a small wood adjoining the house, a few rose-bushes planted
round cabbages, and two or three cobwebby arbours, were
all the evidences of ornamental gardening we could trace.
About midnight, we heard the slow dragging of wheels,
and presently the peasants of the possessione came up with
two birocci to the gate. Mattresses were then placed at
the bottom of each, on which we were to sit; and after
Madame V—— had carefully arranged the cloaks and
shawls her prudent care foresaw would ere long be necessary,
we took our places, and in good earnest commenced
the ascent. With a singular defiance of all engineering, it
was carried abruptly up to the tops of hills, merely to descend
with corresponding rapidity on the other side, reminding
me more of the Russian sliding mountains than any
other illustration I can think of, and occasionally becoming
so disagreeably perpendicular, and so distressing to the
poor cows, which panted loudly at every step, that we often
preferred getting out to walk, to overtasking their strength
and risking our own safety.
When the moon went down, the air became chill, and
all of us gave tokens of weariness. As it approached three
o'clock, our conductors, pointing to a faint break in the
horizon, urged us to hasten our steps, as day would soon
be dawning. Thus admonished, a few minutes of brisk
walking brought us to the top of the mountain, which, so
far as we could distinguish in the dull greyness pervading
every object, was an irregular platform, on three sides
overhanging the sea, and on the fourth commanding a
wide, dark, boundless expanse, on which the blackness of
night still rested. A little lower down, in a sheltered
hollow, amid dusky groves of evergreen, cold, stern, and
desolate, rose the white walls of the celebrated Trappist
monastery. The strange tales current of the austerities
of its inmates, and of the disappointment or remorse which
had driven them to its seclusion, seemed appropriate to the
surrounding gloom and the spectral aspect of the building,
when the tones of the matin-bell broke the oppressive
silence that prevailed, and the Ave Maria del giorno summoned
the monks to their orisons in the choir. Our
guides, reverently uncovering, made the sign of the cross,
and then flung themselves wearily upon the ground, screened
by a low parapet from the wind, which circled in keen gusts
around; while we looked forth upon the sea, and the
glowing light that was stealing fast upon it.
Brighter and brighter grows that radiance, until, as by
the lifting of a veil, the distant peaks of the mountains on
the opposite Dalmatian shores become distinctly visible,
thrown into bold relief by the illuminated background,
and we span the breadth and borders of the beauteous
Adriatic. Fleeting as a dream is that unwonted spectacle,
for lo! the glorious sun has leaped upwards from his
mountain-bed, and the glad waters quiver and exult beneath
his presence. Higher and higher still he rises, and Night
flies scared before him, as if seeking a refuge in that
vague dim space where yet she holds her sway. It is a
wondrous contrast, the golden sparkling sea and sable
land, nature's mingled waking and repose—but short-lived
as wondrous, for like the gradual uprolling of a scroll, so
does the darkness recede which covers the face of the fair
and wide-spread prospect; and hamlets and towns, hills
and valleys, fields thick with corn, olive trees and vineyards,
seem to start into being while we gaze.
The peasants pointed out exultingly a number of towns
distinguishable with the naked eye—Osimo, Loretto, Recanati,
Macerata, besides many others, all with an individual
history of their own, in feudal times having boasted
of an independent existence, and waged petty wars with
each other. Nearly a hundred towns and villages are said
to be discernible from this height; but it was not on
any of these in particular that the attention of a stranger
would be admiringly directed, but rather to the grand
panoramic effect of the whole, bounded by its unrivalled
background of Apennines, rising in terrace-like succession,
till the last range blended with the clouds.
After nearly an hour's survey—it was much longer
according to the chevalier's impatient calculation, in which
he was abetted by the midshipmen—we prepared to depart.
After bidding farewell to our birocci, we descended
upon the opposite side of the mount on foot, accompanied
only by a boy to act as guide; not without casting many
lingering looks at the convent, and longing for a glimpse
of those white-robed monks who—each isolated in his
own cell, and occupied in the cultivation of the patch of
ground whence he derives his subsistence—holding no
communion of speech without the permission of the superior,
except on three great festivals in the year, and never
permitted to go beyond the walls of the convent—have
voluntarily delivered themselves to a foretaste of the silence
and confinement of the tomb.
CHAPTER XXIV.
The bishop's palace at Umana—Inroad of beggars—The grotto of
the slaves—The physician's political remarks—Approach to Loretto—Bad
reputation of its inhabitants—Invitation from the
Canonico.
An hour's quick walking brought us to Umana, where
carriages were to be in readiness to convey us across
the country to Loretto. Formerly of some importance
as an episcopal see, Umana is now reduced to a mere
harbour for fishing-boats; still, however, containing some
handsome though half-ruined buildings, and having its
grass-grown piazza, dingy caffè, and aristocratic loungers.
The bishopric has been merged into that of Ancona, but
the palace yet remains, in readiness for an occasional pastoral
visitation. We had been courteously promised we
should find it open for our reception; and dusty, tired, and
hungry, we were glad to cross its threshold. But before
allowing us to sit down, the old couple who had charge
of the palazzo insisted on conducting us through all the
apartments, that we might see the best accommodation
they had to offer was placed at our disposal. Accordingly,
we were forced to perambulate long corridors and
innumerable rooms full of doors, opening one into the
other, through which it seemed vain to search for one
that was not simply a passage to the rest. The brick
floors were sunken and uneven; and the furniture, which
consisted of tarnished mirrors, high-backed stamped-leather
chairs, carved worm-eaten tables, with discoloured gilding,
all looked faded and decaying. The beds, with their heavy
brocaded quilts, canopies, and hangings, did not look particularly
inviting; but in the total absence of sofas, they
served for an hour or two of repose: after which, refreshed
by such ablutions as the scanty washing arrangements permitted—nothing
beyond the usual tripod containing a
small basin and jug being allotted to each chamber, or procurable
throughout the whole palace—we assembled for
breakfast. Here one of the middies narrowly missed upsetting
the general harmony by relating his fruitless attempts
to obtain a tub, winding up his narrative by the
remark, “that these padres must be a queer set, decidedly
not hydropathic.” This observation being unfortunately
overheard by the chevalier, who perfectly understood English,
was immediately interpreted into a want of reverence
for the priesthood. Turning very red, he said with emphasis,
“It was extremely unfair and narrow-minded to
cast that as an imputation upon one class of the community,
which was decidedly a national characteristic;”
and an awkward pause ensuing, we should have felt very
uncomfortable, if the entrance of several bottegas, waiters
from the caffè, bearing a number of little brass trays containing
each person's cup, tiny coffee-pot, milk-jug, and
allowance of powdered sugar, had not given a happy turn
to the state of affairs. The price of this collation, including
a liberal supply of rolls and cakes, did not exceed five
bajocchi a head (twopence-halfpenny). More substantial
fare was supplied by the remaining contents of the basket
that had furnished last night's supper; and being now completely
recruited, we all sallied out to see something of Umana.
Our appearance on the piazza created an immense sensation.
It was evident that the presence of strangers was
no common occurrence to the industrious citizens pursuing
there the dolce far niente. Then, too, in addition to the
flattering notice of the out-door population—the barber,
the apothecary, the keeper of the lottery-office, the tobacconist,
besides whoever happened to be making conversazione
with them at the moment, all stood at their respective doors
to look at us, and bowed with flattering urbanity. This
tranquil demonstration, however, was soon eclipsed by an
inroad of beggars, who had at first presented themselves in
limited detachments; but as nothing could restrain our
sailor-friends from distributing small coins in profusion,
their numbers soon became astounding, and we ran the risk
of being pulled to pieces in their eagerness, or deafened by
their clamour. At this juncture, the consul and the three
delinquents, forming themselves into a body-guard, faced
round and menaced the most importunate with their sticks,
while we availed ourselves of the opportunity to escape
further pursuit, and laughingly descended a steep stony
path leading to the beach.
Here some fishermen at once gathered round, and assailed
us with inquiries as to whether we would not like to
see the famous Grotta de' Schiavi, distant half an hour's
row along the coast. This had not formed part of our projected
itinerary; but the sea being exquisitely calm, and
the weather delightful, the majority of the party were
strongly inclined to follow the suggestion. While the point
was still in discussion, an unexpected ally in surmounting
the opposing side presented himself in the Chiarissimo
and Dottissimo Signor Dottore——(most enlightened and
most learned, thus he would be styled officially), the most
popular physician in Ancona, and an especial favourite, as
I have already mentioned, in my uncle's household. Summoned
the previous night to Umana for a consultation, he
had promised to remain till evening to await the result of
the treatment he enjoined, and not being a frequenter of
caffès, was now beguiling the time by a stroll on the sea-shore.
Assuring the consolessa, who had a vision of banditti
before her eyes, that even a delay of two hours would not
hinder our reaching Loretto before sunset, and offering his
escort in lieu of Monsieur V——, whose politeness was
combated by his dislike to any marine expeditions, we soon
obtained the good pair's acquiescence. The consul went
back to the episcopal palace to take a second nap; his
spouse, faithful to her duties, cheerfully prepared to accompany
us, too amiable to give herself the satisfaction of looking
victimized. Two boats were soon selected from a host
of applicants, who remained furiously wrangling among
themselves, and hurling imprecations at the head of their
successful comrades, long after we had pushed out to sea.
Although the men pulled vigorously, rather more than
the stipulated time elapsed before we descried a dark speck
at the base of the white cliffs which rose, without a strip of
intervening shingle, abruptly from the water's edge. As
we approached, this proved to be an aperture wide enough
to admit the entrance of a boat, and crouching as we glided
under the low, dark passage, we found ourselves in a lofty
circular cavern, with no place for the foot to rest upon except
a narrow ledge of rock, two or three feet wide, that
ran round it. A mournful interest, derived from well-authenticated
facts, is attached to the Grotta de' Schiavi—that
is, of the slaves—to which its name especially bears
reference. It was here, as the sailors told us, and the dottore
confirmed, that in those times when the Adriatic coast was
ruthlessly swept by the Algerine corsairs, they used temporarily
to confine their prisoners, and deposit the booty they
had collected. Landing them upon the narrow ledge within
the grotto, they would leave them securely bound while
they went in quest of further plunder, confident that no
means of egress, or possibility of rescue, lay before the
wretched victims they had torn from their homes and
kindred.
Upon this natural platform the party now landed; and
while the greater number, laughing and talking, made the
circuit of the rocks, the physician stood near my cousin
Lucy and me, and dwelt upon the associations to which
such a spot naturally gave rise.
“I never come here,” he said, “without a host of
mournful fancies presenting themselves to my mind. What
shrieks and wailings, what moans of agony must have resounded
within this gloomy cave!—How truly must hope
have died in the hearts of those who entered it!—How
many forms of beauty, and strength, and helpless childhood,
have here writhed and struggled, and swayed to and
fro in impotent despair, waiting till their pitiless captors
should return with fresh companions in slavery to greet
them!”
“And I,” exclaimed Lucy, the wonderful English spirit
which animated those Italian-born girls causing the blood
to mantle in her cheeks, “I, in a scene like this, can never
sufficiently thank God for having made me of a nation to
whom it is owing that such things have ceased to be! It
was my dear England which sent forth Lord Exmouth's
fleet in 1816 to the bombardment of Algiers, the liberation
of Christian captives, and the suppression of piracy in all
the Barbary States. Oh, Signor Dottore, it is a noble privilege
to be English!—I value it next to being a Christian!”
He had known her from childhood, and smiled at her
enthusiasm, while he rejoined:—“Would to Heaven, Signora
Lucia, that your country, great and wonderful as she
is, would not now-a-days content herself with reminiscences
of her past exertions in the cause of freedom.[7] You say
such things have ceased to be. What has ceased?... The
inroads of Algerine corsairs, I grant you—but not the
tears of Italian captives.”
He looked round. Madame V—— and the others
were still at some distance; the boatmen were resting on
their oars at the mouth of the cave. Eagerly, as if catching
at every moment, he went on:—
“Who can count the political prisoners rotting in
loathsome dungeons in various parts of Italy at this moment?
Your countryman Gladstone has laid bare the horrors of the
Neapolitan state prisons; but he did not tell you of Mantua,
of Ferrara, of Pagliano! In the galleys of Ancona many
persons, guilty of no other crime than the unguarded
expression of their liberal opinions, are now wearing the
felon's dress and chain. I know of some young men now
languishing there, who, for having let off a few fireworks
on the anniversary of the proclamation of the Roman
Republic, were sentenced by the restored Papal Government
to twenty years' companionship—daily and nightly companionship—with
the foulest murderers. I could relate to
you such stories of our prisons,—of men worn to premature
dotage; of strong hearts crushed; of noble intellects
palsied,—as would make you own that a worse slavery than
that of Algiers exists for us!”
We would willingly have heard more, but the approach
of Madame V—— checked the speaker. Good, amiable as
she was, she was known to be too completely under the
control of her confessor, for any liberal to venture to speak
unreservedly on politics before her. The conversation was
at once turned into a new channel; and in a few instants
more, the bright sunshine, the sparkling waters, the ineffable
beauty of the cloudless sky, as we emerged from the grotto,
proved irresistible spells to chase away the gloomy impression
of what the doctor had just related.
Duly drawn up on the piazza, we found, on regaining
the shore, the two vetture previously bespoken, surpassing
specimens of that delectable style of equipage—each with
three spectral horses, whose mean bodily appearance was
supposed to be atoned for by an extra supply of jingling
bells and scarlet worsted tufts; the drivers fierce and
bravo-like; and the interiors painfully redolent of musty
straw. There were six places in each, two in the cabriolet,
and four inside; and the consul and Madame V——
respectively taking the command of a division, with many
expressions of thanks and good-will to the dottore, whose
presence had formed a very agreeable interlude to some
amongst the party, we set forth in great style. The whole
mendicant population, at least half apparently of the inhabitants
of Umana, escorted us, like a guard of honour, as a
tribute to the largesses of our good-humoured tars, and
filled the air with their benedictions; while a number of
boys and girls, even after the horses had been urged into a
feeble trot, pursued us indefatigably for at least a mile, the
former making wheels of themselves, and bowling along
after the most approved fashion; and the latter springing
up to the windows to offer their bunches of flowers, and
obtain a farewell token of English liberality.
After a drive of four hours or thereabouts, through
country equally fertile and diversified, we drew near Loretto,
situated on the brow of a very steep hill, crowned by the
church of the Santa Casa. As we wound slowly up the ascent,
we met the peasants in large numbers returning from some
neighbouring fair, and were struck by the scowling looks with
which they eyed us, and a general air of menace and defiance.
Singularly enough, it is notorious that the population in the
vicinity of this venerated shrine is the worst throughout
the whole pontifical dominions. This is a perplexing fact
to persons who, like the V—— family, were perfectly sincere
in their belief of the legend of the holy house's miraculous
transportation by angels from Nazareth; and who
naturally would infer that the immediate presence of such
a relic ought to have produced a salutary effect upon public
morals. Their explanation of this inconsistency was briefly,
that the town having been for centuries the resort of
pilgrims of all ranks and from every clime, the Loretani had
become corrupted by ever-changing intercourse with these
strangers: an hypothesis we unquestioningly accepted, for it
must not be forgotten we were now on delicate ground, and
many an observation that might have jarred on our foreign
companions, had to be altogether suppressed or carefully
kept amongst ourselves. The sinister aspects of the groups
we encountered gave a clue to the numerous robberies perpetrated
in the neighbourhood; to say nothing of the
darker tales of murder and revenge, of which the way-side
crosses, so frequent during the last few miles, were ominously
suggestive.
Equally unfavourable were our first impressions of the
town, as we drove through a narrow street, lined on each
side with booths, where every description of medals, chaplets,
rosaries, and other objects of devotion lay exposed for sale,
which we were loudly called upon to purchase. Slipshod
women, their black hair escaping, matted and disordered,
from the coloured handkerchiefs bound about their heads;
beggars in every stage and form of human misery—blind,
palsied, maimed; squalid children; lean, fighting dogs;
portly priests; dirty pilgrims with staff and scallop-shell:
such is the appearance of the crowd that greets the traveller
on entering Loretto.
On reaching the inn, we found a fresh assemblage of
mendicants drawn up in array in the courtyard; objects so
dirty and revolting, that one involuntarily shrunk from contact
with them: and clamorous, even peremptory, in their
demands, which are in general liberally complied with.
Their trade is supposed to be a thriving one, since the
majority of persons repairing to the town, do so from religious
motives, and esteem this promiscuous alms-giving a
stringent duty. Besides these, we encountered upon the
unswept stairs several women with baskets of rosaries and medals,
which they kept importuning us to buy, that we might
have them blessed at the Santa Casa; and lastly, two or three
tottering old men waylaid us on the landing, and pressingly
offered themselves as our ciceroni to the shrine. But it
was too late, or rather we were too weary for any more
sight-seeing that day; and as soon as dinner was concluded,
we were glad enough to betake ourselves to repose.
Recruited by a night of well-earned sleep, the next
morning found us assembled in the general sala of the inn,
waiting for breakfast and the return of the V—— family,
who, the servants told us, had gone out soon after dawn.
They speedily came in with cheerful faces, having fulfilled
all the devotional exercises prescribed to devout Roman
Catholics on their first visit to the Santa Casa, and were
now ready to enter cordially into the survey of the church
and all the curiosities it contained.
While we were still at table, we heard a voice in rich oily
tones, accompanied by a boisterous laugh, inquiring for the
Signorine Inglesi. Presently a short, stout, very stout,
priest entered the room, and, apostrophized as il Signor
Canonico, was greeted by my cousins with unfeigned
friendliness. It appeared he had known the family some
years before, having been the curate of their parish in
Ancona. The exercise of his duties used occasionally to lead
him to my uncle's house—at such times, for instance, as
blessing it at Easter, or distributing the tickets for confession
to the servants—opportunities which he never failed
to improve in a little attempt at converting the signorine.
Now it would be the present of a life of Santa Filomena, or
some other saintly legend, which they were implored to
substitute for other reading; or again, a medal or relic to
be suspended round their necks, and win them to the fold.
These simple devices invariably proving abortive, the poor
padre would shake his head, look at them with tears in his
eyes, and plunging his hand into a capacious pocket, draw
thence a goodly packet of sugar-plums, in the discussion
whereof all controversial bitterness was soon forgotten.
These amicable relations had for some time been suspended,
owing to his prospering in the world, and having
been translated to a canon's stall at Loretto—evidently an
easy and thriving post. As soon as the first expressions of
pleasure at this unexpected meeting were over, the canonico
was introduced in form to the V——s, the officers, and the
cugina forestiera, and had a varied compliment for each
member of the party; after which, without the slightest
modulation of voice, but rather, if possible, pitching it in a
higher key, and with an indescribable play of feature and
vivacity of gesture, he began inveighing against his young
friends for not giving him timely notice that they were
coming to Loretto, when they might have eaten due bocconi
(two mouthfuls) at his house. Precisely for this reason,
they replied, had they determined not to apprize him beforehand,
knowing his hospitality would have led to the commission
of some pazzia or folly upon their account. At this
pleasantry he laughed and wheezed till he was nearly black
in the face; but on recovering his breath, insisted that,
although it was certainly too late to think of preparing a
dinner, they should not be let off so easily as they expected,
and must therefore, with all the honourable company—making
a circular movement with his hands—come at noon
and take la cioccolata under his poor roof.
The good man was clearly so much in earnest, that it
would have been ungracious to decline, and an appointment
was accordingly made for that hour. This important
business being satisfactorily adjusted, he took his leave, and
we set forth to visit the fane where pilgrim-kings have worshipped.
CHAPTER XXV.
The Santa Casa—Pilgrims—The treasury—Exquisite statues and
bassi-rilievi—Chocolate at the Canonico's—La Signora Placida—A
survey of the house—The rich vestments.
Strangers were evidently no rarity in Loretto, and the
admiring gaze of the population did not greet our appearance
as at Umana. Simply looked upon as travellers, and legitimate
objects of prey, we were soon beset by the vendors of
the trinkets peculiar to the place, and imposed on without
mercy. I have no hesitation in saying that the corone, or
chaplets, with which the midshipmen persisted in filling
their pockets, and the bracelets of ten beads called corone
alla moda—an indefinite supply whereof l'officier marié
seemed to consider indispensable to his wife—were charged
them at least three times their value. The main street,
already noticed, opens upon a spacious square, adorned by
a fountain and two handsome colonnades, and flanked by the
palace of the bishop and the Jesuits' College; at the upper
end, on arising ground, stands the church of the Santa Casa,
a large and commanding edifice.
The interior is profusely decorated, and contains numerous
side-chapels enriched with pictures in mosaic; but the
object on which the eye first rests on entering is a structure
of an oblong form of white Carrara marble, completely incrusted
with statues, Corinthian columns, and exquisite
bass-reliefs, placed on a platform accessible by three or four
broad steps, immediately beneath the cupola. This is the
far-famed Holy House, or, more properly speaking, the
costly building raised over the reputed cottage of Nazareth,
at once to impede its future migrations, and preserve it for
the edification of the faithful. Passing into the sacred
tabernacle, a gorgeous vision strikes upon the senses—golden
lamps, suspended from the ceiling, shed a mellow but subdued
light upon an altar, where jewelled chalices, crucifixes,
and candelabras are arrayed in glittering profusion, surmounted
by an image, whence literally a blaze of diamonds
is radiating. Here prostrate forms are always seen, and
brows bent low in penance or adoration; and here many a
guilt-worn wretch, coming from distant realms, in penury
and toil, has sunk rejoicing on his knees, and deemed his
pardon won!
Above, around, on every side, are evidences of the piety
and liberality of the princely votaries to the shrine, whose
offerings were pointed out with conscious pride by the young
priest who had attached himself to our party. The figure
of the Madonna and Child, rudely carved in cedar, and said
to be the workmanship of St Luke, is absolutely covered
with gems. The two heads are encircled with tiaras of immense
value, and the black velvet in which the shapeless
trunk of the image is enswathed, is scarcely discernible
amid the ear-rings, necklaces, and chains of the most sparkling
brilliants overlaying it. Each jewel, and candlestick,
and lamp, has its donor and its history, all duly registered
in printed catalogues annexed to the authenticated relation
of the house and its mysterious fittings. This book sets
forth how, in the year 1294, the Santa Casa, where the Virgin
had meekly dwelt, and watched the childhood of her son,
was first lifted from its foundations by angel hands, and
borne from Palestine to Dalmatia. After a short interval,
the same supernatural agency transported it across the
Adriatic to a hill in the vicinity of Ancona; thence, after
one or two brief haltings, it was finally conveyed to Loretto,
where the speedy erection of a church over the precious deposit
attested the piety of the inhabitants, and secured them
the continuance of its presence.
From that time the cottage of Nazareth went on increasing
in fame and riches; miracles were wrought by its influence,
and princes and pontiffs contended who should do
it honour, until 1797, when the sun of its prosperity became
clouded. The pitiless exactions of the French compelled
Pius VI. to have recourse to the treasures of the Madonna
di Loretto to meet his conquerors' demands; and in the following
year, the fierce invaders captured the town, and sent
the venerated image to Paris. It was restored, however, a
few years afterwards, to the joy of all sincere adherents to
the church, and was solemnly crowned by Pius VII. with
those same diadems whose rainbow lustre dazzles the beholder.
The internal dimensions of the Santa Casa are those of
a mere hut—27 English feet in length, 12-½ in breadth, and
proportionably low. The ceiling is blackened by the smoke
of the many lamps which are perpetually burning; the
lower walls are covered with plates of silver, gilded and
wrought into bass-reliefs, except on one side where a portion
of the original masonry is left exposed. It is of course
brickwork, discoloured by time, and worn smooth by the
kisses continually pressed upon it. The priest pointed to a
rude sort of recess, which he told us was the fire-place of
the Holy Family, and then produced a cup or bowl, called
La Scodella Santa, from which the Madonna used to drink.
All the faithful reverently press their lips to this relic, and
then place in it their chaplets, crosses, or medals, to be
blessed.
The well-known story of a channel being worn on the
pavement immediately surrounding the Holy House, by the
knees of pilgrims, is not in the least exaggerated. There
are two distinct furrows in the marble, traced there by the
thousands who have yearly dragged themselves, in this attitude
of devotion, for a given number of times around its
walls. At the moment of our visit, several peasant-women
were thus shuffling along, seemingly without much inconvenience,
with the exception of one, whose attitude and appearance
produced a painful impression on my mind. She was
working her way round on her hands and knees, drawing as
she went a line with her tongue upon the pavement. I
know not how long she had been in that position, but it was
horrible to view: her face was black and swollen; her eyes
starting from their sockets; the veins on her forehead standing
out like tight strained cords, and mingled blood and
saliva flowing from her mouth. Our conductor looked unconcernedly
at the poor wretch as we passed, and said in
answer to my appealing glances: “It is only a great
penance; you may be sure she richly deserves it: there are
many who come here in this way to expiate their sins;”
and then walked on, leading the way to the treasury, as if
the subject were too commonplace for further consideration.
The Sala del Tesoro is a magnificent hall, richly painted
in fresco, the ceiling representing the death of the Madonna,
surrounded by the apostles, and the walls furnished with
immense presses with glass doors, in which are deposited
the numerous and yearly increasing offerings to the shrine.
Many of these are of great value, although of course not
equalling the splendour of those displayed upon and around
the image. Some evidence considerable eccentricity in the
donors, such as the king of Saxony's wedding-suit, a full
court costume of gold and silver brocade, estimated at I
forget how many thousand crowns; others, again, are of a
devotional type—silver statuettes of saints, crucifixes, and
church vessels; but the majority of gifts comprise necklaces,
gold chains, rings, brooches, watches, cups, flagons, silver
hearts—contributions from every nation and every class—from
the gemmed sevigné that lately sparkled in the saloons
of the Quartier St Germain, to the coral pendants a poor
contadina has proffered in gratitude for last year's vintage.
At a moderate computation, the present collection would
amply stock a score of jewellers' shops; nevertheless, as a
grey-haired sacristan informed us with a sigh, it is not
worthy to be named in the same breath with the glories of
the ancient treasury.
Thence we were reconducted to the church, to see the
mosaic pictures in the side-chapels, full-sized admirable
copies of celebrated masters, and of course most valuable
from the tedium and minuteness requisite in their execution.
Besides these, there are some originals by Guercino, and
other celebrated artists, their subjects mostly referring to
different passages in the life of the Virgin, as supplied by
legends of the east, the writings of Dionysius the Areopagite,
and other traditional sources. But of all the monuments
of the piety or ostentation of the Roman pontiffs,
who for centuries lavished large sums on the adornment of
this edifice, nothing can compete with the marble casing
that encloses the Santa Casa. This costly monument of the
best times of Italian art, projected by Julius II., was commenced
under Leo X.; and in its execution the most eminent
sculptors seem to have vied in leaving worthy memorials
of their skill. Designed by Bramante—Sansovino,
Bandinelli, Giovanni da Bologna, besides others scarcely
less illustrious, were employed on the bass-reliefs, and those
groups of prophets and sibyls, which in majestic beauty still
rivet the admiration of the beholder. There is a figure of
Jeremiah, by Sansovino, at the angle of the western façade,
the sublime mournfulness of which haunts me even now.
We were still engaged in our survey, when we were
joined by my cousins' friend the canonico, panting for
breath, who had come to remind us of our engagement.
Accordingly, we adjourned en masse to his habitation, situated
in a very miserable narrow street, or rather lane; and
climbing up a steep, dark, and indescribably dirty staircase,
arrived at last at the ultimo piano, where the door was
opened with many courtesies by a middle-aged, demure-looking
personage, introduced by the canonico as La Signora
Placida, his niece and housekeeper.
The entrance-hall was in the usual style of dwellings of
this description, with four carved-back settles or benches,
some undistinguishable oil-paintings in frames that had
once been gilded, a clothes-horse, a broom, and dust-pan—whose
offices were mere sinecures, to judge by the appearance
of the floor—and so on. From this we were ushered
into the sala, which contained a horse-hair sofa, so hard and
high that one was perpetually slipping off, and six chairs to
correspond; a folded card-table whereon stood a silver
lucerna, and a press with glass doors, in which a set of cups
and saucers was displayed.
To accommodate their numerous guests, our host and
his niece brought in a number of chairs from adjoining
rooms, and seated us with great bustle and ceremony; an
operation diversified by the Signora Placida's continually
darting into some obscure region of the house, whence she
could be overheard disputing with a shrill-voiced attendant,
or energetically clattering glasses and plates, in a manner
that singularly belied her name. Meantime the canonico
talked and gesticulated, patted the youngest midshipman
on the head, to his evident disgust, entertained Madame
V—— with the history of his relative, on whose virtues he
pronounced a glowing panegyric, and recounted to the consul
the latest miracles performed at the Santa Casa, while
he shook his finger playfully at my cousins, as if menacing
them with a return to their ancient hostilities. Presently
the circle received an addition in the shape of another priest,
Don Antonio, a great friend of our canonico's, and almost
as rosy, and pursy, and jovial as himself, who now came to
have his share of the good things and see the forestieri.
This was one of those quaint Italian friendships I have
so often noticed. It commenced in boyhood at the seminary,
had been renewed on our host's establishing himself
at Loretto, and would probably continue unbroken till the
end of their days. Regularly as clock-work used Don
Antonio to come every evening to make la società—limited
to himself, I believe—play at cards, and discuss the petty
scandal of the place. I asked him if they ever read, at
which he shrugged his shoulders, and said that after going
through the daily office in the breviary, for his part he must
own he had had enough of study. This facetious response
was loudly echoed by the canonico, and they laughed over it
in chorus, with a sound more resembling the shaking of
stones in a barrel than any human manifestation of hilarity.
The chocolate was now brought in by the serva, and
handed to us by the two friends and the niece. It was
made thick, and served in cups without handles, and teaspoons
not being apparently considered requisite, the uninitiated
found some difficulty in discussing it with propriety;
but after watching our entertainers, we perceived
that the approved method was to steep in it morsels of
rusks which had been distributed at the same time, and
then convey them daintily to one's lips through the medium
of the thumb and forefinger. This was followed by trays
of ices and sweetmeats from the caffè, the canonico observing
significantly, he well remembered the signorine were always
fond of dolci; and when, to please him, every one had
eaten as much as he possibly could, he insisted on pouring
all the remaining bon-bons into our handkerchiefs, to amuse
us, as he expressed it, on our way home.
When it was time to think of going, he declared we
must first see the house, and took us into a small adjoining
room, containing a writing-table with a dried-up inkstand,
and two or three shelves adorned with some very dusty,
dry-looking folios in parchment covers. This den, he told
us, he retired to when he studied or had letters to write—both
rare occurrences, it was evident. Next we were shown
the dining-room, with no furniture but a table and rush-bottomed
chairs, and opening into the kitchen—a custom
also generally followed in houses of higher pretensions, but
opposed to all our notions of quiet or refinement; and,
lastly, into his and the niece's sleeping apartments, in each
a clumsy wooden bedstead, rickety chest of drawers—on
which, under a glass shade, stood a figure of the infant St
John in wax, with staring blue eyes and flaxen curls—two
chairs, the usual tripod-shaped washing-stand, and an engraving
of some devotional subject, with a crucifix, a little
receptacle for holy water, and a palm that had been blessed
at Easter, hanging near the pillow. You may enter a hundred
bed-rooms in families of the middle class in this part
of Italy, and see them fitted up after the same pattern;
those of the provincial nobility have a little more display in
mirrors or pictures, but no greater comfort.
The introduction of all the visitors into the canonico's
chamber was not, I suspect, wholly without design; for our
attention was speedily attracted to a cotta or alb of fine
white cambric lying upon the bed; the most elaborate
specimen of the art of crimping it was possible to behold.
The niece immediately held it up for our closer inspection,
while the uncle stood by smiling; and in answer to our
praises of the exquisite designs of flowers, leaves, &c., with
which it was wrought, entirely by a manual process, told
us it was the work of the nuns of a particular order—I forget
the name—a very strict one, moreover, who, by way of
serving the altar, dedicate themselves to the preparation of
this part of the priestly vestments. This marvellous example
of fine plaiting, however, was but the least recommendation
of the ephod, which was trimmed with a deep
flounce of the most magnificent point-lace.
“Look at that, look at that!” chuckled the canonico,
rubbing his hands with glee; “that is the lace which all
the ladies of Loretto, and Recanati, and Macerata—yes, all
of them together—are envious of, when I walk in the procession
of the Corpus Domini. I have been offered five
hundred dollars for it by a Russian princess who came here
on a pilgrimage; but I could not make up my mind to part
with it. Look at that tracery—look at that ground, it is
perfect—not a thread broken;” and he descanted on it
with the zest of a connoisseur.
When he paused in his raptures—“Signor Canonico,”
meekly suggested La Signora Placida, “may I fetch the
stole you have just had worked?”
“Ah, the little vain thing!” was the rejoinder; “she is
so proud of my vestments! It is a trifle though—Well,
well, bring it out.” And from a long pasteboard box, duly
enveloped in tissue paper, the Signora Placida drew forth a
gorgeous stole, the original texture cloth of silver, but almost
concealed by raised embroidery in gold.
“The canonico has not worn this yet; it is for the great
funzione—that is, church ceremony—of the Madonna in
August,” said the niece, with as much earnestness as if she
were a lady's-maid talking of her mistress's preparations for
a ball, and disposing it so that it might be viewed to the
greatest advantage. It really was beautiful as a work of
art, due to the skill, as Don Antonio informed us, of another
set of nuns, who exclusively applied themselves to
needlework in gold and silver.
The pleasure this good man took in the display of his
friend's possessions impressed me very favourably. “Per
Bacco!” he exclaimed, handling the vestment with respect—“each
time I see it, it strikes me more! It is worth—ss—ss—ss—ss,”
emitting a long sibillatory whistle, expressive
in the Marche of something unlimited, whether of good
cheer, astonishment, money, or so forth.
“Via, via,” said the canonico modestly, “it is not much
a poor priest can do. Still, we may place it at the same
value as the lace, and be within the mark.”
Our reiterated admiration evidently enchanted the trio;
in fact, it was altogether with the most amiable feelings,
and with mutual thanks and protestations, we took our
leave, the politeness of our entertainer and Don Antonio
leading them to give us their company in visiting the
bishop's palace and the Farmacea, or pharmacy of the
Santa Casa, the last renowned for its collection of majolica,
consisting of three hundred vases coloured from designs by
Raphael and his pupils.
No adventures befell us in these perambulations, except
that we were more beset and pestered than before, if possible,
by the beggars, who followed us in troops, and for
whom I learned, with astonishment, no alms-house or refuge
of any kind existed. Concluding our sight-seeing with another
visit to the Santa Casa, there remained but time for
a hasty dinner, ere we set out on our return to Ancona—the
state of the neighbourhood, as we were repeatedly reminded,
necessitating our departure in broad day-light.
The usual scene of clamour, begging, imprecations, and
blessings attended our exist from Loretto, a place which
presents the strongest contrast of wealth and poverty it has
ever been my lot to witness, or entered my imagination to
conceive.
CHAPTER XXVI.
Visit to the Carmelites at Jesi—Our joyous reception—The Casino
and Theatre—Infractions of Convent Discipline—The Dinner near
the Sacristy—In company with the Friars we visit some Nuns.
A few days after my excursion to Loretto, I had my last
glimpse of real scenes and life in the Marches, in a visit to
Jesi, a small city of great antiquity, about twenty miles distant
from Ancona. The circumstances that led us thither
hinged upon the acquaintance of my uncle's family with an
Irish priest who belonged to a convent of Carmelites in that
place. Father O'Grady was a jovial, burly personage, with
a round bullet-head, an athletic frame, and a stentorian
voice, that always reminded me of the holy clerk of Copmanhurst
in Ivanhoe. His great delight in his occasional
visits to Ancona, where he always lodged in a monastery of
the same order, was to be invited to our house to have “a
raal English dhinner,” as he termed it, which he dolorously
contrasted with the fare provided by the cook at the Jesi
convent. Once, too, the provincial of the order, a fine, dignified
old man of seventy-five, with a silvery fringe of hair,
and regular, impressive features, like one of Perugino's
saints, came to dine with us, attended by another monk, a
certain Padre Forenzo, as well as Father O'Grady—both
of them very much subdued in his presence. Our Hibernian
friend, however, always protested himself indemnified
for this restraint, by his gratification at the approval the
entertainment drew from his superior, who, as the spring
advanced, was urgent that we should test the hospitality of
Jesi in return.
Some English travelling friends, waiting for the steamer
to Trieste, were comprised in this invitation, which my
uncle, though not without some sighs at the long hours of
conversazione, and making the amiable with the brotherhood,
which lay before him, was coaxed into accepting; and a
beautiful morning in the latter part of June saw the two
families in motion.
After following the high road towards Senigallia along
the curve of the bay for some miles, the way to Jesi turns
inland in a westward direction. Long rows of mulberry-trees,
connected by ample festoons of vines; cornfields
nearly ripe for the sickle, interspersed with plantations of
young maize, beans, and olives, equally indicated the fertility
of the country and its staple productions. Less hilly
and romantic than the scenery near Loretto, it still had no
lack of beauty; a background of mountains was never wanting,
and gifted with that marvellous brightness and diversity
of colouring peculiar to this clime, the landscape rarely
sank into monotony.
Jesi is an interesting little town, of some 5000 inhabitants,
tracing its origin to an indefinite number of centuries
before the foundation of Rome, and famed in the middle
ages as the birthplace of Frederick II., the great emperor
of Germany, whose constant wars with the Roman pontiffs
and encouragement of literature, render his memory
very popular amongst Italian writers. A thriving trade in
silk has preserved it from the squalid misery discernible in
most of the inland towns of the Marche; and it can boast
of some palaces in tolerable preservation, a casino, a very
pretty theatre, and several churches, that of the Carmelites
being amongst the principal.
Father O'Grady, radiant with joy, was awaiting us in
the street, to show us the way to the hotel where we were
to take up our quarters—for within the cloister itself no
woman may set her foot—until two rooms adjoining the
church and sacristy were prepared for the day's festivities.
They had been up since daybreak, the good man said, but
“the last touch was still wanting.”
The last touch being a lengthy process, and the inn
barren of resources, a walk was proposed. We were conducted
by the father and Padre Fiorenzo, his great friend,
through the market, the principal square, and the main
street called the Corso, the worthy pair being evidently
desirous the citizens of Jesi should all participate in the
novelty of the presence of strangers, for the town, lying out
of the general route of travellers, is very rarely visited.
After this promenade, somewhat fatiguing under a noonday's
sun, we went over the casino. The billiard, conversazione,
and ball-rooms, all well arranged, and in good taste,
incomparably superior to any corresponding establishment
in towns of far higher pretensions in England; but then,
as Lucy was at hand patriotically to remark, had we not
mechanics' libraries, and schools, and charitable institutions,
to atone for this deficiency? Admitting all this to its fullest
extent, I cannot see why casinos, on the same simple footing
as those so common in Southern Italy, should not be
advantageously grafted on English county society. In
towns too small to have a casino de' nobili to themselves, the
higher and middle classes are content to waive questions of
caste, and meet, as at Ancona, or Macerata, or Jesi, on this
neutral territory. Once a week, during Lent or Advent,
when there is no opera to serve as a rallying-point, reunions
for music and cards draw together the subscribers,
without any extravagance in dress on the part of the
wealthier ladies, provoking the less affluent to foolish emulation.
Two or three times in the course of the year, balls
are given, where a greater display is permitted, yet still
without the inequalities of fortune thus rendered more apparent
leading to any offensive airs of superiority. No
refreshments are supplied on these occasions, the low amount
of the subscription, twelve dollars a year for each member—inclusive
of his family, however numerous—not furnishing
funds beyond those necessary for attendance, lights,
and music, and keeping up the establishment for the old
bachelors and heads of houses, who frequent it regularly
every day and every evening the whole twelvemonth round.
We concluded our peregrinations by the inspection of
the theatre, Padre Fiorenzo having an acquaintance with
one of the employés, through whom access to it was obtained.
Even with the disadvantages of being seen by daylight,
it might be pronounced a very elegant little structure;
the columns and ceiling ornamented in white and gold, and
the three tiers of private boxes draperied with blue silk.
Father O'Grady trod the stage with a mock-heroic air, and
favoured us with two or three roulades of so much effect, that
we protested he must often be hearing operas, and hinted
he perhaps occasionally ventured there in disguise. At this
insinuation, he shook his portly sides with laughter; but
Padre Fiorenzo related with complacency that in fact, one
night the previous Carnival, they and several others of the
brotherhood had been present at a concert given in that
same theatre on behalf of the poor, which the bishop permitted
all the clergy and religiosi to attend; dwelling with
the simplicity of a child upon the great enjoyment this had
afforded them.
From these mundane resorts—a messenger having
come to say all was now in readiness—we adjourned to the
church of the Carmelites, where a side-door gave admission
to the sacristy, and beyond this to a dark, low-ceiled room,
lined with massive walnut-wood presses, in which all the
vestments and ornaments for the great religious solemnities
were deposited. An iron-barred window looked into the
inner quadrangle of the monastery; and through a half-opened
door we had glimpses of a long table spread for
dinner; around which several dark-robed figures were
hovering, the silvery head of the provincial himself now
and then discernible as he directed the arrangements.
Father O'Grady being troubled in his mind about a
certain plum-pudding, on the manipulation of which the
dawn of morning had found him engaged, now ceded his
post as chief spokesman and squire to Padre Fiorenzo,
who, with two other elderly monks, very gladly engaged
to do the honours.
The next half-hour saw the good father revolving perpetually
between us and the kitchen, now disputing with
the cook, an octogenarian artist, who had no sympathy
for such outlandish compounds; now restraining the merriment
of some of the younger visitors, for whom the idea
of transgressing convent etiquette was irresistibly attractive.
A door from the sacristy temptingly stood open,
leading down by two or three steps into the court, of
which the church and the rooms we occupied formed the
southern extremity and barrier. Under pain of the severest
excommunication, the monks repeatedly assured us,
females were interdicted from proceeding further; the threshold
on which we crowded on hearing these particulars
being the utmost boundary. The two blooming, joyous
sisters, just out of the school-room, who had accompanied
us from Ancona, with a mother too indulgent to act as any
check on their spirits, and an elder brother, a barrister, almost
as full of sport as themselves, proved amusingly refractory
on this occasion. Whenever the provincial—who
had come in once or twice to pay his compliments—was
out of the way, or my uncle's attention was engaged, they
made a feint of dancing down the steps and rushing into
the forbidden ground; just for the amusement of being
chased back again by the terrified Padre Fiorenzo, and
rebuked by Father O'Grady, who evidently enjoyed the
joke, though he tried to look serious upon it, with:
“Childhren dhear, why can't ye remain quiet? Shure,
now, it's excommunicated ye'll be! Ah! more's the pity
that ye don't care for that! Now jist be asy, and don't
turn the house out of windows.” But as the “childhren”
would not be “asy,” after one or two more escapades, the
door was locked; and they were fain to resort to some
new device to beguile the time. Visible from the iron-barred
window were some of the younger brethren walking
up and down the prohibited quadrangle, trying to get a
glimpse of the English heretics, whose visit had thrown
the whole community into such pleasurable excitement.
With black silk scarfs and white handkerchiefs, the delighted
mad-caps extemporized some nuns' costumes, in
which they took their stations at the window, and confronted
Father O'Grady as he was crossing the enclosure
on his return from one of his expeditions to the kitchen.
The admiration of Mother Hubbard, in that renowned
epic of our infancy, on finding her faithful canine attendant
travestied in a court-suit, has its parallel in the father's
astonishment and laughter at this apparition, in which he
was chorused by Padre Fiorenzo, and the others; until,
hearing the provincial approaching, they wiped their eyes,
and entreated them to remove their impromptu attire;
while, to keep them out of further mischief, and provide
some employment for the more sober members of the
party, they asked the superior's permission to show us
the church vestments. This was graciously accorded; and
one after another the presses were opened by the monks;
and rich brocades, tissues of gold and silver, silks embroidered
in various colours, were successively drawn forth,
the provincial himself deigning to explain for what they
were designed.
The welcome announcement of dinner still found us
thus engaged. We were ushered with great glee—for I
cannot repeat too often that, with the exception of the provincial,
they all seemed as easily set laughing as a parcel of
school-boys—into the next room, where our venerable host
and the fathers who had previously been making conversazione,
took their seats with us at the table. We were
waited upon by two lay brothers, whose broad smiles and
occasional remarks showed they participated in the general
hilarity; the provincial himself playing the courteous, attentive
host to perfection, seeming to sanction and approve
it. To say the repast was seasoned with Attic salt would
be a flower of speech; neither was there anything peculiarly
droll in the sallies with which Padre Alberto, the bel esprit
of the convent, sustained, or, in Father O'Grady's opinion,
enhanced his reputation; but there was something so pleasant
in the intense childlike happiness of these good Carmelites,
that it would have been invidious to scan their intellectual
attainments at such a moment. Dr Primrose's
oft-quoted words were exactly applicable to that party: “I
can't say whether we had more wit among us than usual,
but certainly we had more laughing.”
Of the dinner itself, I shall say but little; the readers
of these sketches must be by this time familiar with Italian
bills of fare. The soup of clear broth, wherein floated little
squares of a compound resembling hard custard; the unfailing
lesso; a frittura of brains and bread-crumbs, sprinkled
with powdered sugar; larded capons; a dish of fennel-root,
dressed with butter and cheese; roast kid; a pie, of which
cocks'-combs were the principal ingredients, with a sweet
crust; a zuppa Inglese, “on purpose,” the provincial said,
“for the English ladies, accustomed from childhood to mix
spirits with their food;” and, lastly, Father O'Grady's
plum-pudding, but, alas! served in a soup-tureen, for the
flour had been forgotten in its composition, and no amount
of boiling had availed to give it the desired consistency.
Still the innumerable jokes this furnished, amply compensated
for its partial failure; the young barrister told
them it was exactly like the plum-broth served out at
Christmas at St Cross's Hospital, one of the most famous
institutions in England, he asserted, for good cheer, and
incited every one by example as well as precept to do justice
to Father O'Grady's culinary achievements. Though he
had already shown himself emulous of a boa constrictor's
capacity, he now sent his plate for a second supply, compelling
Padre Fiorenzo, as a tribute to friendship, to do
the same.
At the conclusion of the banquet, Fra Carmelo, the old
cook of whom we had heard so much, and who was declared
to have acquitted himself right manfully, was summoned
to receive the thanks of the company. The messenger
found him playing the guitar, with which he was wont daily
to solace himself at the completion of his duties in the
kitchen, and triumphantly led him forward. In his brown
Carmelite dress, he certainly looked a most interesting
cook. Though past eighty, his tall spare figure was only
slightly bowed; and there was a vivacity in his light-blue
eyes and ruddy complexion which led to the conclusion
that his alleged occasional shortcomings in his art were
more the result of inattention than incapacity.
On rising from table, the provincial offered to fare due
passi, a great distinction, which was of course accepted.
Again the whole party sallied forth, he and my uncle—who
won golden opinions, though suffering martyrdom throughout
the day—leading the van. We went to see two or three
churches, and then, at Father O'Grady's suggestion, were
taken to a nunnery, which he knew would be a treat for us.
All the sisters crowded to the parlatorio to see the strangers.
It was not a grating, as in the stricter orders, but simply a
large aperture like a wide unglazed window, at which they
clustered, talking eagerly to the monks, asking questions
about the little world of Jesi, and gazing with unrestrained
and delighted curiosity upon us.
Amongst fifteen or sixteen thus assembled little beauty,
less mind, was discernible. I saw but one interesting face—a
face that had, or might have had, a history written on
it. Indeed, several of these nuns were positively ill-favoured,
evidently devoted to the cloister because their
parents had found it impracticable to get them otherwise
disposed of. Some told us they had never left the convent
since their first entrance as educande, seven or eight years
of age; they grew attached to the nuns and their companions,
and as the time for returning home drew nigh,
estranged by many years' separation from their families,
besought that they might not be removed, and passed
through their novitiate, and took the veil, without ever
going beyond the walls. They all talked as fast as possible,
as if to make the most of the opportunity; interspersing
whatever they said, or commenting on whatever they heard,
with invocations to the Madonna and saints, and ejaculations
of simple wonder. I was amused, though, at noticing
how well informed they were of all that was passing in Jesi
society; their information being derived, the monks told
us with an air of pitying superiority, through whatever they
could glean from occasional visitors; but especially from
the gossip collected at market by the woman charged every
morning to purchase their supplies, and who, in consigning
the provisions at the convent-wicket, communicates any
novelties she has picked up. A single observation denoting
deep thought or enthusiasm, I sought in vain to hear; indeed,
as I reflected at the time, it would be difficult to convey
any notion of their limited capacity. Not tending the
sick, not instructing the poor; with only four or five educande
to bring up till the age of sixteen or seventeen, exactly
as they themselves have been educated—embroidery
and the making of confectionery filling up all the leisure
left after the performance of their stated religious exercises,
which call them for several hours daily to the choir, what a
dreary, unsatisfactory life, according to our notions of existence
and its duties, stretches itself before these women.
But they said they were happy; and, looking at the bevy
of English girls before them, lifted up their eyes and hands
in sadness to think their hearts were not disposed to follow
their example.
It was pleasant to know what delight our visit had
afforded them, and to note the earnestness with which they
begged us to return to Jesi and come to see them; to have
the conviction that we had furnished the whole sisterhood
with materials for at least a fortnight's conversation, and
several years' reminiscences.
The good Carmelites, too, if our self-pride did not greatly
mislead us, marked this day with a white stone; and long
after the pursuits and interests of a busier life have dimmed
its recollections with the majority of their guests, will continue
to treasure every incident of their visit.
My leave-taking of the good monks of Jesi was soon
followed by a long farewell to Ancona and its kindly people.
In bringing these sketches to a conclusion, I feel as if the
pain of parting were renewed, while many unrecorded traits
of courtesy, sympathy, and friendship crowd upon me. If
such omissions have arisen, it has been from no spirit of
depreciation. In reminiscences like the foregoing, the peculiarities
a stranger cannot but fail to remark, must be
prominently brought forward; those good qualities no impartial
observer can deny to the national character being
often left in the background, simply because offering less
scope for comment or description.
The sole merit of what I have written is its truth. Not
an anecdote, not an incident, is here given but what is
scrupulously authentic. With a little exaggeration I might
have been much more amusing, but I preferred delineating
these things as they really are—in their light and darkness, in
their fairness and deformity—in what our pride might stoop
to imitate, or our gratitude make us thankful that we differ.
CHAPTER XXVII.
The writer's motives for not having dwelt minutely on political or
historical subjects—Antiquity of Ancona—Its reputation under the
Roman Empire—Its celebrated resistance to the Emperor Frederic
Barbarossa—Stratagem employed by its deliverers—Continues to
be a free city till 1532, when it is surprised by Gonzaga, General of
Pope Clement VII., and subjected to the Holy See—Flourishes
under Napoleon—Restoration of the Papacy—Pontifical possessions—Explanation
of the terms, legations, and Romagna—Bologna
conquered in 1506, by Julius II., but retains a separate form of
government—Ferrara, Urbino, &c.—Dates of their annexation.
The foregoing pages were written solely with the view of
describing the social and domestic condition of a part of
Italy little visited by travellers, but which presents features
of quaintness and originality not easily met with in this
era. Even in the Marche these peculiarities risk speedy
annihilation. Should they be fortunate enough to be included
in the emancipation from Pontifical government, of
which the neighbouring Legations now seem secure, these
sketches in ten years' time will be looked upon as monstrous
caricatures. Should they on the contrary undergo no change
of régime, what I have said will be as applicable a hundred
years hence as it was six months ago.
The fear of compromising my friends was one great
motive of my avoidance of political subjects, further than
in the exact measure necessary to illustrate the life and
conversation of the Ancona and Macerata società. I have
been guilty of no breach of confidence in quoting their
sentiments or anecdotes; for even if the veil of fictitious
names were seen through, the expressions attributed to
them are to be found in the mouths of every man or woman
in the Papal States, who combines intelligence with honesty.
It is no want of charity to say that no member of the
anti-liberal party unites both these qualities. I know and
esteem a great many Codini, but their mental capacity is
undeniably limited. It is only those whom no one esteems
who are really clever.
Any historical retrospections I also purposely left aside,
as out of keeping to the purpose I had in hand, and not
likely to interest the generality of readers, overdone with
“the Italian question.” The condition of the Roman States,
however, has of late been so widely discussed and inquired
into, that I believe an outline of the history of Ancona, and
the provinces adjoining it, will now be found interesting,
though with reference to the events of last summer and
autumn, much minuteness of detail is purposely avoided.
The consequences might be fatal to many, were I to give publicity
to their revelations, their sufferings, and their hopes.
Ancona, as already observed, lays claim to high antiquity.
It is supposed to have been founded by a Doric
colony, and its Greek name is derived from the angular,
elbow-like form of the promontory on which the town is
situated. In the time of Cæsar it was a celebrated port;
and its importance under Trajan is attested by the magnificent
works undertaken by that emperor, upon which more
than seventeen centuries have scarce left a trace. The mole
he built at the entrance of the inner harbour is a monument
of true Roman durability, formed of huge stones, bound
together by iron, and rising to a considerable height above
the level of the sea. The triumphal arch which bears his
name was erected by his wife and sister in his honour.
Considered by many as the finest marble arch now extant,
it stands on the old mole, more vigorous in its decay than
aught of the present which surrounds it.
During the dark ages the city sustained many vicissitudes,
and was successively ravaged by Totila, the Saracens,
and the Lombards. The latter placed over it a governor,
whose title, Marchese, gave rise to the general term of
Marchesato to the provinces under his rule. Hence the
abbreviation of La Marca, or Le Marche, still in use. In
the latter part of the eleventh century, the March of Ancona
was bequeathed to the Church by the famous Countess
Matilda, whose sway extended over a considerable part of
central Italy, but the town was not comprehended in this
donation. It maintained itself as a free city, flourishing in
trade, and steadily opposed to the Ghibeline, or imperialist,
faction. For this Frederic Barbarossa, in 1174, brought it
to a deadly reckoning, and jointly with the Venetians, who
were jealous of its commercial prosperity, entered upon the
famous siege which is one of the most brilliant episodes in
Italian mediæval annals.
Then, as now, the harbour had no adequate defences,
and the Venetian galleys were able to moor themselves in
the very face of the quays, establish the most strict blockade,
and harass the town by their military engines, while the German
army ravaged the country, and hemmed the garrison
within the narrow compass of the walls. Time had failed the
inhabitants to lay in supplies before the approach of the
enemy, and the pressure of famine early made itself felt. Ere
long they were reduced to such grievous straits, that the
skins of animals, whose flesh is commonly rejected as unclean,
as well as sea-weed, and the wild herbs growing on the ramparts,
were all eagerly devoured. A young and beautiful
woman, of the noble class, bearing an infant at her breast, one
day remarked a sentinel who had sunk upon the ground at his
post. To her rebuke for his neglect, he answered that he
was perishing from exhaustion. Her reply has been preserved
as worthy of a Roman matron. “Fifteen days”, she
said, “have passed, during which my life has been barely
supported by loathsome sustenance, and a mother's stores
are beginning to be dried up from my babe. Place your lips
however upon this bosom, and if aught yet remains there,
drink it, and recover strength for the defence of our country.”
Dauntless courage, as well as sublime endurance, was
displayed by the besieged. On one occasion the Venetians
took advantage of the garrison's attention being drawn off
by an assault of the imperialists on the land side, to effect
a disembarkation. They already thought the town their
own, when they were charged by the inhabitants, who drove
them back in confusion; and a woman rushing forward
with a blazing torch, under a shower of stones and arrows,
set fire to a lofty wooden tower which was the most formidable
of their beleaguering works. The daring of a priest inflicted
another loss of equal importance upon the Venetians.
Among their ships employed in the blockade, was one distinguished
for its enormous bulk, bearing towers on its
deck, and known by the name of Il Mondo. To destroy
this was the brave priest's aim. Carrying an axe in his
teeth, he swam across the harbour, and succeeded in cutting
the cable which moored the vessel to her anchorage. Il
Mondo drifted among the rest of the shipping, and caused
the loss of seven galleys ere it could be secured, at the
cost moreover of its cumbrous engines, and much of its
stores.
The hardness and arrogance of Christian, the Arch-chancellor
of the Empire, to whom Frederic had delegated
the chief command, contributed to the Anconitans' obstinate
resistance. His disdainful rejection of their proposals to
treat on honourable terms, nerved them to face the deadliest
extremity ere they yielded to his mercy. Help came at
last from the Guelphs of Ferrara and Ravenna. Much inferior
in numbers to the enemy, a classical stratagem
adopted by their leader, Marcheselli, deceived even the
astute Christian. It was night when they reached the
heights of Falconara, whence Ancona is plainly seen. To
give notice of his approach to the besieged, and at the same
time strike terror into the German host, he ordered every
soldier to bind to the head of his lance as many lighted
torches as he could dispose around it, and extending his
ranks, deployed slowly from the mountain.
Dismayed at the long and glittering lines of light bearing
down upon him, the Arch-chancellor imagined a force
was marching to the relief of the city, of such magnitude as
his own troops, already jaded and dispirited at their want
of success, were in no condition to encounter. He precipitately
broke up his camp, and retired upon Spoleto.
The Venetians at the same time raised the blockade, and
Ancona remained a memorable example of what may be
borne and done by a free people in the preservation of their
freedom.
Ancona enjoyed its independence until 1532, when it
was surprised by Gonzaga, general of Clement VII., who,
under the pretence of defending it against the incursions
of the Turks, erected a fort, and filled the city with Papal
troops. The magistrates, or Anziani, were expelled, the
principal nobles beheaded or banished, and the absolute
dominion of the Holy See was established beyond the
power of the inhabitants to resist the usurpation. From
that time Ancona remained in subjection to the Church
until the wars of the French Directory, when the Roman
States were occupied by Napoleon; and subsequently, incorporated
by him with the rest of Central and Northern
Italy into the Regno d'Italia, under the viceroyalty of
Eugène Beauharnais, enjoyed a brief season of unaccustomed
prosperity.
The pacification of Europe placed Italy on its former
footing. The award of the Congress of Vienna restored
the successor of St Peter to the possessions of which he
had been stripped by the French Revolution. By conquest,
cession, or inheritance, these possessions had increased
from the original scanty and barren territory, bestowed
by Pepin and Charlemagne to a State containing
three millions of inhabitants, and extending from the shores
of the Adriatic to those of the Mediterranean.
In 1815 the pontifical dominions were divided into
twenty provinces, six styled Legations, governed by cardinals;
thirteen Delegations, under prelates; and the Comarca
of Rome. I shall merely name those on the Mediterranean:—the
legation of Velletri, and the delegations
of Perugia, Spoleto, Rieti, Viterbo, Orvieto, Civita Vecchia,
Frosinone and Benevento. It is on the provinces lying on
the other side of the Apennines that at the present moment
general interest is concentrated. The most important of
these are the four legations of Bologna, Ferrara, Forli, and
Ravenna, lying between the Po and La Cattolica,[8] and
usually known as the Romagne;—the legation of Urbino
and Pesaro; and the delegation of Ancona. The delegations
of Macerata, Camerino, Fermo and Ascoli, are of
less extent and less political importance. The collective
designation of Le Marche is applied to the
entire tract between La Cattolica and the Neapolitan
frontier.
Most of these territories and towns do not belong to the
Holy See by the ancient tenure commonly supposed. We
have seen how the city of Ancona became annexed in 1532.
Nearly thirty years before, Bologna had been conquered
from its Signori, the Bentivogli, by the soldier-pontiff, Julius
II., who, however, allowed it to continue, except in name,
almost independent of his authority. The same pope also
extended his victories over Ravenna, which he obtained
from the Venetians; and compelled Cæsar Borgia to yield
up the Holy See, Forli, Cesena, Rimini, and other smaller
towns of the Romagne that he had wrested from their petty
princes, and of which the sovereignty had been conferred
on him by Alexander VI. Ferrara was attached to the
Church in 1598 by Clement VIII., after the extinction of
the direct line of the house of Este in the person of Duke
Alfonso II., on the plea that Cæsar D'Este, the representative
of the family by a collateral branch was disqualified
by illegitimacy. The provinces of Urbino and Pesaro were
ceded in 1626 by their last duke, Francesco Maria della
Rovere, to Pope Urban VIII., along with Senigallia, an
appanage of the same family. The towns which give their
names to the four delegations last enumerated, besides
Osimo, Recanati, Tolentino, &c., were acquired at different
times, under similar circumstances. Camerino was given
up by the treaty; others which had been taken under the
special protection of the German emperors, who in the
Middle Ages claimed a sort of suzerainship over Italy, reverted
to the popes on the decline of the Ghibeline influence;
the rest were governed by their own Signori till subjugated
by Cæsar Borgia, who, while shaping out his own
ambitious ends, did Rome good service by bringing these
elements of feud and bloodshed into the recognition of one
supreme authority.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Injudicious policy of the Government at the Restoration—Non-fulfilment
of the Motu proprio of Pius VII.—Disappointment of the
pontifical subjects—Inability of Cardinals Consalvi and Guerrieri to
contend against the narrow views of their colleagues—Reasons of
Austria's animosity against the former—Guerrieri's projected reforms
bring about his fall—The constitutional movement of 1820-21—Its
effect in the Papal States—Abuse of Consalvi's instructions—Extreme
political rigour under Leo XII.—Distracted condition of
the country—The Sanfedisti rising of 1831—First Austrian armed
intervention in Romagna—Conferences at Rome—Mr. Seymour's
protest—Fresh disturbances in the Legations—the Austrians again
occupy Bologna—The French land at Ancona—The reign of Gregory
XVI.
The Italian princes summoned back from exile or captivity,
by the downfall of Napoleon, to the exercise of
sovereignty, bad, all of them, learnt a little from adversity.
Upon none, however, had its lessons been so completely
thrown away, as the Pope,—or, to speak more correctly, the
Papacy.
From the first resumption of its functions, the aim of
the Roman Government seems to have been to blot out all
traces of the enlightened and vigorous administration of the
French; not by continuing whatever they had introduced of
good, or improving on whatever they had left imperfect, but
by forcibly reviving the usages of an almost obsolete generation.
It was seriously deemed possible, by the most puerile
restrictions, the most inquisitorial surveillance, to compel
men to recede a quarter of a century, and return submissively
to the stagnation which characterized Italy before the
Revolution—a period when literature, art, morals, were all
at their lowest ebb, and the test of a good citizen was to be
regular at his barber's, spotless in his ruffles, and assiduous
as a cicisbee.
At the restoration of Pius VII., promises had been held
out of a thorough revision of the Legislature; but before
long the publication of a civil and criminal code, based upon
by-gone institutions and totally opposed to the requirements
of the age, coupled with the augmenting influence of the
clergy, opened the way for a weary succession of evils. It
soon became apparent that neither the moderation of the
pontiff, nor the good intentions and activity of one or two
amongst the cardinals could counterbalance the hostility of
the vast majority of the Sacred College to aught connected
with reform. Victims of one revolution, they fancied any
innovation on time-hallowed observances would infallibly
precipitate them into a second.
Consalvi and Guerrieri, the one Prime Minister, the
other Cardinal-Treasurer, stood alone in their endeavours
to remedy the most crying abuses. Unsupported as they
were, for a few years at least they kept up a semblance of
decency and justice. With their disgrace every vestige of
common sense departed from the councils of the Vatican.
Italians always date the commencement of their worst times
from the triumph of the Austrian intrigues which brought
about Cardinal Consalvi's downfall. Metternich had never
forgiven his energetic protest at the Congress of Vienna
against the occupation of the citadels of Ferrara and Commacchio
in the papal territory. Though the protest remains
a dead letter, and both received Austrian garrisons, the
independence of spirit, the impatience of foreign control,
which he had revealed, were little in accordance with imperial
policy; and, conjoined to his successful opposition to
designs upon Ancona in 1821, stamped him as too national
for Austria to tolerate in the Church Cabinet. Immediately
upon the decease of his firm friend Pius VII., Consalvi
was displaced; and Cardinal Albani, of avowedly absolutist
principles, succeeded him in the direction of affairs.
Guerrieri was the victim of his devotion to political
economy, and his projected financial reforms. Amongst
these was a thorough revision of the land-tax, to effect which
he sent for experienced engineers from abroad. But Albani
would not suffer him to carry out this much-needed undertaking.
When interrogated as to the motive of this hostility,
he is said to have replied: “My large estates in the Marche
are not probably assessed at more than at third of their
value. I do not choose to treble the tax at my expense.”
The years 1820-21 were equally memorable and disastrous
for the whole of Italy. Revolutions broke out in
Naples and Piedmont, of which the object was to obtain a
Constitution. But neither Ferdinand of Bourbon, nor
Charles Felix of Savoy, were reformers. Both monarchs
had recourse to arms; the one solicited, the other accepted,
the assistance of Austria, who, dreading nothing so much
as the establishment of representative institutions in Italy,
eagerly seized on this opportunity for intervention. Naples
Was guarded for six years by the Imperial troops;—the
Piedmontese sustained what they still remember as the
indignity of a six months' occupation of the citadel of
Alessandria.
Though the Roman States had taken no part in these
disturbances, it was apparent that a dangerous amount of
sympathy for their purpose existed in the population.
The absolutist party urged stringent measures of precaution;
and Austria was desirous of throwing a garrison
into Ancona. By diplomatic address Consalvi eluded compliance
with this proffer; but, to clear himself from the
imputation of inability or disinclination to make head
against the liberals, took a step which entailed consequences
he was the first to deplore. He wrote to the four
legates of the Romagne, authorizing them to send temporarily
out of the country a certain number of individuals
suspected to be members of the Carbonari, Freemasons,
and other secret revolutionary societies. The cardinal-legates
used this faculty with indiscriminating rigour; and
drew upon themselves the prime minister's grave rebuke.
Shocked at finding the arrests considerably exceeded one
hundred, Consalvi declared that the pope would pass for
the most relentless of persecutors, deprecated the abuse of
force and of justice which had been employed, and gave
orders to desist from any further proceedings.[9]
But this act had been as the letting in of waters. The
proscriptions which Consalvi lamented as being so large,
were insignificant to those that desolated the Romagne two
years later under the blind intolerance of Leo XII., and
Albani, when he himself had been thrust from office. Five
hundred and eight persons were accused of high treason
by the tribunals presided over by the fanatical Cardinal
Rivarola. Of these offenders, a hundred and twenty-one,
belonging to the upper classes of society, were exiled into
Tuscany. But ere long the Government became apprehensive
that they would conspire afresh if left at large.
They were, therefore, summoned back to their own residences.
With a fatal reliance on the good intentions of
their sovereign, into which no Roman subject will ever
again be betrayed, they obeyed the command. Scarcely
had they entered the country when they were seized, imprisoned,
and, after a protracted trial, condemned. Seven
were beheaded, forty-five sent to the galleys, and the remainder
imprisoned in State fortresses.
The hatred generated by this violation of humanity
and good faith, hopelessly widened the breach between the
people and their rulers. Political assassinations and conspiracies
grew more and more frequent, and these in their
turn led to fresh arrests and fresh severities. But it is
with political as in religious persecutions; the secret societies,
which had not comprised more than two thousand
members before 1824, rapidly acquired a vast number of
proselytes.
The organization of the Sanfedisti by the Government
introduced another element of discord, terror, and oppression.
This association, intended as a counterpoise to those
of the liberals, required of its adepts the utmost mystery
and devotion; they were bound together by the most
solemn oath for the defence of the holy Roman Apostolic
faith, and the temporal authority of the Pope. No family
tie, no impulse of compassion, neither “the tears of women,
nor the cries of children,” were to stand in the way of its
fulfilment. So long as they were faithful to the material
obligations of this pledge, the Sanfedisti enjoyed almost
complete immunity for any amount of crime, and their
services were requited with a liberality which attracted
many to their ranks. The spy and the informer plied
thriving trades, and no class of society was secure from
their baneful presence.
In 1831 the smouldering embers again kindled into
flame. The revolutions of France and Belgium revived the
desire of the Italians for emancipation. Risings took place
in Piedmont, Modena, Parma, the Romagne, and Marche.
But this time the insurgents were less moderate in their
aims. The tyranny of the last ten years had borne its accustomed
fruit, and a large leaven of republicanism was now
mingled with what had been the constitutional party of '21.
In the papal provinces, however, the malcontents demanded
little beyond the accomplishment of the reforms promised
by Pius VII. But Gregory XVI., the newly-elected Pope,
at once turned to Austria, and three large bodies of imperial
troops speedily restored these importunate subjects to
his authority.
Subdued, but not convinced, the Romagnuoli addressed
such indignant remonstrances to France, whose support
they had been led to anticipate before the commencement
of the struggle, as aroused that Power to seek some mitigation
of their sufferings. A Conference was proposed to be
held in Rome, at which the representatives of France, England,
Russia, Austria, and Prussia were to deliberate on
the means of bringing about an amicable settlement of the
differences between the Pope and his people.
They were not long in discerning the main defects of
the Roman administration, and in their memorandum of
10th May, 1831, pointed out the appropriate remedies.
These embraced the secularization of many of the chief
offices under Government, and in the courts of law, hitherto
an ecclesiastical monopoly; the complete revision of the
civil and criminal code; the nomination of municipal councils
by their respective communes, instead of by the State;
the selection from these of a deliberative body for each province,
to protect local interests; lastly, these provincial
assemblies to furnish the members of a Consulta, which was
to have its seat at Rome, regulate the public debt, and have
a voice in the general management of affairs.
These suggestions, it is scarcely necessary to say, were
not carried out. It is universally believed that, though
ostensibly favouring their adoption, Austria, and Russia
also, secretly backed the Papal Court in evading all compliance.
Gregory XVI., a native of Belluno, was an
Austrian subject by birth, and showed himself throughout
his career a steady partisan of the House of Hapsburg.
He began his reign with the promise that a new era was
about to open;[10] but how little was done towards its realization
may be gathered from the protest of Mr Seymour,
the English minister, on withdrawing from the conferences.
“More than fourteen months,” he says, “have elapsed
since the memorandum was given in, and not one of the
recommendations it contains has been fully adopted by
the Papal Government. For even the edicts which have
either been prepared or published, and which profess to
carry some of those recommendations into effect, differ essentially
from the measures recommended in the memorandum.
The consequence of this state of things has been that
which it was natural to expect. The Papal Government
having taken no effectual steps to remedy the defects which
had created the discontent, that discontent has been increased
by the disappointment of hopes which the negotiations
at Rome were calculated to excite: and thus, after
the Five Powers have for more than a year been occupied
in endeavouring to restore tranquillity to the Roman State,
the prospect of voluntary obedience by the population to
the authority of the Sovereign, seems not to be nearer than
it was when the negotiations first commenced.
“The court of Rome appears to rely upon the temporary
presence of foreign troops, and upon the expected service
of an auxiliary Swiss force, for the maintenance of order in
its territories. But foreign occupation cannot be indefinitely
prolonged; and it is not likely that any Swiss force
of such an amount as could be maintained by the financial
means of the Roman Government could be capable of suppressing
the discontent of a whole population; and even if
tranquillity could be restored by such means, it could not
be considered to be permanently re-established, nor would
such a condition of things be the kind of pacification the
British Government intended to be a party in endeavouring
to bring about.”...
The concluding sentence is prophetic:—“The British
Government foresees that if the present system is persevered
in, fresh disturbances must be expected to take place
in the Papal States, of a character progressively more and
more serious, and that out of those disturbances may spring
complications dangerous to the peace of Europe.”[11]
The English minister needed but to have appealed to
the events which had transpired during his stay in Rome
to give weight to his assertions. The Austrian troops had
scarcely been withdrawn when the Romagne began to demand
the unreserved accomplishment of the promised reforms.
Meetings were held in their principal towns, the
representatives of the Five Powers were memorialized,
and deputations sent to the Pope. But in vain. After a
few months of growing irritation and suspicion, the tri-coloured
flag was raised in several towns of the four Legations
and the Marches. Upon this, the pontifical troops, who
had been collecting in the vicinity for some time previous,
attacked Forli and Cesena, while Austria a second time
poured an army across the Po for the reduction of the country.
Ancona soon afterwards (February, 1832) received a
French garrison. Jealous of the position assumed by
Austria in Italy, this measure was resolved upon by France
to counterbalance that ascendancy. This joint military
occupation of the two nations lasted until the end of 1838.
The tears shed by the Anconitans on the departure of the
French were significant of their forebodings for the future.
Evil indeed must be the condition of a people who prefer
foreign occupation to their own sovereign's rule.
The period that followed, until the death of Gregory
XVI., was, indeed, dark. The clergy, ignorant, grasping,
and corrupt, monopolized almost every channel to emolument
or advancement. Ministers, judges, heads of colleges,
directors of hospitals, governors of towns—all were prelates;
a few, indeed, had not received the tonsure, and were free to
marry, on giving up their appointments; but the cases in
which the advantages accruing from celibacy and the clerical
habit were renounced, are of rare occurrence.[12] The introduction
of railways, evening schools for the working-classes,
and scientific congresses, were all systematically opposed.
Ruinous loans were contracted, and unjust monopolies conceded,
to defray the expenses of the Swiss mercenaries, and
the army of spies and police agents necessary to keep the
population in check. Notwithstanding these precautions,
and the utter hopelessness of any effort so long as Austria
was on the frontier, ready to pour in her troops when
needed, conspiracies were frequently breaking out, which
gave a colour to the increasing blind, fanatical severity of
the Government, only bent on retaining its grasp for the
moment, without a thought on the heritage of hatred and
ruin stored up for its successors. In 1843, partial insurrectionary
movements in the Romagne were punished as in
the days of Cardinal Rivarola. Military commissions were
instituted, and in Bologna seven popolani, leaders of the
populace, who for the first time were found joined with
the more intellectual classes in opposition to the Government,
were executed, and many more imprisoned. The
chief conspirators having escaped, vengeance was thus
wreaked on their subordinates. At Ravenna, the five chiefs
of the movement, amongst whom was Farini, since so celebrated,
also succeeded in eluding arrest; but the commission
was relentless in its inquisition after those on whom a shadow
of suspicion could be fastened. The most barbarous
measures were pursued to extort confession; solitary confinement,
intimidation, false intelligence, even to the terror
of impending death. Thirty-six condemnations to the galleys
crowned this investigation. Again in 1845, at Rimini,
fresh disturbances broke out, of which the aim was no republican
Utopia, but simply to demand moderate reforms.
The noble manifesto addressed by the insurgents to the
peoples of Europe, seconded by a vigorous exposition of their
wrongs from the pen of Massimo d'Azeglio, struck powerfully,
it is said, upon Cardinal Mastai, shortly afterwards
named Pope. But the advisers of Gregory XVI. dealt
with this movement as with those that had preceded it.
Arrests were made all over the country, and gloom and
apprehension filled every heart.
The highways swarmed with robbers and murderers,
while the prisons were tenanted by honest men, arrested as
political delinquents, often ignorant of the offences laid to
their charge, and detained for years without a trial. Commerce
languished; bribery and fraud were rife in every department.
Religion had never been in such low estimation,
yet conformity to its most solemn practices was enforced
under severe penalties. Language fails me to describe the
misery, the idleness, the decay, which were the characteristics,
at that time, both of the Romagne and the Marche;
and which, unhappily, continue to be applicable to the
latter.
This picture will, I know, be considered exaggerated by
those who have not inhabited these provinces. The appearance
of Rome may be cited in contradiction to my
statements. But Rome cannot be taken as a criterion of
the Roman States. It is a cosmopolite city, resorted to by
strangers from all parts of the world, animated and enriched
by their presence. Take away the artists' studios, the shops
of the dealers in mosaic and cameos, statuettes and sarcophagi,—and
those who purchase them,—and grass would be
growing in the streets of Rome, as it did six months ago in
the half-depopulated cities of the Legations.
The Cavaliere Baratelli of Ferrara, who was assassinated in 1847,
acquired an unenviable notoriety amongst his countrymen as the head
of the Società Ferdinandea, a secret society in the Roman States, of
which the scope was to promote the ascendancy of Austria and the
spread of its principles. The Marquis Gualterio thus sketches his
biography:—“Baratelli was a man on whom the Imperial Government
could securely count. His parents, belonging to Migliarino, in the
province of Ferrara, lived upon alms; and in his childhood he shared
their misery, going to beg his daily food from families whom he afterwards
brought to ruin. In one of these houses an interest was excited
in behalf of the little mendicant, which led to his removal to
Ferrara, where he was educated. In the political turmoil of 1796, he
made himself remarkable for his ultra-revolutionary opinions, and
was named one of the Commissioners of the Cisalpine Republic. He
was one of a committee charged with levying a tax on the opinion of
the aristocrats; and through bribes or intimidation laid the foundation
of a large fortune. His private life was most scandalous; he
tricked a woman of some wealth, whom he had seduced from her husband's
protection, into making over to him the whole of her property,
and then left her to die in utter destitution. For this transaction no
lodge of Freemasons would receive him as a member, neither could
he obtain employment under the 'Regno d'Italia.' In 1815 he entered
into the service of Austria as a spy, and was commissary of police,
under General Nugent, at Parma, where, amongst other misdeeds, the
robbery of several valuable works from the public and a conventual
library was universally laid to his charge. In 1821 he accompanied
the Austrians to Naples with the same appointment, which he exercised
with the most flagrant defiance of justice; liberating those prisoners
who bid sufficiently high to satisfy his rapacity, and cruelly oppressing
such as could not, or would not, purchase their enlargement.
Under these circumstances 25,000 dollars were very soon remitted to
Ferrara. The Neapolitan Government, having dishonest officials
enough amongst its own subjects, complained of his practices, and
demanded his removal; but this Austria would not permit, without
the promise of an indemnity for Baratelli of 20,000 ducats. Not satisfied
with this provision, his patrons insisted on the Pope's nominating
him Administrator of Comacchio, with a salary of a hundred dollars
a month; a perfect sinecure, inasmuch as he simply drew his pay,
and never went to Comacchio. In 1831 he again filled an important
situation as Papal Commissary at Bologna; but here his exclusive devotion
to the Imperial Government, in his capacity of chief of the
Ferdinandea, which aimed at no less than the gradual preparation of
the Pontifical States for absorption into the Austrian empire, roused
the suspicions of the authorities at Rome, and he was desired to quit
the country. But the protection of Austria enabled him to evade this
order. The Papal Government was constrained to present him with
20,000 dollars, as an acknowledgment of his services; and his exile
never existed but in name. He announced that he chose Modena for
his residence, but never quitted Ferrara, where he remained, under the
safe-guard of the Austrian garrison, to serve the police of the Vienna
Cabinet.”
Continuing its favours beyond the grave, the character of Baratelli
was painted in flattering colours by the Imperial Government to Lord
Ponsonby, who describes him as follows:—
Extract from a despatch from Lord Ponsonby to Lord Palmerston.
Vienna, 28th June, 1847.
“Baratelli was a landed proprietor in easy circumstances in the
Legation of Ferrara; and during the period of the conquests of the
French in Italy, their great adversary.
“When in 1813 Austria declared war against Napoleon, the Austrian
armies advanced rapidly beyond the Alps, and Baratelli formed
friendly relations with General Count Nugent.
“Baratelli always remained faithful to his principles of public
order. In the revolutionary movements in the States of the Church,
he always took the side of constituted authority, and was in consequence
even persecuted by the Carbonaro party.
“Baron Baratelli was in communication with the Austrian authorities,
&c.”
See “Rivolgimenti Italiani,” by the Marquis Gualterio, vol. I.,
chap. x. Also “Gli Interventi dell'Austria nello Stato Romano,”
by the same author.
CHAPTER XXIX.
Accession of Pius IX.—The amnesty—His unbounded popularity—His
reforms and concessions—Disasters entailed by the French Revolution—The
encyclical of the 29th April—Revulsion of feeling—The
Mazzinians gain ground—Austrian intrigues—Assassination of
Count Rossi—The Pope's flight to Gaeta—Efforts of the Constitutionalists
to bring about an accommodation—The republic is proclaimed
in Rome—Excesses in Ancona and Senigallia—Moderation
of the Bolognese—Their courageous resistance to General Wimpffen—Siege
of Ancona—Extreme severities of the victors.
The amnesty to all political offenders with which, in
July, 1846, Pius IX. inaugurated his reign, spread joy and
gratitude throughout the pontifical dominions. Thousands
of families received back their loved ones from exile or captivity,
and the country awoke from the lethargy of despair.
This act of grace, it was argued, would be followed by acts
of justice;—nor did the Pope's career for nearly two years
belie this conclusion. He collected around him the most
enlightened men, lay as well as ecclesiastic, of the country,
and in spite of the ill-humour of Austria, who did not scruple
to express her disapproval of the course on which he had
entered, proceeded steadily with his ameliorations.
Men spoke little in those times but of what the Pope
was doing, or purposed to do. Unlike his predecessor, who
shrunk from any discussion on public affairs, Pius invited
all who had any grievances to report, or plans of improvement
to propose, to come freely to his presence. He removed
the most irksome restraints from the Jewish population;
lent a favourable ear to projects of railroads and other
scientific and industrial enterprises, as well as to the diffusion
of instruction among the lower classes; and permitted the
establishment at Rome of a political journal, the first known
in Italy. The provincial councils, ineffectually recommended
in the Memorandum of 1831, were organized; and the Supreme
Consulta selected from their members was convoked.
Finally, on the 8th of March, 1848, constrained by the example
of the other Italian sovereigns, who themselves had
yielded to the impetus of the French revolution of February,
he granted a Constitution.
The proclamation of the Republic at Paris was a dire
misfortune for the Italians. It precipitated events for
which they were not yet prepared, and exposed a people still
giddy with their sudden emancipation from a system of degrading
oppression and restraint, to the contagion of the
most levelling and socialistic doctrines. Their recently acquired
privileges of discussion and inquiry were grossly
abused, and many and grievous errors committed, which
they themselves are now the first to acknowledge. But it
is only fair to remember that the Pope took the first step
in sundering the bonds which had hitherto bound the people
of Italy so ardently to him. The famous encyclical of the
29th April, in which he publicly disavowed the Italian war
of liberation against Austria, then waging on the plains of
Lombardy,—notwithstanding that, only one month before,
he had given unequivocal proofs of his sympathy for the
national cause, and had blessed the volunteers on their departure
from Rome,—for ever destroyed his prestige in
Italy. Most disastrous in its immediate consequences to
the success of the Italian arms, the results to the papacy,
though more remote, were still more irremediable.
The revulsion of feeling all over the Peninsula was terrible;
but nowhere more bitter or hostile than in the States
of the Church, where this declaration was received as a
formal retractation of the liberal policy which had won Pius
his popularity.
The war he now branded as UNJUST AND HURTFUL, had
been preached in his own dominions, with his full knowledge
and consent, as a new crusade; his condemnation of
it stamped him as Austria's vassal. The acts and deeds
which had been a steady protest against the principles and
the supremacy of the Cabinet of Vienna were at once and
for ever annulled. His conscience had taken alarm: he
remembered that above his obligations as an Italian king
were those of Universal Bishop, and the conflicting principles
of the temporal and spiritual attributes of the Papacy
were brought into open antagonism.
From the encyclical may be dated the beginning of the
end. The warnings, the threatenings, so long bravely resisted,
all appeared suddenly to take effect. As if aroused
to the conviction that the innovations he had sanctioned
clashed with the independence of the Church, his mind now
bent itself solely to repair the evil into which he had been
led by the sympathies and weakness of the man usurping
the higher duties of the priest. The Constitution especially
clashed with the hierarchical polity; and hence the summer
of 1848 was passed in unseemly contentions between the
Pope and his lay-ministers, zealous on their side to maintain
inviolate the power and attributes of the Chambers.
These dissensions were no secret in the country, and unhappily
opened a door to Mazzini, the chief of the republican
party in Italy, and his adherents, who previously, in
the enthusiastic confidence inspired by Pius IX., had found
no hearing. Side by side with these revolutionists were
agents of the Austrian police, and the reactionary party,
seeking, under the disguise of the most fanatical democracy,
to urge the population into excesses which should speedily
justify an Austrian intervention. “We can all remember,”
writes Massimo d'Azeglio to the inhabitants of the Legations,
cautioning them against being this time the dupes of
similar intrigues, “we can all remember, in 1848-9, certain
journalists and street orators, who were only too successful
in dragging the most ignorant and inflammable of the population
into extravagant lengths; and whom afterwards, on
the return of the Austrian army, we saw impudently walking
about arm-in-arm with the officers, and sneering in the
face of those they had led into error.”[13]
Still the catastrophe would not have been so immediate,
but for the total defeat of the Sardinian army in Lombardy,
in the month of August. The misfortunes of Charles
Albert extended their influence to the furthest parts of the
Peninsula. The Constitutionalists lost heart; the Republicans
grew more overbearing. In the Roman States
the dagger of an assassin took the life of the only man
who yet stood between the Pope and the Revolution.
The prime minister, Count Rossi, was murdered in open
daylight as he was entering the Capitol, where the parliament
held its sittings. The upper and middle classes were
paralyzed by this calamity; and the Roman populace,
headed by a handful of furious demagogues, were suffered
to assail the Pope in his own palace, and forced him to
sanction the nomination of a democratic ministry.
What followed is well known. Indignant at this
coercion, Pius fled from his capital, but unhappily, instead
of accepting either of the asylums offered by France and
Spain, he was induced to claim the protection of the
King of Naples, which was tantamount to throwing himself
into the hands of Austria. From the moment he
became the guest of the unrelenting Ferdinand, his policy
bore the impress of the influences surrounding him.
Great as had been the errors and ingratitude of the
Romans, they did not abandon themselves to anarchy and
licence. Count Terenzio Mamiani, recognised as the
leader of the Constitutionalists, and all the local authorities,
were strenuous in their efforts to avert the crisis
which was equally desired by the two extreme parties.
The Sardinian cabinet also laboured to save the constitution,
and bring back the Pope to Rome, without having
recourse to foreign Powers. It was not till the 8th of
February, 1849, nearly three months after his departure,
that the Republic was proclaimed—not till after the
Pontiff had rejected every overture for an accommodation.
The scenes of bloodshed and excess ascribed to Rome
at this time are almost entirely without foundation. Seven
priests fell victims to popular fury on the discovery of
some reactionary plot of which, they were the promoters;
but beyond this crime, there is nothing to lay to the charge
of a population to whom murder is more familiar than to
any other in Christendom. On the contrary, fewer vendette,
assassinations from personal motives, and fewer robberies,
took place that winter in the Eternal City than in previous
years.
But this moderation was not followed in Ancona, which
has acquired a fatal notoriety from the atrocities perpetrated
by its “Infernal Association” in the name of liberty
and the people. In a previous chapter, I have related the
fear and prostration occasioned by this secret tribunal.
The gross culpability of Mazzini, when Chief Triumvir at
Rome, in not immediately commanding the arrest of the
assassins,—the inexplicable supineness of Mattioli, the
governor or Preside—have left an indelible stain on the
short-lived republic. The pusillanimity of the Anconitans
in submitting to this reign of terror has also not contributed
to raise them in the estimation of Europe. It was
too evident they had degenerated since the days of Barbarossa.
The only other city in which these crimes were at all
emulated was Senigallia, the birthplace of the Pope, about
twenty miles distant from Ancona. Several members of
the Mastai family were threatened, and had to escape for
their lives; and in a population of eleven or twelve
thousand, upwards of twenty persons, marked out for
vengeance, were either killed or wounded by the self-styled
patriots. Amongst the assassins, both here and in Ancona,
were men zealous as Sanfedisti under Gregory. A band of
the vilest rabble were about to commence similar proceedings
at Imola, a town between Bologna and Ravenna, when
they were summarily dealt with by Count Laderchi, the
Preside. He did at once what Mattioli only did after
months; or rather what it required a Commissioner from
Rome to compel him to do at all. He collected the national
guard by night, surrounded the haunts of the assassins,
and arrested every one on whom a suspicion rested.
Bologna throughout these agitated times held a firm yet
temperate attitude. The long continuance of their free
institutions—for their distinct autonomy was respected till
the end of the eighteenth century—had given this people a
resoluteness of purpose, and intellectual development, not
shared by their brethren in the more southern provinces,
whom they had long ago nick-named the “Somari of the
Marche.”[14] The city, which contained 75,000 inhabitants,
ranked next in importance to Rome, and had long been
celebrated for its university, the fame of which in the Middle
Ages attracted students from all parts of Europe;[15] and
its schools of painting and music. But since the Restoration
it had participated in the general decline. Political restrictions
and religious bigotry scared away the votaries of
science and art.
In August, 1848, before any disturbances had taken
place in Rome, an unjustifiable attempt of the Austrian
general, Welden, to possess himself of Bologna, was repulsed
with great bravery by the inhabitants, and the invading
force compelled to recross the Po. This outrage on the
rights of nations having been protested against by the
Pope's ministers, Austria was obliged to wait for her revenge
until officially summoned to invade the Legations. The long-desired
moment, brought about by the madness of the
Republicans, the weakness of the Constitutionalists, and the
far-spreading intrigues of the Austro-Jesuits, came at last.
In the spring of 1849, the Pontiff formally invoked the
armed intervention of the Catholic Powers. France undertook
to reinstate him in Rome; Austria was to deal with
Romagna and the Marche.
Even the most sanguine might now be permitted to
despair. Charles Albert, the champion of Italy, who had
ventured upon a second appeal to arms, had just sustained
a second overthrow. The bloody field of Novara seemed
destined to be the grave of national liberty. General
Wimpffen, at the head of 15,000 men, in all the flush and
exultation of victory, advanced against Bologna. The town
had no fortifications, and the inhabitants were without
leaders, regular troops, or artillery. Nevertheless, they
refused to open their gates to the Austrians, and resisted
gallantly for ten days. No further opposition was encountered
by the enemy till they reached Ancona.
Here a few undisciplined troops and volunteers had
been got together, and the citadel put into a posture of
defence. A short time before this, the assassins had all
been placed in confinement; and the inhabitants, relieved
from the palsying terror with which they had been oppressed,
gave many redeeming proofs of courage and endurance
during the four weeks of the siege. Unwilling to restore
only a heap of ruins to the Pope, the Austrians were sparing
of their fire, and contented themselves with harassing the
citadel, while their ships of war intercepted all supplies or
reinforcements from entering the port. At intervals, however,
they would try the effect of more vigorous measures;
and four or five bombardments of several hours, one of a
whole night's duration, put the constancy of the Anconitans
to the test. Numbers of houses were struck, much damage
to property inflicted, many lives lost, but none shrank from
danger. Even ladies of the nobility went forth amidst
falling shot and shells to continue their ministrations to the
wounded in the hospitals.
The defence of Ancona was rather a protest of the citizens
against the forcible restoration of the Pontifical
Government, than the death-struggle of the republic.
Gambeccari, the commander of the garrison, and the Preside,
Mattioli, passed their time in a bomb-proof vault of the
Civic Palace, playing cards, satisfied with the knowledge
that when the town thought fit to capitulate, an English
man-of-war was waiting in the roads to carry them in safety
to Corfu.[16]
The reconquered provinces were brought to a heavy
reckoning. I have already quoted some instances of the
severity with which martial law was enforced in Ancona.
In Bologna, the executions for trifling infractions of this
Draconian code amounted to fifteen. The retention of a
rusty fowling-piece, a broken bayonet, or even the simple
possession of a few ounces of powder and shot, was there
punished with death. As in Ancona, so also in the Romagne,
the disarmament was so rigidly enforced, that landed
proprietors were not allowed to retain the fire-arms
necessary for the defence of their country-houses against
brigands. The arms thus sequestrated in the Marche were
laid up in the fortress of Ancona, with a promise of restitution.
But some years afterwards the greater part were
broken up and sold as old iron; the Austrian officers,
meantime, having made use of the best in their shooting
excursions. The communes were saddled with the large
expenses always incidental upon a military occupation like
the present; in addition to which they were required to
provide new barracks, riding-schools, and similar establishments
for their unwelcome guests at Bologna, and to defray
the cost of additional fortifications at Ancona.
These restraints and grievances, as well as the domineering
insolence of the Austrian authorities, were looked
upon by the Papal Court as a part only of the chastisement
of its rebellious children. The remainder it took upon itself
to inflict.
CHAPTER XXX.
Rome subjugated by the French—Leniency of General Oudinot—Rigour
of the Pope's Commissioners—Investigation into the
opinions of Government employés—Disfavour of the Constitutionalists—The
Pope's edict and second amnesty—He returns to his
capital, April, 1850—Bitter disappointment of the Romans—Count
Cavour's appeal to the Congress of Paris on their behalf—The
Papal progress in 1857—Public feeling at the opening of 1859—Excitement
in the Pontifical States at the outbreak of the war—The
Austrians evacuate Bologna—Establishment of a Provisional
Government—The revolt spreads through the Legations—Ancona
loses the favourable moment—Declares itself too late—Approach
of the Swiss troops from Perugia and Pesaro—Capitulates to General
Allegrini—Arbitrary proceedings of General Kalbermatten—The
Gonfaloniere—His mendacious addresses to the Pope—Misery
of Ancona—Contrast presented by the Legations—Conclusion.
Contemporarily with the re-establishment of the pontifical
authority by the Austrians in the Legations and
Marche, the French, under General Oudinot, fulfilled their
part of the compact, and brought the Eternal City into subjection.
They were not prepared for the obstinate and spirited
resistance they encountered. False reports of the anarchy
prevailing in Rome had led Oudinot to anticipate that he
would be hailed by the vast majority of the inhabitants as
their deliverer from the licence of a demagogical faction; and
no disappointment was ever more galling than that of the
victor when he found himself regarded with aversion as the
instrument of replacing a detested yoke upon an indignant
population. It is but his due to state that he descended
to no reprisals for the undisguised ill-will and contempt[17]
with which he was received. Although the hostility of the
Romans left him no alternative but to impose martial law,
the greatest forbearance was shown in enforcing it; while
all who had cause to dread the return of the Papal functionaries
were at full liberty to depart.
It was not until a commission, composed of three cardinals,
arrived from Gaeta with full powers to assume the
government, that the reaction may be said to have commenced.
Whoever had not shown himself a partisan of
absolute government was at once treated as an enemy. To
their utter astonishment the Constitutionalists were classed
in the same category as the democrats, and soon had cause
to deplore not having followed the example of all the persons
connected with the short-lived Republic, who had timely
quitted the country. A censorship or council was instituted
to investigate the opinions of government officials of every
class; but as every appointment made subsequently to the
Pope's flight was cancelled as a preliminary, this inquiry
limited itself to such persons as were in office before the
commencement of disturbances. The result of this inquisitorial
scrutiny was the loss of their situations to seven hundred
moderati, and the sudden beggary of an almost equal
number of families. As if this measure had not sufficiently
eliminated the dangerous liberal element, persons who had
been absent from public view ever since the death of
Gregory XVI. were now invited forth from their hiding-places
or from prison. Spies and perjurers in old times,
they returned with alacrity to their former calling; confiscation,
imprisonment, exile, the galleys, fell to the lot of
those who had crossed their path. The universities were
closed; the most stringent laws enacted on the Press; the
Holy Office reinstated in full vigour.
The Constitution was withdrawn. Pius IX. was the
first amongst the princes of Europe to set the example of
revoking the franchises with so much solemnity accorded.
Not that the statute was ever publicly annulled: it was
through his famous motu proprio of the 12th September,
1849, which laid down a totally opposite system as the basis
of his resumption of the government, that the Romans
understood its doom was sealed. The institutions he now
promised were to be such “as should bring no danger to our
liberty, which we are obliged to maintain intact before the
universal world.” In those words lies the clue to the Papal
policy.
An amnesty was appended to this decree, but as it excluded
from its provisions whoever had taken any share in
public affairs since the assassination of Count Rossi, numbers
of the most temperate politicians in the State, who had
given their support to Mamiani during his efforts at an accommodation
with the Pope, fared no better than the Mazzinians
who had set all constituted authority at defiance.
All were equally proscribed. The Romans, jesting, as is
their wont, whether in pleasure or in bitterness, compared
it to a register of condemnation rather than an instrument
of pardon.
In April, 1850, Pius re-entered his dominions. The
Romans had looked anxiously for this, and trusting in the
benevolence of his character, imagined that he would at
least put a stop to the cruelty and injustice exercised in his
name. But the Pope who came back from Gaeta had nothing
of the Pio Nono of four years back. As if in expiation
of his previous errors, and to screen the Church from
being again jeopardized by his weakness, he withdrew all
attention from secular affairs, and henceforth lived only for
the glory of religion. So little did he inform himself of the
state of the country, that the few who could obtain his ear
unobserved, declare that they found him perfectly ignorant
of passing occurrences. Nothing was suffered to reach him
save through the medium of his detested minister, Cardinal
Antonelli,—his subjects' murmurings and prayers had no
other expositor; while the same channel conveyed to them
nought save harshness, intolerance, and vindictiveness, as
tokens of their sovereign's existence.
When the Romans once thoroughly realized this change,
with the extinction of their hopes departed every vestige of
affection. Never was there a prince who fell from such a
height of love, reverence, and admiration, to be regarded
with such utter indifference.
In 1856, the evils which affected the Roman States were
brought before Europe by Count Cavour, the Sardinian
plenipotentiary at the Congress of Paris. He sketched
their history since the restoration in 1815, and demonstrated
the pressure Austria had always exercised upon the
Papal Government, to whom a loophole was thus given for
throwing on its powerful ally the odium of its past and
actual régime. As the first condition of the reforms the
Pope should be invited to adopt, he insisted on the withdrawal
of the two foreign armies in occupation of the
country.
It being well understood that France only continued to
garrison Rome as a check upon Austria, it was without any
fear of opposition from the former that the Italian statesman
dwelt on the crying necessity of this measure, and appealed
to the deplorable situation of the Legations and
Marche, where a state of siege and martial law had been
subsisting for seven years, to evidence whether the system
now in force was salutary in its results; while he wound up
his representations by urging the constant danger which
threatened the tranquillity of neighbouring States by the
existence of such a focus of intrigue and discontent.
This movement on the part of the Sardinian Government
was loudly protested against by the clerical party as
pandering to the revolutionists; but it saved Italy from becoming
once more the prey of socialists and red republicans.
Convinced that their cause was in able hands, the people
were induced to wait patiently a little longer, to desist
from the plottings and insurrections which had only been
fruitful in bloodshed and desolation, and give their infatuated
rulers another and final chance of averting the day of
reckoning which was rapidly approaching.
Even then, at the eleventh hour, a little judgment, a
little generosity, might have propped the tottering edifice.
In 1857, the announcement that the Pope was about to
undertake a journey through his dominions awoke a hope
of brighter days. The state of siege and martial law in
Bologna and Ancona were removed; the beggars who peopled
all the towns through which he passed were locked
up; a good many buildings were whitewashed; and the
municipal bodies (government nominees) presented congratulatory
addresses. Other addresses, too, were prepared,
couched in less flowery language, signed by many of
the provincial nobility and landowners, in which an earnest
appeal was made to their sovereign's justice and humanity.
But these were not permitted to reach his hands. Cold
and languid was the pontifical progress. Pius visited
shrines and churches, but he unbarred no prisons, and
left no thankful hearts behind him.
The memorable words of Victor Emmanuel on opening
the Chambers at Turin in January, 1859,—“We are not
insensible to the cry of anguish which reaches us from
every part of Italy,”—were not spoken too soon. Without
a public assurance of sympathy and protection to
those suffering populations who, for three years, under
increasing grievances, had waited for the result of Sardinia's
interposition in their behalf, they could not any longer
have been restrained from the wildest excesses of vengeance
and despair. Without the firm trust in the Ré galantuomo
generated by his faithful observance of the Constitution
in Piedmont, under difficulties of no ordinary kind, Mazzini
would never have lost his influence in the Peninsula.
In the Roman States, where republicanism had been
as it were enthroned, this altered tone of public feeling
was the more remarkable. The priests who rail at the
constitutional king as the instigator of the revolution in
the Legations, should rather thank the magic influence
of his name, and the exhortations of the noble and enlightened
men he has rallied around him, for restraining
the fiery and vindictive Romagnuoli from abusing their
hour of triumph. Not a Codino in the country but anticipated,
whenever the Austrian troops should be withdrawn,
a repetition of the horrors of the first French revolution.
As the excitement which pervaded all North Italy
last winter extended itself to the Papal States, the Austrians
redoubled in vigilance and severity. While the
French general in command at Rome winked at the enthusiasm
of the inhabitants, and offered no opposition to
the departure of the volunteers who flocked to Victor
Emmanuel's standard, the Pope's allies on the other side of
the Apennines strengthened their garrisons, re-established
martial law, intercepted the volunteers as they stole towards
the frontiers, and threw up fresh fortifications round
the citadel at Ancona.
The Government, dependent for its very existence upon
two Powers on the verge of open collision, was torn by
anxiety. Its leanings were unequivocally Austrian; but
these, to a certain extent, fear of the French compelled it
to dissemble. When the war at length broke out at the
end of April, and the invasion of Piedmont by the Austrians
was responded to by the landing of a French army at
Genoa to support Victor Emmanuel, the fever of expectation
in both parties, liberal and absolutist, in the pontifical
dominions, reached a maddening pitch.
The suspense was not of long duration. The battle of
Magenta brought things to a crisis. On the 8th of June,
Bologna first learned the rumours of the victory. The
ferment was indescribable, and the people, intoxicated
with joy, were with difficulty restrained from rising on
the Austrians. Written handbills were actively circulated,
admonishing them to prudence: “Be ready, but calm and
disciplined,” was the burthen of these injunctions. Two
days of torturing suspense followed; an embargo had been
laid on all newspapers or bulletins from the seat of war,
and the military and pontifical authorities spread a contradiction
of the previous intelligence.
But the truth could not for ever be concealed, and when
Gyulai's defeat was confirmed, the excitement rose almost
beyond the control of the self-constituted chiefs of the
national party,—men conspicuous in Bologna for intellect,
birth, and local influence,—to whose sagacity, firmness,
and moderation at that momentous period their
countrymen owe an incalculable debt of gratitude. In
spite of their endeavours to avoid any grounds of provocation,
however, a conflict between the populace and
military seemed imminent, when General Habermann telegraphed
to head-quarters for instructions, and was ordered
to evacuate the city.
In the dead of the night the dislodgment was effected;
nor was it until the last Austrian soldier had defiled through
the gates, that the restraint so wisely imposed permitted
any public display of exultation. In a moment, the
houses were all illuminated, and the people poured into
the streets, scarce venturing to credit their wondrous
deliverance. The Marquis Pepoli, Count Malvezzi,
Count Tanari, Professor Montanari, and other influential
Bolognese, meantime proceeded to the palace of the
Cardinal Legate, and requested an audience. After a
long conference, Cardinal Milesi was convinced of the
unanimity of the aims of the liberal party, bent on placing
themselves under the protection of Piedmont, and of the
hopelessness of opposing them; accordingly, the papal arms
were lowered from the gateway of the Palazzo Governativo,
amid the frantic joy of a large concourse of by-standers,
and at an early hour in the morning he took his departure
from Bologna.
A provisional Government was now formed, until an
answer could be received from Victor Emmanuel, to whom
the dictatorship of the province was offered, pending the
duration of the war. Besides the Marquis Pepoli, and
others whom I have already named, Prince Hercolani,
Prince Rinaldo Simonetti, and Count Cæsare Albicini, of
the first nobility of the country, took part in the administration:
a fact of itself sufficient to confute the absurd
statements put forward in England at pro-papal meetings,
of the movement in the Legations being confined to a few
adventurers and Piedmontese agents.
Wisely eschewing all subordinate questions, as well as
the discussion of eventualities, the Bolognese devoted themselves
to the organization of a sufficient force to defend
their frontiers, and with the financial provisions indispensable
to this end. Every day brought encouraging intelligence.
As the Austrians retreated from the Legations,
the cities they left in their rear raised the Sardinian flag,
and sent in their adherence to the central Government at
Bologna. Up to La Cattolica, a village a few miles to the
south of Rimini and the classic Rubicon, the insurrection
received no check; but Pesaro, a town on the sea-coast of
some importance, about forty miles from Ancona, was unable
to declare itself. It was the head-quarters of some
Swiss regiments, under General Kalbermatten, who were
soon to do the Pope good service in the reduction of the
Marche.
Ancona had its revolution of a few days, for which it is
still doing penance in sackcloth and ashes. On the 12th
of June, the Austrians abandoned the town, but the citadel
was almost immediately occupied by some Papal troops,
despatched from Macerata. A few hours only elapsed between
the departure of the former and the arrival of their substitutes;
but it was the Anconitans' want of energy in turning
that interval to account which decided the fate of the
Marche. They lacked the master-minds who directed the
pronunciamento at Bologna, and who alone could have
grasped the requirements of the situation. The oversight
of not declaring themselves at once, and seizing upon the
citadel, with the vast military stores left there by the Austrians,
and its almost impregnable positions, was irreparable.
Before finally committing themselves, they waited for
tidings from Romagna, and lost the decisive moment.
It was not till two or three days after General Allegrini
had occupied the fortress, that Ancona proclaimed the dictatorship
of the King of Sardinia, and appointed a Junta,
in which the nobility and middle classes were severally represented
by Count Cresci, a wealthy landowner; Dr
Benedetto Monti, an eminent physician; Signor Mariano
Ploner, a merchant; and Signor Feoli, a lawyer: all men
of mature age and unquestioned honour. Upon this the
delegate retired from his post, and without a shot being
fired, all emblems of the Pope's authority were effaced or
removed. Allegrini's conduct in offering no interference
during these proceedings, while a few shells from the
heights in his possession would have made fearful havoc
among the insurgents, subsequently earned him a court-martial,
and the loss of his command. Meantime, two soldiers
of a different stamp were ordered to deal with the
rebellious city. The inhabitants had scarcely learned the
fall of Perugia,[18] with all its horrible accompaniments,
when they were terrified by the announcement that Colonel
Schmidt, with the Swiss troops engaged in the assault, was
advancing by forced marches upon them from one quarter,
while General Kalbermatten was approaching from another.
Without arms, without leaders, resistance was clearly
impossible; it was, therefore, decided to surrender to Allegrini,
who assured them of better terms than Kalbermatten
would be likely to concede, and connived at the evasion of
thirty of the most compromised among the citizens, who
escaped by sea before the entrance of the Swiss.
Dissatisfied with Allegrini's leniency, Kalbermatten
had no scruple in setting aside the capitulation. He immediately
imposed a fine of a hundred thousand dollars upon
the town, enacted a number of stringent and inquisitorial
regulations, enforced under heavy penalties,[19] and secured
himself a zealous coadjutor in public affairs by conferring
the office of gonfaloniere, or chief civil magistrate, on the
Marquis D * * *, the man of all others most hateful and
loathsome to the population. It is no exaggeration to say
of this nobleman, that he has one of the most infamous reputations
in a country, and amongst a party, where every
species of vice is very efficiently represented. He was even
too notorious to be made use of by the Government of
Gregory XVI., notwithstanding his devotion to the Holy
See, his very high rank, and considerable wealth. It remained
for a Kalbermatten—like himself, too, in bad odour
in the previous reign—to pass the last indignity upon the
Anconitans, by placing him at their head. His very first
measure after entering into office was a characteristic one.
He sent a deputation from the municipality of Ancona, to
impress on Pius IX. that recent events were the work of an
evil-minded minority, and assuring him of the Anconitans'
unbounded loyalty and contentment. The Roman Gazette,
of course, hastened to proclaim this fact, but omitted some
elucidations which rendered the announcement even more
mendacious than the general run of its intelligence.
At that moment no municipal body existed in Ancona.
The nobles and citizens who composed it had either fled the
country or were in concealment, or declared themselves to
be ill, or flatly refused to retain office under their new gonfaloniere.
The deputation, lyingly reported to the world as
embodying the sentiments of the town-council and civil authorities
of this miserable city, was composed of two of the
Pope's cousins, and an underling of the Neapolitan consulate.
General Kalbermatten, however, determined that the
Marchese should not, on another occasion, be forced thus to
extemporize a following. He imposed a fine of five dollars
a day upon the sick or refractory members of the Municipio,
which at last told so heavily upon their resources, that such
as could not escape[20] into the free atmosphere of Romagna—professional
men and merchants, whose families and avocations
chained them to the spot—were compelled to give
in. But in a few months the corporation was again fatally
at issue with its chief.
His first essay at addresses had apparently been so
gratifying, that in December the zealous gonfaloniere sent
up a second to Rome, couched as before in the name of the
whole Municipio, to be laid before the then expected Congress,
protesting against any changes in the actual political
régime under which they had the happiness of living. Deep
and irrepressible was the indignation of the Anconitans on
discovering what he had had the audacity to affirm, for not
one—no, not one—of the Anziani was cognizant of the proceeding;
and with a spirit which can only be appreciated by
those who understand their critical position, they simultaneously
threw up office.
Since then I know not what expedient has been adopted
to bring these contumacious subjects to obedience, for private
letters from that centre of desolation are more eloquent
in their silence than their details. This much I know positively,
that none of the accounts which from time to time
find their way into the “Times” or “Daily News” of the
actual condition of Ancona, of the continual landing of
Austrian recruits for the Papal army, of the stagnation of
trade, and the despairing, sullen attitude of the population—are
in anywise exaggerated.
It is sad to turn from the scene of so many pleasant
associations, leaving it so wretched in the present, in such
utter uncertainty for the future; but my limits are well
nigh attained, and I should only be going over a thrice-told
tale if I enumerated all the grievances which it shares in
common with the other provinces still under Papal rule.
These are forcibly condensed in the address lately presented
to the Emperor of the French by the refugees from Ancona,
Perugia, and, in fine, every other part of the Roman States
not yet emancipated from the priestly yoke.—“A destructive
blast has swept over the country. No responsibility
in those who govern, no publicity in the administration, no
safeguard before the tribunals, canon law above the civil
code—these are the inevitable consequences of a Government
at the head of which stands a prince, who, bound by
religious ties, and declaring himself infallible, is free from
all control. All modification of an essentially corrupt system
would be fruitless. Principles may be corrected, persons
may be changed, but the intrinsic nature of a thing
admits neither of correction nor change. The clerical system
is incompatible with the customs and civilization of the
present day; to endeavour to mend it would be to galvanize
a dead corpse.”
The Romagne stands out in bright relief against this
gloomy background. A fierce ordeal had to be encountered
when, close upon the rapture with which the population
received Massimo d'Azeglio as Commissioner Extraordinary
from Victor Emmanuel, came the unlooked for, palsying
announcement of the Convention of Villafranca. But right
nobly did they surmount the dangers that menaced them
on every side. Though the soldier-statesman, the Bayard
of politicians, whose writings, whose eloquence, whose example
had so potently contributed to purify and exalt the
national character, was compelled to withdraw from the post
so recently assumed, they loved and trusted him and his
royal master too implicitly to be false to his exhortations.
Hence it was that, abandoned to themselves at a conjuncture
the most critical and perplexing, the Romagnuoli,
so long noted for their turbulence and lawlessness, seemed
suddenly to have acquired a ripeness of judgment and power
of self-control worthy of a long apprenticeship to freedom.
By the middle of July a body of 12,000 men were already
equipped and on their way to La Cattolica, to ward off any
attack of the pontifical troops; and before the end of August
the elections had taken place for the National Assembly.
The four Legations, containing about a million of
inhabitants, returned one hundred and twenty-six deputies,
the leading men in the country, whether in respect of rank,
learning, or public estimation.
The assembly met in Bologna for a twofold purpose;
first, to pass in solemn review the conduct of the late
Government, and set forth the reasons for which the people
cast off its authority; next, to vote the annexation to the
constitutional monarchy of Sardinia. These acts accomplished,
it separated, patiently waiting until the sanction of
Europe should permit Victor Emmanuel to ratify their
choice.
Meanwhile, though the suspense is long, and the tension
of public feeling extreme, the calmness and confidence of
the population have never wavered. There has been no
retaliation for the excesses of Perugia, no reckoning sought
for the fearful arrears of oppression which the publication
of the late Government's state-papers have brought to light.
The highways were never so safe before; travellers now
pass through the whole of Romagna without a shadow of
apprehension.
Whatever be the fate in store for these provinces, no
impartial mind can deny them, in common with the three
other States of Central Italy, where an analogous line of
conduct has been held, a just title to the respect and admiration
of posterity.
CHAPTER XXXI.
The English Community of Nice—A Pleasant Meeting—The Corniche
Road—The Smallest Sovereignty in the World—An Oppressive
Right of the Prince—Rumoured Negotiation—Rencontre with Pilgrims—An
Old Genoese Villa—A Piedmontese Dinner—The Culture
of Lemon Trees—Piedmontese Newspapers—The Towers of
the Peasantry—Cultivation of the Olive and the Fig-tree—Popular
Mode of Fishing.
Not very long ago I was at Nice—beautiful Nice, with
its wondrous skies and sapphire-like sea; its olive woods,
and palms, and aloes; its mountains, luxurious valleys, and
rich pasture-lands; and yet I was not content. When from
the scenery around I turned to examine Nice itself—when,
after paying a due tribute of admiration to the country
thus lavishly endowed, I sought to learn something of its
inhabitants, their customs, their social life, my dissatisfaction
commenced. There seemed no individuality in this
town; no leading features among its population. I found
no interior to peep into, no traits of national character to
record.
Nice takes its tone from the English and French, Bavarians
and Russians, who make it their winter residence;
the English influence, however, being predominant, as is
evidenced by the number of British comforts and indispensabilities
our country-people have introduced; English
bathing-machines on the sunny beach; English goods and
warehouses at every turning; chemists' shops, complete in
all their time-honoured insignia; stay-makers to royal
English duchesses; English groceries, hosiery, baby-linen;
all are here to be found, besides English clubs, English
doctors, English agency-offices—in fact, every imaginable
device wherewith John Bull delights to surround himself
when abroad.
Now all this may be very delightful, but it is certainly
not instructive; and to those who think some improvement
may be gleaned from foreign travel beyond seeing all the
sights and taking all the drives set down in Murray's
Handbook, it is particularly annoying to find themselves in
a society where the prejudice and party-spirit, gossip and
twaddle, into which a number of idle people must inevitably
fall, are actively at work; within whose circles a native is
rarely seen, and where a total indifference as to the history
or condition of the country where they are sojourning is
displayed. I was beginning to fret under this exclusiveness,
and was endeavouring to resign myself to the conviction
that my visit to Nice would be barren of reminiscence,
when my good genius came to my aid, and one day, on the
Promenade des Anglais, brought me face to face with the
Comtesse de Laval, a Piedmontese widow lady I had known
two or three years previously in Tuscany. She had lately
come with her brother, a veteran general, who had lost an
arm in the campaigns of '48-49 against the Austrians, to
reside on some property they had purchased in the neighbourhood.
It was a most charming rencontre for me; and
they really seemed so cordial, that, making all requisite
allowances for Italian exaggeration, I could not but believe
the pleasure was mutual. The comtesse's first inquiry was
if I were a fiancée, for in this respect all Italians are alike—Piedmontese
or Neapolitans, from the north or from the
south, they equally consider matrimony the sole object of a
woman's life. Disappointed at my reply, she glanced nervously
round to see whether I was unattended; but the
sight of a servant reassured her, while I vainly attempted
to demonstrate that my advancing years would speedily
render any escort superfluous.
With a fixed determination to defer to the vassalage
under which she considered I ought to be restricted, she
begged me to take her to call upon the friends with whom
I was staying, in order to proffer a request that I might be
permitted to accompany her for a few days to her brother's
villa at Latte, some thirty miles' distance from Nice—her
own house in the vicinity being under repair. We were all
amused at the stately old lady's punctilio; but the kind invitation,
it is needless to say, was willingly accepted, and
an early day appointed to set out.
Everybody has heard of the Corniche Road—the Riviera
di Ponente; that is, the Shore of the West—which connects
Nice with Genoa, and that portion of it leading to
Latte is perhaps the most beautiful of the whole. October
had already commenced, but no trace of autumn had as yet
stolen over the landscape, no chillness in the balmy air reminded
one of the lateness of the season. Our way at first
wound along a gradual ascent, bordered with olives, cherubias,
cypresses, orange-trees, and the maritime pine, and
commanding the most extensive inland prospect, where
mountains upon mountains displayed exquisite varieties of
colouring and form; whence a sudden turn of the road
brought us to heights overhanging the Mediterranean, with
its endless succession of headlands and bays, towns nestling
beneath the shelter of a protecting rock, or cresting some
rugged eminence; while the blue waters stretched forth in
their calm majesty, scarcely a ripple on their glass-like
surface, scarcely a murmur as they wafted their wreaths of
spray towards that highly-favoured shore.
Soon after passing Turbia—a village constructed of Roman
ruins—the road began to descend, always overhanging
the sea; and then, far, far beneath us, accessible only by a
very circuitous route, we saw Monaco, the capital of the
smallest sovereignty in the world, with its towers and fortifications
rising along a rugged promontory, which flung its
arms protectingly around the tiny city, and formed a bay,
so graceful in its curve, in the outline of the hills which
rose above it, that the scene looked like a gem worthy of
Italy's diadem of beauty. From this I was directed to turn
my gaze in the direction of Roccabruna, another town in
this same Liliputian principality, situated upon the shelving
side of a mountain, so exceedingly precipitous, that the
marvel is how it ever could have been built, or men found
agile enough to climb there; the popular legend being,
that, some hundred years ago, the whole slid some distance
down the face of the rock to its present locality, without
destroying its castle or other structures.
Florestan, Prince of Monaco, and Duke of Valentinois,
spends in Paris the revenues he obtains from his subjects
by exactions which have rendered him deservedly unpopular.
One oppressive right he possesses, is that of compelling
all the population to grind their corn at his mills, and
to buy their bread at his bakers'; the result of which is,
that the 5000 or 6000 subjects of the principality eat the
worst bread in Italy. So the general said; and as he was
of an agricultural turn, and had gone through the metaphorical
act of beating his sword into a ploughshare, he
was a great authority on such matters.
There has since been a rumour going the round of many
of the newspapers, that the noble Florestan was treating
with the Government of the United States for the sale of
his territories—a negotiation that would, no doubt, be
equally gratifying to the pride and suitable to the interests
of our transatlantic kinsmen, but one which the European
Powers would probably never permit to be carried into
effect. Piedmont would greatly desire to become the purchaser;
and situated as is the principality—lying like a
wedge in her beautiful line of coast, which commences at
Nice and terminates at Spezzia—such a transfer seems
most natural; but the Prince of Monaco has a grudge
against the Sardinian Government, and is obstinately opposed
to treating with it on the subject.
Through avenues of rhododendrons and oleanders,
through woods where the rich green of the fig, bending
beneath its luscious fruit, contrasted with the dusky foliage
of the olive, we next came upon Mentone, of late years
much resorted to by English as a sheltered and beautiful
winter residence. If the contemplated transfer of Nice to
France is carried out, the pass of the Turbia will form the
boundary; and Mentone, as the Italian rival of Nice, is
expected to rise into great importance.
Soon after leaving this town we again dismounted, to
have a better view of a rocky defile which seems to have
riven the mountains asunder; and while sitting on the low
parapet of the bridge thrown over the chasm, we were attracted
by two figures advancing slowly in the direction
whence we had come, in the costume of pilgrims, real bonâ
fide pilgrims. Their appearance at once reminded me of
those descriptions with which many of Sir Walter Scott's
opening chapters abound. The elder of the two was a man
of middle age, with handsome regular features, somewhat
of a Moorish cast, to which his coal-black hair and bronzed
complexion imparted an additional resemblance. His companion,
whom we at once concluded to be his son, was a
boy of eleven or twelve, with that golden hair so often observable
in children in the south, which darkens rapidly
as they grow up; a gentle suffering face, and an air of
weariness in his gait, that, with the adjuncts of his picturesque
attire, rendered him a very interesting little palmer.
Both were dressed alike: in loose cloaks or robes of dark-green
serge, with large oil-skin capes, thickly overlaid with
scallop-shells, the largest between the shoulders, and smaller
ones placed around, and in the front two crosses coarsely
embroidered. A low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat—a long
wooden staff, surmounted by a cross—a string of beads at
the girdle—and a crucifix hanging from the neck, completed
this equipment, which had neither wallet nor bag, nor any
sort of receptacle for carrying food or raiment.
As they passed us, we perceived how coarse and travel-worn
their apparel was, and how the little boy lagged
behind, requiring often an encouraging word from the
elder pilgrim to urge him on; and being curious to learn
somewhat respecting them, as an introductory speech, the
general called out to inquire if they had come from a great
distance, and whither they were bound. The man replied
in broken Italian, they came from Murcia, in Spain, and
that their destination was Rome; then, with an inclination
of the head, was proceeding, when their interrogator approached
the little boy, and dropped a few coins into his
hand. The child looked up at his companion inquiringly,
and receiving a gesture of acquiescence, accepted the money
with downcast eyes, and kissed it, but without proffering
a syllable. The father then took off his hat, and crossing
himself, remained for a few seconds in the attitude of
prayer, his lips moving silently, the boy sedulously following
his example. When their orisons were concluded, the
child drew from his bosom a small brass medal, with an
image of the Madonna, which he presented to the general,
always keeping the same silence, which augured ill for the
gratification of our curiosity. However, as they stood still
for a few minutes, looking over the precipice, I mustered
up courage to be spokeswoman; and in the few words of
Spanish I could put together, inquired if the little boy was
not very much fatigued with his long travel.
“Sometimes,” was the reply; “although I purposely
make very short days' journeys. We have already been
four months on the way, and we have still one hundred and
fifty leagues to traverse before reaching Rome.”
“Always on foot?”
“Si, señora.”
“It is part of your vow?”
“Si, señora.”
“And that little boy is your son?”
“My only one.”
“You have undertaken this pilgrimage from a religious
motive?”
“Pardon me, señora, but there are subjects which can
only be divulged between our conscience and our God.”
We had now arrived at the domain, and found a peasant
in waiting, with a mule to receive the packages, which
the servants handed down from the carriage.
“Ah, here you are! and here is Maddalena, too!” said
the kind master in the Nizzardo patois, as a comely young
woman, wearing a round straw hat, trimmed with black velvet,
shaped like the mandarin hats on tea-chests, and large gold
ear-rings, came forward with a smiling face to welcome us.
“Ah well, eh?—the children, and the dog, and the
cows, and the chickens. Ah, briccona, I see you!” poking
at a little roll-about girl, who had hidden herself in her
mother's skirts, and now peered at us out of her almond-shaped
eyes—the eyes of Provence, soft and long. “Now,
mademoiselle,” turning to me, and addressing me in French,
which was the language of the family among themselves,
although, whenever he and his sister engaged in any animated
discussion, they went off to Piedmontese—a hopeless
compound of gutturals and abbreviations to my untutored
ears—“now, mademoiselle, let me do the honours of a
ruined villa without a road;” and he led the way, for
about a quarter of a mile, through vineyards and olives,
and orchards laden with fruit, till we came to a lane, and a
large old-fashioned gateway, originally very much ornamented
with trophies and armorial-bearings. A large watch-dog
now bounded forward, and greeted his master by putting
his paws on his shoulders, and brushing his nose
against the general's grey moustaches; after which salutations,
passing under a long trellis-walk of roses and vines,
the latter trained along tall white columns, after the fashion
of the old Genoese villas, we came upon a lawn studded
with palms and oleanders, and bordered with thick groves
of lemon-trees, in the centre of which stood a beautiful
palace, such as I had little expected to see in this secluded
spot. A magnificent outer staircase, springing in double
flights from the portico, and converging in a broad platform,
conducted into a vestibule with glass doors, from
whence opened a spacious sala, or sitting-room. At the
further end of this were two long windows, with closed
Persian blinds, which the general threw open on my approach,
and then I found myself upon a balcony overhanging
the sea—so close, so very close beneath us, that I could
have flung a pebble into it from where we stood. Both he
and the comtesse enjoyed my surprise at the sudden transition,
from the wooded scenery in the front of the palazzo,
to the wide range of sea-view thus suddenly presented to
me. The house, in fact, was built upon the shore of a
beautiful little bay, shut in on one side by a promontory
covered with feathered pines, and on the other by a ridge of
rocks, which darted forward as if to complete its crescent-like
shape, and form a safe harbour for the fishing-barks
which now lay idly on the beach: beyond them appeared three
successive headlands, each with its little town rising from
the bosom of the waters—the whole so calm, so sunny, so
brilliant, with its background of perfumed groves, and palms,
and flowers, that it realized every anticipation, and concentrated
in a glance all the varied attractions of the Riviera.
I was not allowed a long time to gaze uninterrupted,
for the general reminded his sister that the dinner-hour had
nearly arrived, and suggested we had better take off our
bonnets. Any regular dinner-toilet, it may here be remarked,
is very unusual amongst Italians when in the
country, even in much more modern establishments than
the one I am describing. The short sleeves and low dresses
in which English ladies are wont to appear in every-day
routine, would be considered by them the extreme of folly
and bad taste. As the comtesse conducted me to my
room—one of six large bed-chambers opening from the sala—in
her gentle yet stately manner she renewed her apologies
for receiving me with so little ceremony, repeating her
declaration that we were literally à la campagne, in a dilapidated
palace that her brother had purchased through a
whim, because it had belonged to a decayed family in whom
he felt an interest. There was no necessity for these excuses,
however; and I was enabled to judge from what the
Piedmontese called a rustic way of living, how much more
luxury and expenditure were prevalent in Northern Italy
than in those southern parts of the peninsula in which my
former experiences had lain.
The dinner, to which we were speedily summoned, was
served in a large room on the ground-floor, corresponding
in size with the sala up-stairs, the doors at the end, which
were thrown open, disclosing an enchanting view of the sea
and the skiffs gliding along its sparkling waters. Here we
found the general in conversation with a middle-aged, intelligent-looking
man, whom he introduced as Signor Bonaventura
Ricci, his friend and factotum, a resident of Ventimiglia,
the adjacent town; and then, without further
delay, we sat down to table, the comtesse alone making the
sign of the cross, which is equivalent to saying grace with
us. The dinner was a specimen of simple Italian fare, and
as such I shall record it for the benefit of the curious in
these matters: it commenced with a tureen full of tagliarini;
a paste composed of flour and eggs, rolled out exceedingly
thin, and cut into shreds—on the lightness and
evenness of which the talent of the cook is displayed—boiled
in broth, and seasoned with Parmesan cheese. Slices
of Bologna sausage, and fresh green figs, for which, the
general exultingly informed me, the neighbourhood of Ventimiglia
was justly celebrated, were next handed round;
and then appeared the lesso, a large piece of boiled beef,
from which the broth had been made, with the accompaniment
of tomato sauce. After this there came a large dish
of fried fish, and the arrosto—roast veal, or roast chickens,
or something of the kind—which, with a dolce, or sweet,
completed the repast. Several sorts of wine, the produce
of the last year's vintage, were produced by Signor Bonaventura,
who had the keys of the cellar in his keeping, and
their different merits were eagerly pointed out. Notwithstanding
their interest in the subject, however, neither he
nor the general seemed to think of drinking a few glasses
by way of test, but contented themselves with merely tasting
the wine pure, and then mixing it with water. The
dessert consisted of oranges, peaches, grapes, figs, and a
melon, all gathered that morning in the garden; which,
considering how far the autumn was advanced, was wonderful
even for Italy, and bore witness that the exceeding
mildness of the temperature—whence, it is said, the name
of Lacte or Latte is derived—has not been exaggerated.
After dinner we walked in the grounds, it being too late
for a longer excursion; and the general and Signor Bonaventura,
whose surname was certainly a superfluity, since
nobody ever addressed him by it, explained to me sundry
matters connected with the culture of the lemon-trees, which
constituted the principal revenue of the estate. It is certainly
a graceful harvest, gathered every two months all
the year round; the 500 trees in the garden having yielded
upwards of 100,000 lemons in less than ten months, and
20,000 or 30,000 more being looked for before Christmas.
These are sold at from 40 to 50 francs per 1000—a franc is
equal to 10d.—to traders, who either send them in cargoes
to England and the United States, or else retail them at
large profits to fruit-dealers for home consumption. The
lemon-tree requires great care, and is manured every three
years with woollen rags—a process likewise applied in many
parts of the Riviera to the olives, which certainly attain to
a size and thickness of foliage not seen elsewhere. They
showed me some lemon-trees which were being prepared
for the reception of the rags. A circular trench, about a
foot deep and two feet wide, is dug round the trunk, and in
this the rags, mostly procured in bales from Naples, are
laid; a curious assemblage of shreds of cloth gaiters, sleeves
of jackets, bits of blankets, horse-rugs, and so forth—the
whole conveying an uncomfortable idea of a lazzarone's
cast-off clothes. A quantity not exceeding twenty pounds
English weight is allotted to each tree, and then the earth,
which had been displaced for their reception, is thrown
over them, and they are left to ferment and gradually decompose.
Some agriculturists throw a layer of common
manure over the rags before covering them with earth, but
Signor Bonaventura said many experienced persons contended
it was unnecessary. Great precaution is requisite
to prevent any blight from settling on the leaves, and in
our walk, black specks were discovered on the glossy foliage,
which it was agreed should be summarily dealt with;
accordingly, next morning, four or five peasant-girls were
hard at work, mounted on ladders, carefully wiping each
leaf, and removing the specks, which, if allowed to spread,
would have endangered the life of the tree.
When it grew dusk, we went up-stairs to the sala, and
looked over the letters and newspapers brought in from the
Ventimiglia post-office. Politics are now in Piedmont an
engrossing theme, domestic as well as foreign being freely
discussed; and no restrictions on the press existing since
the Constitution of 1848, newspapers of every shade of
opinion are in circulation. The peculiar views of each
member of the family found a response in the journals they
habitually perused. The comtesse used to groan over the
Armonia, the only periodical she ever looked at—the organ
of the ultra-retrograde party, which invariably represented
the country as on the eve of an atheistical and socialistic
revolution, the fruits of the innovations on the ancient
order of things; the only glimmering of light amid the foreboding
darkness being the rapid return of heretical England
to the bosom of the church—such events as the abjuration
of the Archbishop of Canterbury and a hundred bishops
being confidently announced one week, and the approaching
conversion of the whole royal family the next. All this
was balm to the good old lady's heart, and I often detected
her gazing on me with a beaming look, as if praying I might
follow this good example, although she abstained from any
direct allusion to the subject. The general, who sided with
the ministry, pinned his faith on the Piedmontese Gazette
and the Parlamento, though his old exclusive feelings could
not always be laid aside, and he sometimes grumbled at all
the privileges of caste being done away; declaring there
was no longer any advantage in being born noble, since he
might find the son of his doctor or lawyer sitting by his side
on the benches of the Chamber of Deputies, or wearing the
uniform of the Guards, unattainable formerly to a bourgeois.
As for Signor Bonaventura, he confided to me that,
notwithstanding he should always uphold a constitutional
monarchy, he thought there was no treason in looking at
all sides of the question, so that he occasionally glanced at
the Italia e Popolo—the organ of Mazzini, a perfect firebrand
of republicanism and discontent; but “Zitto, zitto,”
he added, laying his finger on his lips, “they would faint”—pointing
to the comtesse and his patron—“at the mere notion
of such a thing.”
At nine we were summoned to supper; after which we
sat for some time on the beach, enjoying the beauty of the
moonlight and the softness of the air, though, as far as the
majority of the party were concerned, it was, more properly
speaking, the physical comfort, the sensation of repose,
which caused their satisfaction; for, as respects the enthusiasm
which almost every English person feels, or at any
rate expresses, beneath the influence of beautiful scenery,
Italians, generally considered, are provokingly deficient.
The next morning we had visitors. Signor Bonaventura's
two daughters, damsels of eighteen, or thereabouts, came
by appointment to spend the day, and arrived soon after
the breakfast of café au lait and chocolate had been served;
this, with dinner at two, and supper in the evening, is the
old-fashioned Piedmontese and Nizzardo system of refection.
The sisters were fair specimens of Italian girls of the
mezzo cetto, convent-educated, with ideas that never ranged
beyond an excursion to Nice, or reading more extensive
than the Missal or the Almanac. Immeasurably beneath
country-bred English girls of a corresponding class in all
intellectual points, they were undeniably superior in ease of
manner, and the good taste and simplicity of their dress.
As they stood upon the beach, watching the general bathing
his large dog, looking so fresh and girl-like in their pretty,
well-fitting light-blue muslins and large round hats, they
made me wish my young countrywomen would take a lesson
in harmony and gracefulness of costume from continental
maidens. They evidently looked upon the comtesse with
profound awe, and upon me with great curiosity, as some
rare animal escaped from a menagerie. It being impossible
to carry on any conversation with them beyond monosyllables,
I proposed we should walk out; and, accordingly, we
passed most of the day, both before and after dinner, in exploring
the neighbourhood, to their infinite delight, as I
discovered that they rarely left the house except on Sundays;
Italians of that class considering daily exercise for
their womankind a superfluity, tending to form idle habits.
Signor Bonaventura accompanied us, and towards me was
very affable and communicative, although with regard to his
daughters he evidently entertained very Oriental notions of
their mental inferiority, and treated them as if they were
incapable of receiving information, or as if it was not worth
while to impart it to them.
In the course of our rambles, I was struck with the
singular appearance of some of the dwellings of the peasantry
near the shore—high narrow towers, only accessible by a
steep flight of steps, detached from the main building, with
which they were connected by a wooden bridge. He told
me these were vestiges of the times when the coasts of the
Mediterranean were so often ravaged by the Algerine
corsairs, that no hamlet was safe from their dreaded inroads.
To secure the inhabitants as far as possible, these towers
were constructed, to which, on the first alarm, they might
fly for refuge, and raising the drawbridge, be at least secure
from being carried off into slavery, though forced to be
passive witnesses of the seizure of their cattle and the pillaging
of their stores. In case of an attack, they defended
themselves by hurling stones through spaces in the battlements
upon their assailants, a few of a more modern
description having loopholes in the walls for musketry.
Happily, in these more peaceful days, the peasants have
almost forgotten for what such fortresses were originally
intended, and, fixing their habitations in what have survived
the inroads of time, can look down complacently upon their
olives and fig-trees, without trembling at every sail that
rises upon the clear horizon.
As we passed through woods of olives, Signor Bonaventura
descanted con amore upon their value and utility; and
classing them above my favourite lemon-trees, which can be
cultivated only in sheltered situations, assured me that they
were the great staple of the Riviera, although a good crop is
only realized every second year—the produce of the intervening
one being very inconsiderable. In the good years,
the yield of each tree is estimated, according to its size, at
from five to eleven francs clear profit. The trees are carefully
numbered on each estate, and from 1000 to 1200 constitute
a very fair proprietà. When the olives turn black
and begin to fall, sheets are laid beneath the branches,
which are gently shaken to detach the fruit; whatever is
thus obtained, is carefully spread on the floor of some
rooms set apart for the purpose, and day by day, as the
remaining olives successively ripen, they are shaken down
and added to the store, until sufficient is collected to be
sent to the mill, where it is pressed, and the oil flows out
clear and sparkling. After this first process of pressing the
fruit, there is a second one of crushing or grinding it, by which
oil of an inferior quality, requiring some time to settle, is
obtained; lastly, water is poured on the mass of stones and
pulp, and the oil that rises to the surface is carefully skimmed,
being the perquisite of the proprietor of the mill, who
receives no other remuneration for his share in the transaction.
The produce of the fig-trees is another, though less
lucrative, source of revenue; great quantities are dried in the
sun, and afterwards sold, not only for the supply of the
country itself, but for the French market, where the figs of
Ventimiglia, Signor Bonaventura declared, were as much
prized as those of Smyrna. He showed me large supplies
in course of preparation, laid on long frameworks of reed
lightly interwoven, which as soon as the sun rose were
carried out, and remained all day exposed on the low parapet
which divided the jardin potager from the beach. No
guard was ever kept over them, and no fear seemed to be
entertained of their being stolen. Indeed, the honesty of
the peasantry and fishermen is marvellous, for in this same
kitchen-garden—a strip of sandy soil stolen from the sea-shore—green
peas, tomatos, cucumbers, melons, and a variety
of vegetables, were grown in profusion; and nevertheless,
unprotected as it was, being without the precincts of
the iron gate at the back of the house, which was closed for
form's sake every night, nothing was ever missed—not a
single fruit or vegetable misappropriated.
Our walk after dinner was so prolonged, that darkness
overtook us on our way back, as we were scrambling through
the dry bed of a torrent; but the kind comtesse had foreseen
this, and a peasant, despatched by her to meet us, soon
made his appearance with a blazing branch of pine-wood,
which diffused a grateful fragrance. Some remarks on the
picturesque appearance of this torch, and the properties of
the pine, led to my hearing about the popular mode of
fishing, alla fucina, which I was promised I should see the
first cloudy night, moonlight being a bar to this pastime—a
promise, by the by, that still remains to be fulfilled,
thanks to the unbroken serenity of the weather during my
stay at Latte. However, they showed me the implements,
which are simple enough. Projecting from the stern of the
boat, and elevated above the heads of those engaged in the
sport, is the fucina, an iron grating, piled with flaming
pine-fagots, which cast a brilliant light upon the waters,
illuminating their recesses with extraordinary clearness.
The boat glides into all the little bays and rocky inlets, and
the fish, scared, yet attracted, by the unwonted glare, are
seen shooting rapidly along in all directions; while the
fishermen, each provided with an instrument somewhat resembling
a harpoon, with a staff twelve or fourteen feet
long, spear them with great dexterity as they dart through
the illuminated space. Fish of considerable size are thus
taken frequently, and the enthusiasm attendant on the
enterprise being extreme, a stormy night and a tempestuous
sea prove only additional inducements to the adventurous
fishermen.
CHAPTER XXXII.
Excursion to Ventimiglia—The Duomo—Visit to a convent—La
Madre Teresa—Convent life—A local archæologist—Cities of the
coast—The presents of a savant—End of a pleasant visit.
The next day an excursion to Ventimiglia, about two miles
distant, was proposed; and after some demur from the
comtesse, who did not feel equal to the fatigue, and yet
hesitated at confiding me to the joint care of the general,
Signor Bonaventura, and one of his daughters, whom we
were to pick up at her own residence, every difficulty was
adjusted, and we departed, the whole establishment being
as much excited as if we were going on a journey. They
had left their own horses at Nice, but a carriage, the handsomest
Signor Bonaventura could procure in Ventimiglia,
was in waiting at the road, so exquisitely antique, rickety,
and inaccessible, that in itself it was a refreshing departure
from the routine of everyday life. Our drive along the
coast was as beautiful as any part of the road previously
traversed, and soon brought us to the town, built on the
side of a hill sloping towards the sea—a wonderful little
place to be so near a modern resort like Nice, and yet retaining
so much originality. Whether owing to the splendour
of our equipage, or the charm of our personal appearance,
it becomes me not to determine, but it is undeniable
that as our steeds shambled up the steep narrow street
every window was garnished with curious faces; and as we
passed the apothecary's, where the priests and doctors gossiped,
and the caffè, where the gentry lounged and smoked,
hats were doffed on all sides, and a gratifying effect was
evidently created. The general, excessively delighted,
twirled his grey moustache, and affably returned the greeting;
then, Signor Bonaventura's daughter having joined
us, marshalling the party with military precision, he took
upon himself the office of cicerone, and led the way to the
Duomo, a very ancient structure, built on the site of a temple
of Juno. On the piazza before it, until very recently,
stood some oak-trees of great antiquity, which popular
tradition had pronounced to form part of the wood sacred
to the goddess. The ruthless canons of the cathedral, a few
years ago, caused the old church to be thoroughly cleaned,
and actually had the whole exterior painted over, although
it was of stone, of the earliest period of ecclesiastical architecture.
In the inside is preserved a marble slab, the sole
relic of the ancient temple, containing a dedicatory inscription
to the ox-eyed goddess, whereon antiquaries have
puzzled and disputed to an edifying extent. A few faded
pictures and tawdry ornaments were the only attempts at
embellishment; and even these seemed at a very low ebb,
for there was a printed notice near one of the confessionals,
asking for contributions towards the purchase of a new
image of the Madonna—a box, with a slit in the cover
being placed beneath it, to receive any offerings for that
purpose. Next we went to a convent belonging to the
Canonichesse Lateranensi—a visit to which had been the
desire of my heart ever since my arrival at Latte, to the
amusement of the whole family, who could not understand
why such an every-day sight, as this and similar establishments
appear to them, should interest me so much. The
convent was a large, irregularly-built pile, until the end of
the seventeenth century the palace of the Counts of Ventimiglia,
who here for a long period maintained a struggling
feudal supremacy, waging wars with the neighbouring
petty States, or else making common cause with them in
resisting the suzerainship of the House of Savoy; which,
in the gradual annexation of the territories constituting
the present kingdom of Sardinia, had separately to contend
with numberless principalities, marquisates, and republics,
each jealous of its own independence, and regardless of the
claims of the common weal.
Up a broken open staircase to a portico in front of the
convent church—where two or three slipshod women were
seated al fresco, plaiting each other's hair, or engaged in
that animating chase an old Florentine painter has facetiously
designated “the Murder of the Innocents”—we
passed to a side-door, at which an old woman presented
herself, and inquired what we wanted. This individual
officiated as portress to the nuns, went to market, executed
their commissions, and brought them all the Ventimiglia
news. In her appearance there was nothing poetical or
impressive; she had not even two great rusty keys at her
girdle, but was attired in a print gown, somewhat the
worse for wear, with an obvious deficiency of neatness in
the tiring of her silvery tresses, and of freshness in her
chaussure.
The general gave his name and title, and asked for La
Madre Teresa, although, as he owned to me, he had but a
dim recollection of her face, all minor associations being
lost in the halo cast around a certain beautiful abbess, now
no more, a distant connection of his family, whom, many
years before, when staying with some relations at Ventimiglia,
he had often conversed with at the grating. With
great respect we were now ushered into a sort of gallery,
lighted by windows, around which the dust and cobwebs of
many months had been suffered to gather unmolested.
Opposite to these were two large apertures in the wall, defended
by a double grating of thick iron bars, just wide
enough to admit of passing a hand between their interstices,
but placed at such a distance from each other, that the hand
thus advanced could only reach far enough to grasp a hand
similarly extended from the opposite side; so that even to
press a kiss upon some fair nun's taper fingers was out of
the question—a contingency, no doubt, had in view in the
placing of the grating.
The general said facetiously, that in his visits to the abbess
he had adopted the English fashion, and used to shake her
heartily by the hand; “and it must be confessed, poor soul,”
he added with a sigh, “she did press mine cordially in return.”
And now a rustling of robes was heard, as a door, invisible
from where we stood, opened, and La Madre Teresa
came forward, having evidently made some slight changes
in her toilet, and not a little fluttered by this unexpected
summons. She was a small, spare woman, with that waxen
complexion which a sedentary, unvarying routine of existence
generally produces, peering, light-grey eyes, sharp
features, but a kindly expression about the mouth and chin.
As she stood behind the grating, courtesying first to one
and then to the other, she would have made a very picturesque
study in her white woollen robes and black mantle, the
light from the window in the corridor falling upon her figure,
and detaching it from the gloomy background. Still, the
effect was nothing—the general found an opportunity of
whispering—nothing to be compared to that produced by
his lamented abbess, who used to come sweeping in with
the dignity of a queen, every fold and plait of her drapery
exquisitely adjusted. But to return to La Madre Teresa.
After a few complimentary phrases, she inquired to what
she might attribute the honour of this visit, of which the
real motive was simply the gratification of my prying curiosity:
the ostensible one, I grieve to acknowledge, was of an
ignoble nature, although, when communicated by Signor Bonaventura,
previously instructed in his part, it did not
appear as such to strike the old nun. It regarded the purchase
of cakes! With as much good grace as he could
assume while talking to a nun—for Signor Bonaventura
was of the new school, and violently, intolerantly opposed
to all monastic institutions, notwithstanding which, to
please his wife, and for the sake of peace, his own daughters
had been brought up in a convent—he began to relate
“how an English lady of distinction,” pointing to me—La
Madre courtesied more deeply than before—“having heard
in her own country of the famous cakes made by the nuns
of Ventimiglia, was now come in person to test their excellence.
Did the sisterhood chance to have any upon
sale?”
The old lady was evidently pleased; and begging to be
excused for an instant, retired to give her directions to the
slatternly out-door attendant apparently; for when the
conference broke up, we found her in waiting with some
neatly-papered packets of these celebrated comestibles—which,
by the by, were really excellent, masterly compounds
of almonds, olive-oil, and honey. Returning herself
speedily to the grating, she engaged in an animated
conversation in the Genoese dialect, which, or something
very nearly approaching to it, is spoken at Ventimiglia—the
general being evidently her favourite, and the one to
whom most of her remarks were addressed. Her local
memory was wonderful: she spoke about people he had
utterly lost sight of; knew all their histories for thirty
years past; their children's ages, marriages, and so forth;
combined with a minuteness of detail that nothing but the
prolonged concentration of her faculties within a most circumscribed
sphere could have enabled her to attain.
“Does Vou Scia”—a corruption of the French Votre
seigneurie—“Does Vou Scia remember the Conte L——,
who lived in the street just opposite the barber's and had
an only daughter, whom he married to the son of the Marchese
of A——, who went away with the French to fight,
and died of cold in England when the great Napoleon burnt
that town?—Ah, dear, I forget the name—stop—yes, yes,
it was London. Well, as I was saying, his daughter,
grand-daughter to the conte, was placed with us for her
education, and then married at sixteen, the day after she
left these walls: the spouse was rather gobbo—that is, humpbacked—and
fifty years old, but very rich; so it was a good
match. Vou Scia has surely not forgotten her: you were
a young man then.”
“Oh, I recollect perfectly, perfectly,” groaned the general.
“Well, she was not happy—as indeed who is in marriage?—and
her youngest daughter being externally like her
father in person, the Madonna gave her grace to see the
vanity of the world; so that nearly a year ago her solemn
admission amongst us took place. In another month or
so she will take the final vows. Oh, it is a peaceful, blessed
life to those who are called to enter it! Does Vou Scia
imagine that the wicked Government intends shortly to
suppress all the religious communities?”
“The question they always ask,” observed Signor Bonaventura
in an under-tone.
“Ah! we must hope,” said the general, gravely. “It
would be terrible, you have been here so many years.”
“Thirty-seven completed on the Festival of the Assumption.”
“Impossible! You must have entered a mere child.”
“I took the veil at sixteen,” said the Madre Teresa,
with a simpering smile, which demonstrated that she, too,
was not invulnerable on all women's weak point.
“How strange,” I said, “to think that since then you
have never stirred beyond these walls!”
“Never, signora. But we have a large vineyard and
orchard from which there is a fine view of the sea and the
high-road, and we can see the diligence passing at some distance.
It is the finest situation in all Ventimiglia,” she
added proudly.
“You do not even go out to attend the sick?”
“No, signora; that is not one of the duties of our order:
we are cloistered religiose. We pray and meditate, embroider
and make the confectionery you have heard so much
praised—I fear beyond our poor deserts.”
“Do you take pupils?”
“In former years, signora, before these unfortunate
changes, this decline of religion in the State, we had many
educande; at this moment we have but one young lady
under our care.” And then, with great volubility, she
went on lamenting the degeneracy of the present day, and
telling us how changed times were since her youth, when
every cell in the convent had its occupant. “We were upwards
of seventy then,” she said with a suppressed sigh,
“now we only number eighteen.”
“Out of which I have heard that several are infirm and
bedridden,” remarked Signor Bonaventura, with an affected
air of commiseration.
It made one shudder to think how ghostly the long
corridors and fifty-two empty chambers must look, and how
dreary in their hearts the poor nuns must feel, dwindling
away, till four or five withered, shadowy forms would soon
be all that remained to talk over the glories of the days
gone by.
The poor nun seemed quite sorry when we broke up
the conference, and gazed at us wistfully through the bars,
taking in all the peculiarities of our appearance for the
benefit of the whole sisterhood, when repeating the details
of what would constitute a memorable incident in her life.
After quitting the parlatojo, we went into the convent
chapel, rather a pretty structure, with some indifferent
paintings, and a good deal of gilding. Over the altar there
was a latticed gallery, in which the nuns could assist unseen
at the celebration of mass, and another behind the organ,
for those who formed the choir. Though the sun was
shining so brightly outside, an unaccountable chillness and
gloom pervaded the building, which Signor Bonaventura
contended was like a living tomb, fit to be the receptacle
of decrepit nuns. At this remark his daughter, who stood
in great awe of her father, and had not opened her lips the
whole time, ventured a word in defence of the convent in
which she had been educated; but being told that women
knew nothing of such matters, relapsed into the silent study
of my bonnet and mantle, wherein she had hitherto been
happily engrossed. As for the general, he took Signor
Bonaventura's pleasantries in such good part, that it was
well the comtesse was not present; what with these, and
the allusions to the abbess, the poor lady would have been
grievously discomposed.
From this we went clambering up narrow streets of
steps to the church of San Michele, whilom a temple of
Castor and Pollux, afterwards a convent of Benedictines,
full of Roman antiquities, with a very old crypt, a number
of inscriptions, and a variety of other memorabilia which I
was surveying in helpless ignorance, when the general, who
had sent Signor Bonaventura away on some mysterious
mission, darted forward joyfully at seeing him appear with
a young man, whom it turned out he had been despatched
to summon.
“Here he is—here he is,” he exclaimed; “our archæologist,
our poet, our historian!” and then, with a malicious
twinkle in his eye, presented him to questa Signora
Inglese molto dotta—this learned English lady, who was
making researches on the classical remains of Ventimiglia,
and wished for authentic information concerning them.
The general then seated himself near a confessional, and
indulged in a little well-earned repose, while the youth, who
was not more than nineteen or twenty, attired in a suit
of chessboard-like checks, plunged at once into the duties
that had been assigned him. He was a little nervous at
first, but had none of the distressing bashfulness which
would have overpowered an English lad, a complete bookworm
and wholly unused to society; in fact, it is rare to
see an Italian thoroughly awkward, or thoroughly timid.
Their naked loquacity always stands them in good stead.
In this instance, moreover, a certain amount of modest assurance
was not wanting. With surprising fluency the
young savant favoured us with a dissertation on the
temple, the church, the crypt, Roman mile-stones, Etruscan
vases, and mediæval architecture. The effect was remarkable;
no orator could have desired a greater testimony in
his favour. The lean sacristan, with the keys of the crypt
in his hand, stood transfixed with admiration; Signor Bonaventura
tried to look very wise; the general, awaking from
his nap, made no effort at comprehending the discourse, but
kept nodding his approbation; and the eight-and-twenty
children, who had accompanied us into the church, ceased
begging for centimes, and maintained a respectful silence.
As for me, in whose honour this antiquarian lore was displayed,
I felt incompetent to proffer more than a yes or no,
hazarded at intervals, trembling lest some inappropriate
rejoinder should discover my lamentable deficiency, and
mortify the poor student, who was evidently so happy in
holding forth to one he considered a kindred spirit, that it
would have been a pity to dispel the harmless delusion.
When at last we got out of the church, he grew more intelligible
to my capacity; and leaving the past to itself, bethought
himself of the attractions of the present, and conducted
us to a bastion, just outside one of the gates of the
city, which, small as it now is, with not more than 3000
inhabitants, was really of importance in the time of the
Romans, or a still earlier period; from this grassy eminence,
he said, one of the loveliest views in the whole
Riviera was to be seen; and that he had Ugo Foscolo's
authority for the assertion. And, in truth, he was not far
wrong. Looking inland, there was a fertile plain, rich in
the golden fruits and mellow tints of autumn, through which
the river Roja ran its sparkling course, the mountains from
whence it took its rise closing gradually on all sides, till a
vast amphitheatre of hills formed the majestic background,
towering in grandeur, piled one above another, the peaks
of the last alpine range capped with snow, and suffused with
a rosy light from the reflection of the setting sun. Then,
turning to the sea, reposing in the gorgeous beauty of that
hour, the close of a cloudless day, we saw the glittering
towers and steeples of the cities of the coast—Bordighera,
called the Jericho of Italy, from the palm-trees with which
its environs are thickly studded; a few miles further on,
the venerable walls of San Remo; more distant still, Porto
Maurizio; and others, and others yet, each nestling against
the guardian promontory which stretched forth for its
shelter and protection—each mirrored in the fairy bay,
which seemed exclusively its own.
Our young friend was much pleasanter here than in the
crypt. He repeated Ugo Foscolo's description with an
enthusiasm which made one regret that the talents and
love of study he undoubtedly possessed should have taken
so useless a direction. His case is an illustration of that
of many an Italian man of genius, who has lost himself
amid ruins, and given to crumbling remains the time and
energies which might have benefited his country and mankind.
On escorting us to the carriage, he presented me with
an Inquiry into the Dedicatory Inscription to Juno, and
an Essay on the Antiquities of Ventimiglia, his first literary
productions; and, finally, composed an ode full of classic,
mythologic, and historical allusions in honour of the daughter
of Albion, whose studies he fancied were of so edifying
a description. It was enclosed the next day in a letter to
the general, with a request that he would lay it at the feet
of the illustrious stranger. The whole family were charmed;
the general scanned the lines critically, and said: “The boy
should go to Turin, and get on;” the comtesse copied them
out; Signor Bonaventura was pleased that Ventimiglia was
not without its representative in Parnassus; while I—delighted
to find that at thirty miles from Nice, where I had
despaired of seeing anything but English shops and English
travellers, three days should have been so fertile in Italian
scenes and Italian manners—looked upon this last incident
as quite the crowning stroke of my pleasant visit to Latte.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
A glance at Turin in 1858—The progress of Sardinia—Exhibition of
national industry—Productions of Piedmont—Appearance of the
Piedmontese—Railway enterprise—Progress in machinery.
Artistically considered, Turin is the least interesting
of all the Italian capitals. It boasts of no Roman antiquities,
of but few mediæval monuments, and its museums and
picture galleries, however creditable to the liberality of the
sovereigns by whom they were founded or enlarged, can
bear no comparison with the Vatican or the Uffizj. Though
its position is singularly grand, with the Alps for a background,
and the Po, the father of Italian rivers, circling
round its base,—an absence of variety in the landscape, of
the picturesque in the population and accessories, in whatever
regards costume, colouring, and form, serves to complete
its dissimilarity to Italy in all that has hitherto constituted
Italy's sources of attraction.
But for those who love to mark a nation's struggles,
progress, and development, this city has interest of another
kind; and its contrast of life and energy with the decay so
long familiar to me during my residence in the Papal States
never struck me more forcibly than last summer, when, with
a view to your edification and entertainment, reader, and
to gather fresh impressions and revive former ones, the
Signorine forestiere—a staid Signora now—paid a visit to
Turin. Its outward characteristics are soon delineated.
Broad, level, well-paved streets, intersecting each other at
right angles, terminating towards the north and west by a
noble panorama of the snow-capped Alps, on the east by the
verdant Collina, a range of undulating hills studded with
country seats, while southwards stretch the fertile plains of
Piedmont; large, regularly-built squares, handsome, thriving
shops; private carriages, omnibuses, and citadines dashing
about in every direction; soldiers, gay and debonair;
and a busy, plain, but honest-looking population.
According to the last census of 1858, Turin contains
one hundred and eighty thousand inhabitants; an increase
of forty thousand since 1848. This one fact serves to give
some idea of the country's rapid development under a liberal
Government. The same policy which has attracted refugees
from all parts of Italy to swell the population of the State,
has wrought a corresponding expansion in its material and
intellectual resources. It is scarcely possible to overrate
all that Sardinia has gained in the last ten years. An
Englishman, unless thoroughly acquainted with the condition
of the rest of the Peninsula, cannot appreciate the
extent of these improvements. Measuring everything by
the gauge of home perfection, he remarks that there is still
much left to do;—while the Lombard, or Modenese, or any
other subject of the various Italian States, compares all he
sees with what he has left perhaps only a few miles behind
him, and is filled with rapture and astonishment.
Another class of my countrymen, looking on Italy as
the special province of the antiquarian and the tourist,
think these changes are dearly purchased. Piedmont, they
declare, thanks to her boasted reforms, is fast losing all that
rendered her worth seeing! Under the united influences
of the constitution, railroads, and a free press, this consummation
may not in truth be very distant. The country
has undeniably degenerated from the characteristics formerly
possessed in common with her Italian sisters. Politics,
judicial reforms, vast public works, schemes more gigantic
still of national emancipation, now hold, in the thoughts
and conversation of the majority of the Piedmontese, the
place which elsewhere in the Peninsula is assigned to the
début of a promising singer, or the apotheosis of a new saint.
In lieu of grass-grown streets and decaying palaces, new
quarters are springing up in every town; and the busy
hammer of the workman is almost too ready to efface the
inroads of time, to modernize and repair, to snatch from
the treasures of the past whatever may be pressed into the
service of the eager present. Those wonderful studies of
mendicity, infantile beauty and dirt, and barefooted friars,
so dear to the artist's eye,—hitherto considered as inseparable
from Italy as the blue sky or the cicada's summer
chirp,—in the Sardinian States are fast disappearing also.
The beggars are placed in asylums, the children are sent to
school, and the friars are being suppressed.
And all this is the work of ten years! It is not necessary
to be old to remember when, in political and religious intolerance,
and in opposition to any of the novelties of the
age, the Sardinian Government ranked amongst the most
despotic and conservative of Europe.
Hence it is that the events which led to these changes,
the men by whom they have been worked out, and the
struggles of opposing parties, are so bound up with Piedmontese
life that any attempt at describing it involves
frequent reference to these topics. Like Molière's Monsieur
Jourdain, “Qui faisait de la prose sans le savoir,” people in
this country, without being exactly conscious of it, are living
in history, and living very fast too. Blame me not therefore,
if, carried away by the influences surrounding me, I should
occasionally write it!
The great object of public attention at the time of my
visit was the decennial exhibition of National Industry,
comprehending every branch of native produce or manufacture,
held in the palace of the Valentino, on the outskirts
of the city. As a sumptuous relic of the seventeenth
century, when the Duchess Regent Christina, daughter of
Henri Quatre, had introduced into Piedmont a taste for the
French style of architecture and magnificence in decoration,
the Valentino for itself alone is well worth an inspection;
and a stranger could not have seen it to greater advantage
than in the blaze, glory, and animation of those summer
days. Approached by a wide avenue of noble trees, its
peaked roofs stood out in glittering clearness against the
deep blue sky, and the unwonted stir around and within its
precincts, recalled the descriptions of the revelries in which
the regent was wont to seek solace from the toils of state
or the loneliness of widowhood.
Under the colonnades that form a semi-circle on either
side of the piazza in front of the palace, in shady walks laid
out with the dignified precision of the Louvre, in long ranges
of apartments on the ground floor, and in the grand suite of
state-rooms upon the first, were arranged the varied specimens
of industry, perseverance, and improvement furnished
by the different provinces of the Sub-Alpine kingdom;
Savoy, Piedmont, Genoa, Nice, and the island of Sardinia.
Agricultural and farming implements of all kinds,
ploughs, wine-presses, butter-churns, honey, wax, beehives,
and cheeses of every description, from the twin-brother of
the piquant Parmesan to the rich Gorgonzola or the mottled
Mont Cenis. Wheat, Indian corn, beans, rice, barley,
beet-roots for the production of sugar, hops, wines, beer,
liqueurs, sausages, hams. The fine paste in which Genoa
especially excels; maccaroni, vermicelli, rings, stars, balls;
every imaginable variety of shape, some white, some saffron-coloured.
Chocolate, dried and preserved fruits, others
crystallized in sugar; bonbons and confectionery, which
rival any that Paris can produce. Steam-engines, models
of shipping, hydraulic and sewing machines, iron stoves,
balconies, winding staircases, beds, surgical instruments,
clocks, watches, plate, jewelry, gold and silver filigree, and
coral variously wrought; church ornaments, crucifixes,
chalices, candelabras; cannons, mortars, fire-arms; lead and
silver from the mountains of Savoy, rich samples of copper
ore from Aosta and Pignerol, and iron from the island of
Sardinia, disclosing a source of wealth long dormant in the
country, but now rendered available through the activity of
the Government in resuming the working of mines almost
wholly abandoned, and directing the exploration of new ones,
coupled with the generosity of King Victor Emmanuel in
throwing open to national enterprise what had hitherto
been a crown monopoly. Numerous chemical products,
composition candles, soap, starch, colours, and varnishes.
Glass and earthenware. Silk in every stage, from the
cocoon to the flowered damask of Turin, the gauze of
Chambéry, or the three-piled velvet of Genoa. Woollen
stuffs, broad-cloth, carpets, and cotton fabrics, in the manufacture
of all which, through the removal of the duties on
the raw material, a wonderful advance is of late discernible.
Paper, hemp and cordage, flax and linen, saddlery, valises,
travelling bags; carriages and harness; wigs, gloves, hair-brushes,
paint-brushes, &c. Ready-made clothing; magnificent
church vestments, worked in gold and silver or
coloured silks; embroidery and lace from Genoa; artificial
flowers. And lastly, all those articles of luxury in which
Piedmont used to be almost wholly dependent upon France:
ornamental furniture, worked up to the highest finish,
inlaid, carved, or gilded; mirrors and musical instruments.
With an evident eye to harmony in arrangement, the
nature of the articles displayed was adapted to the rooms in
which they were placed, so that the state apartments were
the recipients of all the costliest specimens, and from their
loftiness, gilded and painted ceilings, and richly-sculptured
doorways, gave additional effect to the glittering objects
crowded within them. It was long since the halls of the
Valentino had worn so gay an aspect, or been trodden by so
many feet. In every quarter you encountered a pleased,
quiet throng, chiefly of the middle and lower classes, for the
whole thing was rather too utilitarian to be quite to the
taste of the high world of Turin, which gave one ample
facilities for the study of national physiognomy.
The women of Piedmont are not in general well-favoured;
they are undersized and angular in figure, with a
weather-beaten complexion, and flat noses. This struck
me doubly, coming from Genoa, where female grace and
attractiveness are proverbial; the transparent white veil or
pezzotto worn by the Genoese is here also poorly replaced
by caps tawdrily trimmed with coloured ribbons or artificial
flowers. A good many peasants were amongst the crowd,
but except the women of the environs of Vercelli, who had
a curious headgear of silver pins, the rest wore straw hats, not
white, large, and flowing like the Tuscans, but dark in hue
and heavy in texture, tied under the chin with some ill-assorted
ribbon. It was easy to see you were in a country
which had never produced any great painters.
To the men nature has been more bountiful. Though
fine features are, comparatively speaking, rare, tall, well-set
figures, a frank and manly bearing, might be encountered at
every turning. A Piedmontese can be told at once by his
open, brave, but not over-intellectual face, in which you
look in vain for the chiselled contour, the thoughtful brow,
and quick, restless eyes of central and southern Italy. It
was interesting at the Valentino to compare the different
Italian races, for every country in the Peninsula was there
represented. The political freedom enjoyed in Piedmont,
the exceeding liberality shown towards those who have
sought in it a refuge from the persecution of their own
Governments, have made it the resort of scores of thousands,
many of whom are now naturalized as Sardinian subjects.
Romans, Lombards, Neapolitans, Sicilians, have here all
found a home; and in their affection towards the land of
their adoption seem completely to have laid aside those
miserable international jealousies which have hitherto been
the bane of Italy. The evidences of the country's prosperity
arrayed before them, appeared as much a subject of congratulation
to the emigrati as to the natives, all former
rivalries being merged into the dominant feeling of satisfaction
that, in Sardinia at least, a centre of Italian civilization
had been preserved.
Regarded as the fruits of ten years' enlightened and
fostering administration, this exhibition was well entitled to
be classed as a national success. It is to Count Cavour, the
celebrated statesman at the head of the cabinet of Turin,
that this development is owing; ever since his entrance
into the ministry, in the autumn of 1850, he has laboured
indefatigably in promoting every department of industry,
commerce, and public works. Not many months before he
came into power, only seventeen kilomètres[21] of railway
were open to public traffic in the Sardinian States. At the
end of 1858, one thousand kilomètres were completed, besides
other lines in progress, the chief of which, that destined to
connect Savoy with Piedmont by piercing through Mont
Cenis, will be a wonder of the world. To appreciate the
activity of the Government, no less than the public spirit of
the population in submitting to the heavy taxation these
works entailed, it must be borne in mind that they have
been carried out by a State with only five millions of inhabitants,
already burthened with the expenses of the two disastrous
campaigns against the Austrians in 1848-49, and the
part it had been called upon to take in the Crimean war in
1855. The progress of the Piedmontese in machinery has
kept pace with the spread of their railroads. Formerly
entirely dependent upon England for steam-engines, the
lines which intersect the country are now traversed by
locomotives of native construction.
In all these pursuits, Count Cavour has met with little
support from the aristocracy, which has not yet reconciled
itself to the change from an absolute monarchy, under
which it monopolized every channel to power and distinction,
to a representative form of government, where absence
of title is no barrier to advancement. Except where fighting
is concerned, the Piedmontese noble systematically opposes
whatever Cavour proposes, and thinks it due to his
caste to throw as many impediments in the way of reform
as he can devise. The innovations of the day are mourned
over by fully three-fourths of the old families of Turin, as if
the precursors of the downfall of order and religion; the
subjects upon which the country at large feels most enthusiasm,
being precisely those regarded by these ultra-conservatives
with the greatest indifference or aversion.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Turin in 1858—Partisans of the old régime—The native Protestants—The
conservative party—Their hostility to Cavour—Clerical intolerance—The
fashionable promenade—Turinese characteristics—The
Piedmontese dialect—A marriage in high life.
The lover of strong contrasts would have enjoyed the
transition from a morning spent at the Valentino to an
evening at the Palazzo ——, the circles of which include
the most determined codini in the kingdom. The palace itself
would have been counted handsome even in a city more
rich in handsome palaces, and all the accessories were in
keeping; no slovenliness, no undemolished cobwebs, no
traditional crevices. In all this its owners were unconsciously
doing homage to the spirit of the age. A wide, well-kept
marble staircase, spacious vestibule and ante-rooms,
servants in liveries on which time had laid no hallowing
touch, and a suite of drawing-rooms, sparingly lighted on
account of the intense heat, but profusely furnished with
all the modern variety of couches, causeuses, arm-chairs,
rocking-chairs and divans, looking-glasses, nick-nacks,
cushions, flowers, everything you could wish for, except
books; of these I could not discover a trace.
In the last saloon were the guests, not formally invited,
but the usual frequenters of the marquise's weekly
reunions; a dozen or so of ladies, dressed in the height of
Parisian fashion, either talking French or Piedmontese (the
old régime set their faces perversely against Italian, which
the Government desires should be generally in use), and calling
each other incessantly by their titles, and a score of men,
all seemingly octogenarians. High in name and station,
this assemblage comprised the most conspicuous partisans
of the old system, and by their ceremoniousness of manner,
their profound courtesies and bows, carried me back, notwithstanding
the vast difference in the material accompaniments
of the scene, to the antiquated conversazioni of the patricians
of Ancona, in which I had yawned away so many hours.
The very way in which they greeted a bishop in violet
stockings was significant. Such reverence belongs not to
the present order of things. In point of animation, however,
if my reminiscences did not deceive me, I should give
the palm to the coteries of central Italy. The talk flowed
more genially, barren of subjects as they were, than among
these Turinese, with whom peevish regrets for the past,
bitter allusions to the present, and Cassandra-like forebodings,
furnished the staple of conversation.
Seated on the outskirts of a dreary semi-circle of élégantes,
some fragments of the discourse of a group surrounding the
bishop occasionally reached my ears. It related to the opening
of the Italian Waldensian or Valdese church in Genoa,
the erection of which they evidently considered an act of
sacrilege in the Government to have permitted. Of the four
native Protestant churches built within the last six years in
the Sardinian States (the others are at Turin, Nice, and
Pignerol), this has been the most fiercely opposed by the
clerical party. I had a specimen of the bitterness of their
feelings in the stories which were mingled with their invectives.
It was inexpressibly diverting to one who knew the
straitened circumstances of the Valdese pastors, and the
difficulties they had encountered in raising subscriptions for
the building of this church, to hear of the immense bribes
they employed to gain converts to their communion. Three,
four, nay five thousand francs was no uncommon largesse to
a hopeful catechumen![22] The circulation of Bibles was next
lamented as a national calamity; the burden of the whole
being that, through the impiety and atheistical toleration
of Cavour, the most sacred interests of religion were in
jeopardy.
It was the same amongst the women. After they had
discussed their children's health and perfections, for the
Piedmontese fine lady is a tender, anxious mother; the
tittle-tattle of which Turin, like all small capitals, has a
superabundant share; and the court news from Vienna and
Naples, as if, in the degeneracy of their own monarchy, the
houses of Hapsburg and Bourbon were alone worthy of
their attention,—no subject could be started which failed to
bring in the President of the Council as a mark for their
abuse. At one moment denounced as a socialist, the next
as a renegade; whatever went amiss, according to codino
ideas, was laid upon him. You heard the name of Count
de Cavour as often quoted in reference to his capacity for
evil, as that of the Marquis of Carabas, in “Puss in Boots,”
cited by the feline phenomenon as the holder of each fair
domain on which the king's eyes rested.
Availing myself of my privilege as a stranger, I sat more
as a looker-on than a participator in the scene, and tormented
my next neighbour, an acquaintance of some years'
standing, with inquiries as to the different notabilities who
were present. The good comtesse, knowing my inquisitive
tendencies of old, though not indeed the fatal propensity of
transferring my experiences into print, was obligingly communicative;
her information being, of course, tinged with
the sombre hue peculiar to her school of politics.
“That fine white head belongs to the Marquis Brignole.
He is the last representative of one of the oldest families in
Genoa, and for many years was ambassador from our court—ah,
we had a court then!—to that of France; but when
the constitution was established in 1848, he resigned his
post. He was then named one of the senate by the king,
but his principles did not suffer him to take the oath to a
form of government he disapproved. In 1855, however,
when that terrible Cavour brought in his bill for the suppression
of all religious orders,—”
“Except those devoted to preaching, education, and the
care of the sick,” I observed, parenthetically.
“Ah! bah! that was but an insignificant exception.
Where was I? Well, in such an emergency the marquis
surmounted his scruples, took his seat in the upper chamber,
and voted against the ministry. If his resistance was unavailing,
at least he had the satisfaction of raising a noble
protest in the church's behalf.”
“And that other old man, with the quick keen eye, who
is sitting on the bishop's right?”
“That is the pillar of our cause, Count Solaro della
Margherita. You have surely heard of him?”
Assuredly I had. Who that lives in Piedmont, or has
read anything of Italian contemporary history, is not familiar
with his name? For many years the absolute minister of
Charles Albert, and now head of the extreme right, as it is
termed, in the chamber of deputies, that small, very small
section of the national representatives, which only avails
itself of the privilege of sitting in parliament to endeavour
to overthrow the liberties secured to the kingdom by the
charter of 1848. Forty or fifty years hence the memoirs of
this statesman will reveal some curious secrets. Throughout
Italy he is, whether justly or not I do not pretend to
say, accused of having thwarted the late King Charles Albert
in every liberal design; and, strong in the support of
Austria and the Jesuits, to have retarded by some years the
reforms which that monarch had long been desirous of
introducing.
“The young abbé, comtesse, who has just come in, so
studied in his dress, his hair so glossy, surely he must be
Don Margotti?”
“Quite right. You doubtless know all about him?
Our literary champion. Yonder is his patron, the Marquis
Birago.”
Both were well known to me by reputation. The young
priest is editor of the “Armonia,” the chief organ of the
clericals,—for by this as well as the terms codini, obscurantists,
absolutists, and retrogrades, is that party equally
designated,—and author of a book against England, which
made a great deal of noise in Piedmont last winter. Its
title was “Roma e Londra;” its purport being to demonstrate
that, materially, intellectually, as well as spiritually,
the Papal States were far in advance of Great Britain.
The Marquis Birago, celebrated in his young days as a
diplomatist and gay man of the world, has devoted his latter
years to combating the spread of reform. The nominal
director of the “Armonia,” he has given up the ground-floor
of his palace at Turin to its printing-press and offices,
and out of his own income makes up the yearly deficit in
its finances; the very fact of there being a deficit at all
arguing ill for the state of the public mind, not in Piedmont
merely, but in the rest of the peninsula, where, of
all the Sardinian newspapers, the “Armonia,” and one or
two others of the same family, alone enjoy free circulation.
Besides all these claims to consideration, peculiar interest
just then attached itself to the marquis and his protégé.
Returned as deputies at the beginning of the winter, their
elections had recently been declared invalid on the ground
of religious intimidation exercised upon the voters by the
parish priest; and the result of a new canvass proving unfavourable,
nothing remained for them but to assume the
palm of political martyrdom.
“Talk of liberty, comtesse!” cried a very infirm old
general, whom I remembered having heard of as one of the
incapables in the first campaign of Lombardy, as, quite
excited from a conversation with the victims, he broke the
formal circle, and drew a chair in front of her: “talk of
liberty, why, M. de Cavour in this late affair has shown
himself a perfect despot—a despot without reason or conscience!
Who are to advise the common people to use their
rights, since they are forsooth to have them, except their
natural counsellors, their priests and spiritual directors?”
Not caring to argue whether the means employed on the
occasion referred to, such as refusal of the absolution and
the sacraments, did not exceed the limits usually supposed
to constitute advice, I asked whether M. de Cavour had, on
his sole authority, instituted this inquiry.
“Oh, of course there was the farce of a commission
appointed by the chamber, or rather by that majority which
is his tool, a majority of lawyers!—that despicable class
which of late years has invaded every department of the
State, and by their plausibility and intrigues are bidding
fair to sweep away all that our forefathers held honourable
or sacred. And then, as if lawyers of our own were not
curse enough, we have shoals of them among the political
refugees, admitted to the parliament, yes, even to the
ministry!”
“Ah, true,” sighed the comtesse, “we are in a sad position;
still we must not lose hope. Whenever I am unusually
depressed I go and see the Duchess de ——; she is
one in a thousand for constancy and courage. Do you remember,
general, her spirited conduct eight years ago, at
the time the Government had confined Monseigneur Franzoni,
the archbishop, in the citadel?”
For the information of those who may have forgotten
an occurrence which at the moment attracted all Europe's
attention, it is necessary briefly to mention that the archbishop's
offence consisted in peremptorily refusing the last
consolations of religion to the Cavaliere di Santa Rosa on
his death-bed, unless he solemnly retracted the share he had
borne, as one of the ministry, in the promulgation of some
ecclesiastical reforms. Not choosing to do violence to his
conscience, the dying man, though devoutly attached to the
observances of his church, expired, amidst the tears of his
wife and friends, without receiving the viaticum or extreme
unction. It was as a satisfaction to the popular indignation
at this act of clerical intolerance, as well as to vindicate
the authority of the Government, that the archbishop, after
undergoing a few weeks' imprisonment, was banished from
the country.
“What particular instance of the duchesse's spirit do
you allude to, comtesse?” asked the general. “I was in
Savoy at the time, and only heard the barren facts of the
outrage committed on the venerable prelate.”
“Her husband was then in the cabinet, and of course
implicated in this offence; but to show that she at least
had no participation in it, she ordered out the old family
coach with four horses, her footmen in their state liveries,
and drove to the citadel, taking the most frequented streets
on her way, to offer her sympathy and condolence to monseigneur.
There she is, madame, nearly opposite to us.”
I had scarcely taken a survey of this modern Griselda,[23]
when a stir was perceptible, a title was announced, and
everybody rose. The owner of a name which will be written
in history as having held a post in the reign of Victor
Emmanuel's predecessor, similar to that occupied in France
by a Belle Gabrielle, or a La Vallière, entered the saloon;
a tall and commanding figure, with more than the remains
of great beauty in her face. Until she took a seat, none
resumed theirs.
Queenlike she sat, and with queenlike affability greeted
those who advanced to speak to her, or addressed those on
either hand, and talked about charitable societies of which
she was the patroness with the bishop, and the last political
intelligence with the ex-ambassador; complimented the lady
of the house on the beauty of her children, and congratulated
the comtesse on an approaching marriage in her family,
graciously announcing her intention to call and see the
bride's corbeille.
It was not the fact of her being there which surprised
me, but the deference, the obsequiousness shown towards
her. Truly, as a specimen of the moral code of the strictest
circles, the most severely religious of the high society of
Turin, it was sufficiently diverting. But no one present
had a glimmering of this inconsistency.
“Believe me,” said the comtesse, as we parted soon
after, having made an appointment for the morrow to introduce
me to her niece, the bride elect, “believe me,
Madame de —— is full of rare qualities. You could not
wish for a better friend or adviser. Her own daughter is
one of the three model wives of Turin, and reflects the highest
credit on her training, which was simple, nay almost
austere; at the same time nothing could surpass her maternal
tenderness. I remember a sacrifice she made upon
herself for three years, in hopes of obtaining the blessing of
a grandchild. Passionately fond of ices, she resolutely abstained
from tasting a single one till her prayers were
heard!”
The next morning the comtesse and I devoted some time
to the mysteries of shopping before proceeding to her
sister's, whose daughter's wedding presents were to be displayed
to us. The arcades or portici which line the Strada
di Po, and the Piazza di Castello, a really magnificent
square, are the resort of all the fashionable idlers of both
sexes in Turin, and, lined on one side by handsome shops,
open on the other to the light and air, sheltered alike from
rain and sun, really form a very attractive promenade. As
the belles flit from magasin to magasin, undulating in a
maze of crinoline and flounces, they have the satisfaction of
knowing that they are passed in review by the loungers at
the cafés, as numerous under the arcades as in every other
part of the town; the most redoubted of these tribunals of
criticism and gossip being the Café Fiorio, frequented by
the cream of the aristocracy. Even the comtesse, who,
though not old, was singularly void of pretension, and quiet
in her deportment, thought it necessary to evince some
timidity at encountering this ordeal.
“When I am alone, madame, I always make a great
détour to avoid passing before Fiorio's. It is astonishing
what remarks are made by those messieurs, and what stories
they contrive to get hold of. When there is nothing else
to be said, they pull one's toilette to pieces, and are merciless
if everything is not perfectly fresh and in good taste.
I assure you the expense of dress now amongst us is
positively frightful; and those, like me, who have not a
large income, are almost compelled to renounce going much
into society, unless indeed they do as some I could point
out to you,—run up bills for twenty or thirty thousand
francs, which their husbands will eventually be compelled
to pay, at great sacrifice and inconvenience probably; for
we have not fortunes in Piedmont like your English nobility.”
“It is a pity that men by their fastidiousness contribute
to this extravagance.”
“Undoubtedly it is, but there is no reasoning on the
subject. A mad desire for spending seems to pervade all
ranks. Even in the bourgeoisie a taste for luxury and
elegance has of late exhibited itself which is appalling.
The wives of shopkeepers who, ten or fifteen years ago,
would have esteemed themselves happy with a simple cotton
print, a freshly-ironed cap, and a black silk apron, for
their Sunday costume, now sweep along the Rue du Po in
brocades of the value of three or four hundred francs, and
with feathers in their bonnets!”
“Still, comtesse, as the example comes from above, it is
not surprising it should find imitators.”
“Ah, chère, that is just one of the ideas of the day!
For my part, I cannot understand why difference of rank
should not be marked as it used to be by regulations as
to dress. We should see some curious transformations
then!”
By this time we had left the dreaded Fiorio's some way
behind, and coming upon another café of less dazzling
celebrity, the open doors and windows of which gave
pleasant glimpses of spacious saloons with gilded ceilings
and mirrors, crimson velvet sofas, and a profusion of little
circular marble tables, the comtesse proposed that we
should enter and refresh ourselves with an ice, Turin
etiquette not imposing the necessity of male escort on
such occasions.
Though the Anglo-Piedmontese Gallenga, rendered
fastidious by a quarter of a century's sojourn in England,
complains, in his recent work on his native country, of the
tawdriness and dirt of the Turin cafés, they were so superior,
in my humble scale of comparison, to those of the
other parts of Italy where I had resided, that I found
them most welcome and inviting. There was a luxurious
sense of repose in looking forth upon the fierce sunshine
on the Piazza di Castello through the softened twilight in
which we sat, discussing, for the moderate consideration of
twenty centimes each, two pyramidical masses of crême à
la vanille, while plants and flowers in the window-sills,
without impeding the view of the busy life without, screened
those within from the gaze of the passers-by. In such
an atmosphere the dolce far niente would have seemed
likely to predominate, but I noticed in the people as they
came and went, in the earnestness with which they read
the newspapers, the quick, short sentences in which they
commented to each other on their contents, even while
sipping the mixture of coffee and chocolate which is the
favourite beverage of the Turinese, a certain air of decision
and promptitude not elsewhere to be found in Italy. Men
of every grade were amongst them, from those pointed out
to me by the comtesse in a whisper as senators and
deputies, to some whose dress would have required no
sumptuary laws to define their position. I also observed
that Italian was almost universally spoken, the Piedmontese
patois comparatively rarely, French not at all. This was
an indication of the café's politics. By the persevering
use or rejection of the Italian language, political sentiments
in this country can be pretty well ascertained. The
ministry, bent on its general adoption, have caused it to
be substituted in the infant schools for the native dialect,
of all the dialects of the peninsula the most guttural and
the most mutilated, an innovation the wisdom of which it
requires thorough stiff-necked codino-ism not to recognise.
Instead of learning to read, as was formerly the case, in a
tongue only partially understood, for no books are, or used
to be, printed in Piedmontese, children are familiarized
with Italian as the preliminary step. In every department
over which its influence extends the Government shows
the same desire; the circulation of newspapers, the presence
of the emigrati, and the discussions in the chambers
powerfully assisting its endeavours, which have only failed
with the aristocracy. Hence Italian is much more spoken
by the middle than the higher classes in Turin.
But I have digressed, while, to finish my picture, it
must be added that there was less talking among the
visitors at the café than would have been possible in central
or southern Italy, and but little lounging. Though a few
appeared listless and unemployed, to the majority time was
evidently not a worthless commodity; even in the ten
minutes we passed there, some of the tables near us had
more than once changed occupants.
“Allons donc,” said the comtesse; “what shall we do
now? Stay, there is the jeweller's where I must execute
a commission for my sister, and then, if you please, we will
pay her our visit.”
At the shop we encountered a lady with whom I had a
slight acquaintance; one of the élégantes of Turin, of the
same political opinions, but of a more mundane turn of
mind than my companion. She was elaborately dressed in
visiting costume, and coming towards us with both hands
extended, told the comtesse she was selecting a souvenir for
her niece. Not to embarrass her choice, after a few complimentary
phrases, we removed to some distance, the aunt
not very graciously commenting on the announcement.
“A souvenir indeed! How I detest the indiscriminate
fashion of giving presents! It confounds friends of yesterday
with one's closest and dearest connections, and at last
is regarded as an odious tax. Just because Madame de
—— was my sister's compagne de loge last winter, when
they shared a box at the opera, she fancies this attention is
expected of her, or rather calculates it will give her éclat,
when all the gifts are shown, to be cited as one of the
donors. Look at her now, what open sleeves, and how
short! All to display her arms, she is so vain of them!
You may be sure she has been exhibiting them before
Fiorio's. I shall hear from my brother, who is generally
there. Do you not think them too stout?”
The approach of their owner here cut short any more
disparaging observations, and the house to which we were
bound being close at hand, we all proceeded thither very
lovingly together.
Just before we arrived I bethought myself that amidst
all the rejoicing over the approaching marriage, I had not
heard a single word with respect to the bridegroom's
mental or personal attractions, and guardedly ventured on
some inquiries concerning him.
“He is a very fine young man,” said the comtesse,
seemingly indifferent to what might have been thought no
inconsiderable adjunct to the favourable features of this
match; “just twenty-five. Thérèse is nineteen.”
Upon hearing this I hazarded the supposition that,
both being young and good-looking, they were in all probability
attached.
“He is certainly very much taken with Thérèse, and
she, as far of course as she can understand such feelings, is
greatly pleased with him. I hope it may turn out well,”
added the good lady dubiously, “but one always fears for
these marriages of affection.” A sentiment to which the
Marquise de ——, the fair one of the arms, adjusting her
bracelets, uttered so fervent a response, that I at once concluded
her to be a victim to this novel kind of misfortune.
The subject of these forebodings was waiting with her
mother to receive us, all smiles and ecstasy, and without
delay we were admitted to gaze on the glories of the
trousseau and corbeille, before they were exposed to the
general run of visitors. The trousseau, it is scarcely
necessary to state, comprises the bride's outfit in wearing
apparel, carried now-a-days in Piedmont to the most lavish
profusion, twelve dozen of each description of underclothing
not being considered anything out of the common way:
the corbeille is a general term for all the bridegroom's
presents, formerly enclosed in a basket of elegant workmanship
and decoration. In these days of change, however,
the genuine corbeille is replaced by an inlaid coffer,
or any other sort of expensive receptacle. An elaborately-ornamented
work-table had in this instance been chosen by
the bridegroom to contain his offerings.
Mademoiselle Thérèse stands by, radiant with joy and
pride, while her mother turns the key; and there, amid
satin and lace, repose two Cashmere shawls. One from
India; four thousand francs could scarcely have procured
it, the gay marquise hastily calculates. The other French,
but so beautiful a production that the most practised eye
could scarcely detect the difference. Ah, how lovely, how
enchanting! But see here, that garniture of Brussels
lace; flounces, the bridal veil, trimming for berthe!
What, a similar set in black Chantilly! Never, never has
she seen their equal. There are, besides, dozens and
dozens of gloves from Jouvin's, fans, and embroidered
handkerchiefs, some with the coronet of a marquise surmounting
the name of Thérèse, each letter a perfect study
of delicate flowery needle-craft; others with her family
arms united with those of the bridegroom on the same
escutcheon. What precision in the work, what exquisite
cambric! Who would not be married to gain such treasures?
“And the diamonds?” Even the comtesse grows excited
now, as the mamma calmly touches a spring, and the
casket flies open. It is the crowning stroke; few brides in
Turin can boast its equal. The diadem, the sprays for the
hair, the pendants, the necklace. Oh, how entrancingly
beautiful they are! The marquise devours them with
greedy eyes; the aunt, stifling a sigh at the thought that
she has no daughter to marry, mingled perhaps with a momentary
pang at the contrast to her own modest corbeille
fifteen years before, looks proud and gratified,—not the less
so because she has detected the emotion of the compagne
de loge, on whom, since the intimacy with her sister, she
bestows her intense aversion.
“But that is not all,” said the bride's mother, who,
though older than my comtesse, yet, as being handsomer
and much richer, still kept her place as a belle, “we have
a few trifles here besides.” And a set of pearls, a watch,
rich chain, and all sorts of those ornamental trifles called
breloques, were successively exhibited.
“And all this from your futur?” Thérèse smilingly
assents. “My child, you are indeed happy!” and the
marquise kisses her with warmth, mentally weighing the
chances of finding for her own daughter, when she comes
home from the convent where she is being educated, a
match equal in wealth or munificence.
“Then there are all the other pretty presents and
souvenirs,” and the mamma opens a cabinet of ivory and
ebony, from the drawers of which she produces an infinite
variety of morocco cases, some round, some long, some
oval-shaped. Bracelets, ah, what bracelets! Enamelled,
gem-encrusted, plain, arabesqued, inland, circles of emeralds
and pearls, gold and coral, diamonds and rubies.
Earrings too, and brooches to correspond. Crosses and
lockets: a perfect shopful of trinkets. It is the realization
of many a maiden's dream; surely of thine, Thérèse!
Every relation of the two families, almost every acquaintance,
was here represented; the ambition of not
being outdone in generosity on these occasions of almost
public display, leading many of the donors, as the comtesse
had truly said, and as I found confirmed by general opinion,
to regard as a heavy tribute to custom that which should
be the spontaneous offering of friendship. But a truce to
such reflections. The marquise has produced her present,
and a glittering bauble of some three hundred francs' value
is added to the young bride's collection.
Fortunate Thérèse! Her wedding dress is now brought
forward. Being summer time, white muslin has been selected
as the most appropriate material, but this is so richly
embroidered as to render it most costly. Her mother relates
with complacency that the dressmaker has just sent
her word that so magnificent a toilette de mariée has never
issued from her work-rooms. Thérèse drinks all this in
with silent rapture. What would it matter if she had to
marry the Beast in the fairy-tale, with the certainty he
could never turn into the Prince to boot, so long as all
these joys are hers? Of her future husband, except as the
appendage to their possession, she clearly never thinks,
never has been taught to think. For the results of a marriage
of affection such as this, the comtesse need have no
fears.
CHAPTER XXXV. — FOOTNOTES:
The House of Savoy—Its warlike princes—The Green Count—Prostration
of Piedmont—Persecution of the Vaudois—The Island of
Sardinia—Genoa added to Piedmont—The constitution of 1848—War
with Austria—Victor Emmanuel.
I shall not even take up one of the very few pages
left at my disposal by any descriptions of the royal palace,
the armoury, the churches, the houses of parliament, and
the various other sights of Turin; neither do I purpose
indulging in any further feminine gossip respecting its
domestic manners. I will rather close these sketches of
Italian life and contemporary history with a brief account
of the rise and development of the Sardinian monarchy,
which has proved the nucleus of Italian independence.
The founder of the House of Savoy, the oldest reigning
house in Europe, was Beroldo, a powerful vassal of the
King of Burgundy, who in the year 1000 was invested with
the fief of Maurienne, in Savoy, in the possession of which
he was succeeded by his eldest son, Umberto the White-handed;
so named, it is recorded, from the unspotted honour
and integrity of all his dealings.
It is good for a family, whether royal or otherwise, to
have the example of such an ancestor to emulate; and accordingly,
we find his successors, in an age when the code
of Chivalry embodied all the virtues deemed essential to
the well-being of society, proving themselves good knights
and true, and spreading the fame of their prowess far beyond
the narrow limits of their territories. By his marriage
with Adelaide of Susa, a powerful and gifted princess,
who brought as her dowry a considerable portion of the
most fertile parts of Piedmont, the Count Oddone, fourth
of his line, established a footing on the Italian side of the
Alps, which secured Turin, Susa, Pignerol, and the valleys
since so famous as the abode of the Waldenses, together
with the title of Marquis of Italy to his descendants.
Among the most warlike of these princes, we find
Amadeus III., who died in the Second Crusade, and
Amadeus V., celebrated as the deliverer of Rhodes; while
the names of two others are too singularly interwoven
with English history to pass unnoticed. Of these, the first
was the Comte Pierre, uncle by marriage to our Henry III.,
who frequently visited England, was loaded with favours,
and created Earl of Richmond by that monarch;—the Palace
of the Savoy being, moreover, expressly built for his
residence.
His son, Thomas I., enjoyed the same favour, which no
doubt contributed to increase the discontent expressed by the
English at their king's partiality for foreigners, and the expenses
he incurred in entertaining them. One of the flattering
distinctions paid to the Count of Savoy we should,
however, in this age consider no wasteful superfluity—the
streets of London, we are expressly told, having been swept
in honour of his arrival. Both these princes possessed a
great reputation for sagacity and moderation, especially the
Comte Pierre, who was chosen as arbitrator in a quarrel
between Henry and his prelates; and on another occasion
negotiated peace between France and England.
But the hero of the House of Savoy, on whose fame the
chronicles of the period love to dwell—whose daring and
achievements, too, would require the genius of a Scott to
have depicted—is Amadeus VI., commonly known as the
Comte Vert, one of the most renowned princes of the fourteenth
century.
He first displayed his address in arms at a solemn tournament
held at Chambéry, the capital of Savoy, when he was
but fourteen years of age, and presented himself in the lists
arrayed in green armour, surrounded by esquires and pages
similarly equipped. It was to commemorate his success on
this occasion, when he obtained the suffrages of the assembled
flower of European Chivalry, that Amadeus adopted
green as his especial colour, from which his surname of the
Comte Vert was derived.
The great event of this reign was the expedition in aid
of John Palæologus, Emperor of the East, who, being sorely
pressed by Amurath at the head of his fierce Ottomans,
implored the assistance of Christendom to prop his tottering
throne. His kinsman, the Count of Savoy, promptly
responded to this appeal; and causing a large fleet of galleys
to be fitted out at Venice, repaired thither, across Italy,
with a large force of knights, men-at-arms, archers, and
slingers. A contemporary writer relates how, the day of
departure having arrived, “the noble count, followed by his
princes and barons, walking two and two, attired in surcoats
of green velvet, richly embroidered, proceeded to the place
of embarkation. Bands of music, going before, filled the
air with harmony; while the people of Venice, thronging to
behold this goodly spectacle, broke forth into shouts of
'Savoia! Savoia!' amidst which, and prolonged flourishes
of trumpets, the Comte Vert put to sea, 1366 A.D.”
Gallipoli, a stronghold of the Turks, who thus closely
menaced the safety of the imperial capital, was the first
object of attack; and being carried by assault, the white
cross of Savoy was displayed upon its walls. From thence
proceeding to Constantinople, the count learned the disastrous
intelligence that the emperor was a prisoner in the
hands of the Bulgarians. Determined to effect his deliverance,
he at once passed the Bosphorus, entered the Black
Sea, and landed on the shores of Bulgaria. Mesembria was
taken by storm; and Varna, an opulent and strongly fortified
city, was obliged to capitulate. These rapid victories
compelled the enemy to sue for peace, of which the liberation
of the emperor was the first condition.
Returning in triumph to Constantinople with the
monarch whom his prowess had set free, Amadeus seems to
have experienced the proverbial thanklessness of the Palæologi;
for, as the chronicler pithily remarks, “it was reserved
for Italy, by her magnificent reception of the Comte Vert,
to atone to him for the ingratitude of the Greeks.”
A still more remarkable evidence of the estimation in
which Amadeus was held, is given by the fact of his being
elected, a few years later, to decide on the conflicting claims
of the rival republics of Genoa and Venice, between whom
many sovereign princes, even the supreme pontiff himself,
had ineffectually attempted to mediate. On an appointed
day, the envoys of the contending States appeared before the
Count of Savoy at Turin, and set forth their respective
grievances, which he duly weighed and pondered over; then
himself drawing up solemn articles of peace, they were
sworn to and signed in his presence.
In the reign following that of the renowned Green
Count, Nice, and a portion of the western shores of the
Mediterranean, became incorporated with Piedmont and
Savoy, by a nobler triumph than that of conquest, having
petitioned to be united to the dominions of the House of
Savoy, as a guarantee of just and paternal government.
The life of Amadeus VIII., who flourished contemporarily
with our Henry VI. and the disastrous Wars of the
Roses, is another romance, which in the days when that
style of composition was popular, would have furnished
materials for half a dozen historical novels. After considerably
extending his possessions in Piedmont, he received
from the Emperor Sigismund of Germany—which country
exercised a sort of suzerainship over Italy, that, with the
single exception of the kingdom of Sardinia, Austria
retained up till 1859—the title of Duke, in lieu of Count
of Savoy. Renowned for his wisdom, courage, and political
foresight, Amadeus, when still in the meridian of his glory,
abdicated, and with six of his former companions-in-arms
and trusty counsellors, retired to the hermitage of Ripaille,
near the lake of Geneva. The asceticism here practised
does not appear to have been very severe, since faire Ripaille
has passed into a proverb in Switzerland, to indicate good
cheer and easy living; but be this as it may, the duke was
some years afterwards summoned from his retirement, having
been elected pope under the title of Felix V.
For nearly a century following, the prosperity of the
duchy was overcast; feeble princes, alternating with feebler
regencies and their attendant evils, held the reins of
government, and Piedmont became the arena on which the
French and Imperialists contended. The Dukes of Savoy,
alternately forced into alliance with Francis I. of France
and the Emperor Charles V., the position of their territories
rendering it impossible for them to preserve neutrality,
lost equally from friend and foe. Far from being able to
follow up the cherished policy of their family, and as the
reward of their allegiance obtain “a few leaves of that artichoke
Lombardy,” to the possession of which they had ever
aspired, they saw themselves gradually stripped of their
ancestral dominions, till a single town in Piedmont was all
that remained in their hands.
The singular firmness and energy of character which
distinguishes these Highlanders of Italy, as they are termed,
seems but to have gained strength from these vicissitudes.
In the reign of Duke Emmanuel Philibert, “the Iron-headed,”
we find the House of Savoy restored to more than
its pristine lustre, and reinstated in its former possessions,
with the single exception of Geneva, which in the general
turmoil had succeeded in establishing its independence. At
a later period this prince, to strengthen his position in Italy,
exchanged with Henri Quatre, Bourg en Bresse, Val Romey,
and Bugey in Savoy, against the Marquisate of Saluzzo,
adjoining Pignerol, at the foot of the Alps. This province
had long been in possession of the French, and its transfer
to Piedmont, though purchased by a sacrifice as respected
extent of territory, was looked upon as a great step towards
national independence, and the adoption of a clearly-defined
Italian policy.
An evil phase in the history of Piedmont is the persecution
of the Waldenses or Vaudois. Established in their
sub-alpine valleys and fastnesses from a very remote period,
these sturdy champions of primitive Christianity were a
constant source of umbrage to the papal see, who incited
the princes of Savoy, as loyal servants of the Church, to extirpate
such foul heresy from their States. One of the most
terrible of the ruthless crusades to which they were subjected
was that in 1655, made familiar to most of us by
Milton's noble hymn, “Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughtered
saints,” and Cromwell's energetic remonstrance with the
court of Turin in their behalf. It was not till the end of
the seventeenth century that the sword of persecution was
finally sheathed, although considerable restrictions still continued
to be imposed upon the Vaudois, who were, nevertheless,
remarkable for their faithful allegiance to their
sovereign, and for their courage and hardihood as soldiers.
The constitution of 1848 finally secured them the right to
exercise their worship in any part of the Sardinian dominions;
and placed them on perfect equality with the Catholic
population. A Waldensian, Signor Malan, sits in the
Chamber of Deputies.
Little anticipating the tolerance their successors would
one day exhibit, the heresy, no less than the independence
of Geneva, was a grievous thorn in the flesh to the Dukes
of Savoy, who could not easily forego their former right to
its dominion; and in 1602, a formidable expedition was secretly
organized against it by Charles Emmanuel I., with
the concurrence of the courts of Rome, Paris, and Madrid.
Three hundred volunteers from the main body of the army
had actually, in the dead of the night, succeeded in scaling
the walls, when the premature explosion of a petard, designed
to force open the city-gates, gave the alarm. The inhabitants,
some hastily armed, others half-clad as they sprang
from their slumbers, rushed into the streets, and drove back
the invaders with great loss. Finding their retreat cut off
by the destruction of the ladders by which they had ascended,
the few survivors flung themselves from the ramparts
into the ditch, and carried the intelligence of their defeat
to the Duke of Savoy, who was advancing to reap the enjoyment
of the triumph he already deemed secure. The
Escalade, as it is termed, is justly celebrated in the annals
of Geneva, which, six months after, concluded a treaty with
Savoy, on terms as flattering to herself as they were mortifying
to the duke, who said in his last illness “that those
rebels of Geneva weighed like lead upon his stomach.”
The opening of the eighteenth century again beheld
Piedmont the theatre of bloody wars, in consequence of the
disputed succession to the crown of Spain. The duke
sided with the imperial party, which England also supported,
and saw his States overrun by the French, who for some
time held possession of Turin. The siege and recapture of
his capital—in which Victor Amadeus II. was aided by his
cousin, the celebrated Prince Eugene, Marlborough's colleague—was
the turning point in his fortunes. The latter
part of his reign was marked with signal prosperity. Invested
with the title of King of Sardinia, the island of that
name having been transferred from the possession of Spain,
and bestowed on him as some compensation for his losses
and sacrifices in the war, he devoted himself to the embellishment
of Turin, the formation of a standing army, and
the restoration of the finances of the State, leaving behind
him a reputation for indomitable energy and perseverance,
on which the historians of Piedmont dwell with pardonable
pride.
His successor steadily pursued his policy, and obtained
some part of the Milanese territory—a few more leaves of
the artichoke, towards which, like every enterprising prince
of his line, his political views were constantly directed.
The outbreak of the first French Revolution again
threatened the House of Savoy with destruction. Almost
simultaneously, in 1792, the territory of Nice, and the
whole of Savoy, were invaded, and occupied by the troops
of the Directory; a few years later, Piedmont was incorporated
into the French dominions, and Sardinia was all
that remained to Charles Emmanuel IV., who, in 1796,
succeeded to what he bitterly designated as “a veritable
crown of thorns.”
From this utter prostration, this dynasty, with that
singular rebound observable in its annals, was recalled in
1814 to its continental possessions, with the addition of
Genoa, who reluctantly saw herself degraded from her independent
position as a republic, to form part of a kingdom
which had long excited her jealousy and apprehension.
Between this period and 1848 the history of Piedmont
offers little of interest. The quiet development of its internal
resources, the accumulating wealth of its exchequer, the
minute care bestowed on its army, being less conspicuous
to a general observer, than the severity of its police, the
rigour with which all political freedom of speech or writing
was proscribed, and the especial protection which the
Jesuits enjoyed. As before remarked, the Sardinian Government
was looked upon as one of the most despotic of
Europe, and its king as the most priest-ridden of princes.
Even the example of Pius IX. did not at first produce
any perceptible results; and for more than a year after the
famous amnesty to the Romans not a change in the existing
system at Turin foreshadowed the coming reforms.
The year 1848 is memorable for Piedmont. At its
opening came the royal gift, the long yearned-for Constitution,
embodying alike the freedom of the press, religious
toleration, parliamentary institutions, a political amnesty,
the formation of the National Guard, and the removal of
numerous legal and administrative abuses.
Austria's suspicions were aroused, and she remonstrated.
But in vain. The time had come; the mask of
years was thrown aside, and Charles Albert stood forth the
avowed champion of Italian unity and independence. Three
men to whom Italy is under lasting obligations, Gioberti,
Count Balbo, and the Marquis Massimo d'Azeglio, by their
writings had introduced an unwonted unity of action and
moderation of aims amongst their countrymen. They
taught them to substitute for the republican theories,
which had been the bane of Italian patriots, those aspirations
for constitutional monarchy, and for deliverance from
the yoke of Austria, which in Charles Albert found their
impersonation and their instrument. Everywhere hailed
with enthusiasm as the appointed regenerator of Italy, the
fulfilment of the destinies of his house now seemed within
his grasp; and the poetical veneration he had always borne
to the memory of his ancestor the Green Count, whose
device, “J'attends mon astre,” he had long before adopted,
acquired greater force and significance.
At the invitation of the insurgent Milanese, he threw
down the gauntlet against Austria, and with his two gallant
sons, the Dukes of Savoy and Genoa, marched at the head
of his army into Lombardy. But he was not suffered to
reap where he had sown. To Charles Albert it was only
given to lay the foundation of the edifice his son is raising
to such loftiness. When, after two disastrous campaigns,
and witnessing the total overthrow of his forces on the
bloody field of Novara in March, 1849, he died in self-imposed
exile at Oporto, there was little in the aspect of
affairs in Piedmont to give grounds for sanguine previsions
for the future.
Dangers of no ordinary description hung over the kingdom
he had resigned; or, to speak more correctly, the institutions
he had inaugurated. The situation of the young
king might well be termed desperate. A victorious enemy
on his borders, a shattered army, an exhausted treasury, his
clergy and nobility disaffected to the new order of things;
to crown all, absolutism triumphant all over Italy, and the
certainty that Austria was only watching for a pretext for
a fresh invasion. It needed but for him to have annulled
his father's concessions, to propitiate a large number of his
subjects, disarm the hostility of his powerful neighbour and
her satellites, and possess himself of those privileges of
which his predecessor had stripped the crown. It will be
registered in the grateful hearts of millions yet unborn,
that Victor Emmanuel was proof alike to warnings, entreaties,
and blandishments. Through evil and good report,
kinglike and manfully did he uphold the constitution to
which he had sworn, till he met his reward in the wondrous
confidence and enthusiasm of which he is now the object.
It is not a sudden impulse, this love of the Italians for
Victor Emmanuel. On the contrary, when he mounted the
throne, so great was the universal hatred for kings, generated
by the perfidy of their own princes, that few reposed
belief in his assurances. It was only when he was seen
firmly contending with Rome against her encroachments
and intolerance; throwing open his States to the political
refugee without regard to his opinions, equally sheltering
constitutionalist or republican; unflinching in maintaining
the liberty of the press and the dignity of the country,
despite the menaces of Austria, and ever eager in promoting
national prosperity and enterprise; that the prejudice
against monarchy was overcome, and the Italians, from
Venice to Etna, bestowed upon him the surname of the
“Rè galantuomo.”
To the influence of Azeglio and Cavour, one or other of
whom has rarely been absent from his councils since his accession,
much is no doubt due; but while fully acknowledging
their obligations to the patriotism, courage, and intrepidity
of these ministers, as well as to the host of eminent men
they have gathered round them from all parts of the peninsula,
the Italians never forget to give the chief glory to
Victor Emmanuel. Without his stedfast adherence to the
Constitution, as to a trust bequeathed him by his father,
Italy would not now be looking forward to assuming her
place among the nations.
THE END.
1. The term Marches of Ancona (in Italian La Marca, or Le Marche)
is derived from Marchesato, or Marquisate.
2. The estimate here given is at the rate of five dollars to the pound
sterling, but it varies according to the exchange, which is sometimes
4s. 2d. to the dollar.
3. “Signorina” is not invariably used in Central and Southern
Italy in addressing a young lady, though she is always spoken of as
such. The Christian name, with the prefix of Signora, is often applied
in conversation.
4. Rossi is an abbreviation of Repubblicani rossi—red republicans.
5. Meaning literally a piece of antique furniture.
6. The tone now assumed by the British Government relative to
Italian affairs,—I mean since the liberal ministry came into office in
the summer of 1859,—gives great delight to all who hold progressive
opinions, and has regained England's prestige in the Peninsula.
7. As before remarked, the anger against the luke-warmness of
England, which was so general amongst Italian liberals, has given
way since the firm attitude she has assumed on the question of leaving
them free to choose their own form of government, unmolested by
foreign armed intervention.
8. La Cattolica, the boundary between the Romagne and the province
of Pesaro, is a small village, about ten miles to the south of
Rimini.
9. See the State Papers and Documents in the Marquis Gualterio's
Rivolgimenti Italiani, to which work, as full of research and reliable
information, I can conscientiously refer the reader.
10. Notification of Cardinal Bernetti, Secretary of State, April 2,
1831.
11. Note to Count de St Aulaire, French Ambassador at Rome,
Sept. 7, 1832.
12. I can only remember one, that of Monsignor de Medici Spada,
who relinquished the purple stockings for the hand of a beautiful
Pole; and yet my acquaintance with Italian ecclesiastics is very extensive.
13. Massimo d'Azeglio's letter of September, 1859.—What he says
of the Roman States was applicable to the whole of Italy. Proofs
have been discovered, in all the centres of agitation during the Revolution
of 1848, of the presence of Austro-Jesuit emissaries, foremost
in every seditious movement. At Milan, a certain Urbino, one of
Mazzini's most violent partisans, was conspicuous as the leader of the
rabble in the disgraceful opposition to the annexation of Lombardy to
Piedmont, and in the hostile demonstrations against the king, which
furnished plausible arguments to those who inveighed against the
fickleness and disunion of the Italians. He is now known to have
been all along a paid Austrian spy. In Tuscany, about the same
period, an individual of infamous reputation, the author of a number
of libels against Charles Albert, was clearly convicted of exciting
revolutionary tumults, and thrown into prison. But the Austrian
ambassador interfered promptly on his behalf (a proceeding the more
extraordinary as the man was a Piedmontese subject), procured his
liberation, sent him out of the country, and discharged all his debts.—Gualterio,
Le Riforme, Vol. I., p. 553, with documents, &c.
15. In 1262, the number of students congregated in Bologna
amounted to 10,000. It was the first medical school where dissection
of the human body was practised; and claims the discovery of Galvanism.
16. So calmly did they anticipate this dénouement, that they provided
themselves with an appropriate token of gratitude to their future
deliverer. The ring with the inscription, “From the exiles of Ancona,”
which they presented to the excellent and gallant Captain Nicholas
Vansittart, of H.M.S. Frolic, on their taking leave of him at Corfu,
had been made beforehand by a jeweller in Ancona.
17. The people nicknamed him Cardinal Oudinot, a pleasantry
which stung him to the quick.
18. 18th June. This city had also declared for the protectorate of
Victor Emmanuel, and a participation in the war of independence.
19. The possession of revolutionary emblems, such as tri-coloured
cockades, scarfs, &c., was punishable, or rather is punishable, with
from three to five years in the galleys. Private families were enjoined,
under a penalty of ten dollars for the first offence, to report to the
police the arrival of any guest from abroad (the nearest town was
comprised in this designation), with a statement of his purpose in coming,
his station in life, &c.
20. I am acquainted with a large landed proprietor in the Marche,
who, debarred by peculiar circumstances from taking an open part in
the liberal movement, passed his time last summer in assisting the
flight of the Anconitan refugees. He told me the number who had
been forced to expatriate themselves was immense, and yet many are
in prison.
21. The kilomètre is about two-thirds of an English mile.
22. Apropos of this, I cannot help citing the witticism of a Genoese,
not a convert, more just than flattering to his townspeople. “I do
not believe these charges of bribery,” he said, “not from partiality to
the Valdese, but because, if they paid people for going to their church,
half Genoa would be with them.”
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Transcriber's Notes
Original spelling and punctuation have been preserved as much as possible. Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.
