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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,
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