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Discovering Diverse Content Through
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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
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