Chapter i.
It was the last day of carnival, which is the most noisy festival of the
year, when a fever of joy, a mania of amusement, unparalleled in any
other country, seized the Roman people. Everybody is disguised; hardly
does there remain at the windows, an unmasked spectator: the scene of
gaiety commences at a given hour on a certain day, and scarcely ever
does any public or private event of the year hinder any person from
joining the sports of the season.
It is then that we can form a judgment of the extent of imagination
possessed by the common people. The Italian language, even in their
mouths, is full of charm. Alfieri said that he went to the public market
at Florence to learn to speak good Italian,--Rome has the same
advantages: and perhaps these are the only two cities in the world where
the people speak so well that the mind may receive entertainment at
every corner of the street.
That kind of humour which shines in the authors of harlequinades and
opera-buffa, is very commonly found even among men without education. In
these days of carnival, when extravagance and caricature are admitted,
the most comic scenes take place between the masks.
Often a burlesque gravity is contrasted with the vivacity of the
Italians; and one would say that these fantastic vestments inspired a
dignity in the wearers, not natural to them; at other times, they
manifest such a singular knowledge of mythology in their disguises, that
we would be inclined to believe the ancient fables still popular in
Rome; and more frequently they ridicule different gradations of society
with a pleasantry full of force and originality. The nation appears a
thousand times more distinguished in its sports than in its history. The
Italian language yields to every shade of gaiety with a facility which
only requires a light inflection of the voice and a little difference of
termination in order to increase or diminish, ennoble or travesty, the
sense of words. It is particularly graceful in the mouth of
children[28]. The innocence of this age and the natural malice of the
language, form an exquisite contrast. In truth, it may be said, that it
is a language which explains itself without any aid and always appears
more intellectual than he who speaks it.
There is neither luxury nor good taste in the feast of carnival; a kind
of universal petulance makes it resemble the bacchanals of the
imagination; but in imagination only is this resemblance, for the Romans
are in general very sober, and except the last day of carnival,
tolerably serious. We often make sudden discoveries of every sort in the
character of the Italians, and this is what contributes to give them the
reputation of being subtle and crafty.--There is, undoubtedly, a strong
habit of dissimulation in this country, which has supported so many
different yokes; but it is not to dissimulation that we must always
attribute the rapid transition from one manner of being to another. An
inflammable imagination is often the cause of it. The character of a
people who are only rational or witty, may be easily understood and will
not suddenly surprise us, but all that belongs to the imagination is
unexpected. It leaps over intermediate barriers, it is often hurt at
nothing, and frequently indifferent to that which ought most to affect
it. In fact, it is a law unto itself, and we can never calculate its
impressions from their causes.
For example, we cannot comprehend what amusement the Roman nobility find
in riding in their carriages from one end of the _corso_ to the other
for whole hours together, as well during the carnival as on the other
days of the year. Nothing ever diverts them from this custom. There are
also among the masks, men who saunter about with every appearance of
weariness, in the most ridiculous costume imaginable, and
who--melancholy harlequins and silent punchinellos,--do not say a word
the whole evening, but appear, if it may be so expressed, to have
satisfied their carnival conscience by having neglected nothing to be
merry.
We find at Rome a certain species of mask which is not seen elsewhere:
masks formed after the figures of the ancient statues, and which at a
distance imitate the most perfect beauty--the women often lose greatly
by removing them. But nevertheless this motionless imitation of life,
these stalking wax countenances, however pretty they may be, have
something terrifying in them. The great nobles make a tolerably grand
display of carriages on the last days of the carnival; but the pleasure
of this festival is the crowd and the confusion: it seems like a relic
of the _Saturnalia_; every class in Rome is mixed together. The most
grave magistrates ride with official dignity in the midst of the masks;
every window is decorated. The whole town is in the streets: it is truly
a popular festival. The pleasure of the people consists neither in the
shows nor the feasts that are given them, nor the magnificence they
witness. They commit no excess either in drinking or eating: their
recreation is to be set at liberty, and to find themselves among the
nobility, who on their side are pleased at being among the people. It is
especially the refinement and delicacy of amusements as well as the
perfection of education, that places a barrier between different classes
of people. But in Italy this distinction of rank is not very sensible;
the country is more characterised by the natural talent and imagination
of all, than by the extraordinary cultivation of the upper classes.
There is therefore, pending carnival, a complete confusion of ranks, of
manners, and of sentiments: the crowd, the cries, the wit, and the
comfits with which they inundate without distinction the carriages as
they pass along, confound every mortal together and set the nation
pell-mell, as if social order no longer existed.
Corinne and Lord Nelville, both buried in thought, arrived in the midst
of this tumult. They were at first almost stunned; for nothing appears
more singular than this activity of noisy pleasures, when the soul is
entirely absorbed in itself. They stopped at the Piazza del Popolo to
ascend the amphitheatre near the obelisk, whence is seen the race
course. At the moment they got out of their calash, the Count d'Erfeuil
perceived them and took Oswald aside to speak to him.
"It is not right," said he, "to show yourself in this public manner,
arriving from the country alone with Corinne; you will compromise her
character, then what will you do?" "I do not think," answered Nelville,
"that I compromise the character of Corinne by showing the attachment
she inspires me with. But even were that true, I should be too happy if
the devotion of my life--" "As to your being happy," interrupted the
Count, "I do not believe it;" people can only be happy in acting
becomingly. Society, think as you may, has much influence "upon our
happiness, and we should never do what it disapproves."--"We should then
never be guided by our own thoughts and our own feelings, but live
entirely for society," replied Oswald. "If it be so, if we are
constantly to imitate one another, to what purpose was a soul and an
understanding given to each? Providence might have spared this
superfluity."--"That is very well said," replied the Count, "very
philosophically thought; but people ruin themselves by these kind of
maxims, and when love is gone, the censure of opinion remains. I, who
appear to possess levity, would never do any thing to draw upon me the
disapprobation of the world. We may indulge in trifling liberties, in
agreeable pleasantries which announce an independent manner of thinking,
provided we do not carry it into action; for when it becomes serious--"
"But the serious consequences are love and happiness," answered Lord
Nelville.--"No, no;" interrupted the Count d'Erfeuil, "that is not what
I wish to say; there are certain established rules of propriety, which
one must not brave, on pain of passing for an eccentric man, a man--in
fact, you understand me--for a man who is not like others."--Lord
Nelville smiled, and without being in the least vexed; for he was by no
means pained with these remarks; he rallied the Count upon his frivolous
severity; he felt with secret satisfaction that for the first time, on a
subject which caused him so much emotion, the Count did not possess the
least influence over him. Corinne, at a distance, conjectured what was
passing; but the smile of Nelville restored tranquillity to her heart,
and this conversation of the Count d'Erfeuil, far from embarrassing
Oswald or his fair companion, only inspired them with a temper of mind
more in harmony with the scene before them.
The horse-racing was about to begin. Lord Nelville expected to see
races like those of England; but what was his surprise, when informed
that only little Barbary horses without riders were to run against each
other. This sight excites the attention of the Romans in a singular
manner. The moment it is about to commence, all the crowd arrange
themselves on each side of the way. The Piazza del Popolo, which was
covered with people, is empty in a moment. Each one ascends the
amphitheatres which surround the obelisk, and innumerable multitudes of
heads and dark eyes are turned towards the barrier from which the horses
are to start.
They arrive without bridle or saddle, with merely a rich cloth thrown
over their backs, and led by extremely well-dressed grooms, who take a
most passionate interest in their success. The horses are placed behind
the barrier and their ardour to clear it is extreme. At every moment
they are held back; they prance, they neigh, they clatter with their
feet, as if they were impatient of a glory which they are about to
obtain themselves without the guidance of man. This impatience of the
horses and the shouts of the grooms at the moment when the barrier
falls, produce a fine dramatic effect. The horses start, the grooms cry
"Stand back! Stand back!" with inexpressible transport. They accompany
the horses with their voice and gestures till they are out of sight. The
horses seem inspired with the same emulation as men. The pavement
sparkles beneath their feet; their manes fly in the air, and their
desire, thus left to their own efforts, of winning the prize is such,
that there have been some who, on arriving at the goal, have died from
the swiftness with which they have run. It is astonishing to see these
freed horses thus animated with personal passions; it almost induces a
belief that thought exists beneath this animal form. The crowd break
their ranks when the horses are gone by, and follow them in disorder.
They reach the Venetian palace which serves for the goal. Never was
anything like the cries of the grooms whose horses are victors. He who
had gained the first prize, threw himself on his knees before his
horse[29], and thanked him, recommending him to the protection of St
Anthony, the patron of animals, with an enthusiasm as serious as it was
comic to the spectators.
It is generally the close of day when the races finish. Then commences
another kind of amusement, much less picturesque, but also very noisy.
The windows are illuminated. The guards abandon their post to mix in the
general joy[30]. Each one then takes a little torch called a _moccolo_,
and they seek mutually to extinguish each other's light, repeating the
word _ammazzare_ (kill) with a formidable vivacity. _Che la Bella
Principessa sia ammazata! Che il signore abbate sia ammazata!_ (Let the
fair princess be killed, let the abbot be killed!) is shouted from one
end of the street to the other. The crowd, become emboldened, because at
this hour horses and carriages are forbidden, hurl themselves in all
directions. At length there is no other pleasure than that of tumult and
disorder. In the meantime night advances, the noise ceases by degrees--a
profound silence succeeds, and there only remains of this evening the
confused idea of a dream, in which the people had forgotten for a moment
their labour, the learned their studies, and the nobility their
idleness.