A FEUDAL VILLA
Ancient Beauty of Villa Borghese—A Sylvan Siesta—The Woodland of
the Borghese—The Heart of the Trees—The Borghese Anemone—Vintage
Time in the Grape Countries—Tuscany, an Atmosphere of Purity and
Calm—Bunches of Grapes Two Feet Long—Muscatels of Etruria—October
Festivals at the Villa Borghese—Peasants of the Coast
Towns—Picturesque Costume of the Albanese—Feast in the Private
Garden—Fountains of Wine—Classic Chariot Races—The Passing of the
Feudal System.
The recollection of the artists’ festival brings to my mind some
festivals of other times, remembered by very few persons now alive.
Next to those connected with the great religious anniversaries,
the ones most appreciated by the Romans were, I think, the lavish
entertainments given by Prince Borghese in his villa to celebrate the
vintage, in October. The Villa Borghese, as every one knows, is a great
pleasure park just outside the Porta del Popolo, but those who see it
as it is now, exploited for the most vulgar commercial ends, and at the
same time sadly neglected, can scarcely form an idea of its original
plan and ancient beauty. Even in earlier days the fashionable crowd
that drove there in the afternoon knew nothing of the remote dells and
glades that lay lost in the great masses of woodland, of the meadows
that spread beyond the woods, of statues and fountains shrined in
the green and sequestered places that one might pass near a hundred
times without becoming aware of their existence. It was one of the
playgrounds of my babyhood, but even after I was grown up I sometimes
made new discoveries there.
In the very dawn of my recollections there is the memory of one
of childhood’s long, long springs—when the days are all blue and
silver overhead, and golden haze in the distance, and live emerald
underfoot—when my old Maria used to convey me in the morning all
the way from Villa Negroni on the Esquiline to Villa Borghese at
Porta del Popolo, there to play in the grass till the sun began to
sink towards St. Peter’s. I was three years old, and there was as
yet no all-important baby brother to whose existence my own was to
be subordinated a year later. Nobody had yet started to train and
discipline me, and each sun that rose shone through just so many hours
of Paradise. To Maria I was sun and moon, and if I was happy she was
happy, but there was one occupation that kept her busy hour after hour
in the distant villa, while I rolled on the grass—the picking of wild
chicory for her supper salad. I can see her now, bent double, her
good-natured dark face quite flushed with excitement as she pounced
on the tender shoots that cropped up everywhere through the turf, till
the red handkerchief in which she tied them up would hold no more, and
she would slip it over her wrist, pick me up in her arms, and climb
the tiers of the amphitheatre to reach our favourite luncheon room, a
clear bubbling fountain in the avenue of ilex trees which crowned the
ridge behind it. Here, close to the fountain, we had our midday meal,
with the birds singing overhead and the wind dancing through the ilexes
so that the ground was all a moving arabesque of sun and shade—the
sweet fragrant ground that I could dig my fingers into to bring up
handfuls of the gem-like ilex acorns that I loved so much. When the
meal was over and my little silver mug had dipped up a drink for me
from the fountain, I used to fall asleep in Maria’s arms to her queer
lullabies—“Fringa, fringa!” or “Io vorrei ché alla luna ci s’andasse
in carretella per védé le donne di lassù!” It always seemed to me that
I woke up when she stopped singing, and I could not understand why
Maria, with her head against a tree-trunk, was snoring happily and had
to be waked up herself. But our sylvan siesta had lasted an hour or
two; the sun was no longer overhead, but streaming in floods of level
gold through all the lower branches, turning the turf and moss into
live velvet, and flushing the statues’ pale cheeks to a semblance of
life. Then, with many a halt for gathering anemones and violets, and
some running away on my part to hide in the intricacies of the marble
grottoes which burrow behind the rococo temple fountain at the first
parting of the great avenue, we wandered towards the entrance, avoiding
the avenue itself and threading our way through the little woods, till
we came out by “Napoleon’s Tomb”—the exact copy of the original one
at St. Helena, weeping willow and all—till the great iron gates came
in sight, and we had to re-enter the city again. Sometimes Maria was
instructed to bring me back to Nazzarri’s, in the Piazza di Spagna, in
the middle of the day, for a solid meal; and then, scorning the “filet”
which dear old Madame Nazzarri had had specially cooked for me, I used
to persuade Maria to “trade” it for her own lunch, which I liked much
better—“pane sott’ olio,” pieces of coarse casareccio bread sliced up
in oil and vinegar, a favourite dish among the poorer classes to this
day. Of course these little vagaries were most reprehensible and were
never referred to at home—Maria’s conscience concerning itself with
one thing only—my three-year-old will and pleasure! I believe she had a
husband and son somewhere, and I know her old age was cosily cared for
in the country, whence she used to come at intervals long after I was
grown up, with a basket of “ciambelle” in one hand and a huge bunch of
pink roses in the other.
I started to speak of the villa and not of myself, but it was one of
those places so inextricably entwined with the web of my own life that
I cannot even now set it apart from personal associations and memories.
I think it must have been there that I first made friends with trees—as
trees. In our enchanted garden on the Esquiline we had cypresses—the
most perfect in all Italy—orange trees and ilexes, and one or two
flowering junipers, but no shade trees or bits of woodland like those
in the Borghese, where the ancient oaks and chestnuts and beeches meet
high overhead along avenues so extensive that to make the round twice
in an afternoon was as much as most people ever did. As one drove
through those avenues one looked down on the unexplored and ever varied
fields and woods within the circle, and, whether in winter or summer,
at morning or at evening, one could always catch some new and lovely
aspect of light and shade; it might be of mossed foliage, all bronze
and velvet, thinning off into a copse of saplings unfurling their veil
of feathery green in some breath of wind that left the giants calm and
unruffled; or it might be a screen of bare tracery rising from some
ridge, in cool, neutral tints into the chastened blue of an autumn
sky; or again the fervid umber of slender trunks and branches cast up
against the pale lemon and chrysoprase of a winter sunset; the blessed
trees sounded every note, clothed themselves in every tint that human
love and passion know, from the fresh unconscious caress of childhood
to the pomegranate outburst of first love—and on to the gathered
changeless riches of the heart’s maturity—beyond which there lies
nothing but dissolution and re-birth. I cannot explain these things;
those who know them as I do admit the mystic relationship of some of
us to the trees; they can suffer, as I do, when murderers slay them
ruthlessly, can kneel beside the fallen monarch and touch his pitiful
wounds, and murmur all our love and veneration to the great heart that
never will feel the sap leap and surge again. One poet said it for us
all, when he wept in the woods before dawn and cried:
“Great man-bodied tree,
That mine arms in the dark are embracing,
What magic of sympathy lies
Between dear over-beautiful trees and the rain of the eyes?”
It was in the Villa Borghese, driving round and round during the balmy
afternoons of the spring before I was married, that my mother and I
read William Morris’s “Jason” aloud to each other, and never did a
perfect poem have a more perfect setting. Where the lie of the land
mounts a little towards the Pincio side of the Borghese, four avenues
converge on a circle, in the centre of which is one of those broad
lake fountains only to be seen in Rome, marble-rimmed and guarded by
a group of marble sea-horses rearing and pawing round the tall shaft
of water that bursts up from their midst. The carriage way is broad
around the fountain, for here all the vehicles must pass, and the Roman
world of my day prided itself on its shining equipages and thoroughbred
horses. But all its pomp and brilliancy pales, at a certain moment of
the spring, before the pink forest of juniper trees that thrust their
thick-set branches out, from the darker foliage behind, to smother the
marble seats below them in one enormous wreath of rose-coloured bloom,
a carnival of loveliness only to be matched by the cherry blossoms in
Japan. Here we used to leave the carriage and make our way into the
vast enclosures of meadow under the stone-pines, where the wild anemone
hid all the grass under a mantle of vivid pink. The Borghese anemone
was a real wild thing, very like the English wind-flower that shimmers
all along the landslip and the undercliff where the spring tides are
flinging the Channel surf in thunder against the cliffs of the Isle
of Wight. Only the English wind-flower is pale and fragile, white or
lavender for choice, and the Roman one is of a flaunting purple-pink,
with a strong stem the colour of brown madder—as is fitting for a
self-respecting flower sprung from a soil that has been steeped in sun
and soaked in blood. And it has this peculiarity, unique, so far as I
know, among wild flowers, that if you bring it home, in handfuls, as
we used to do, and set it in water overnight, it will have grown many
inches by the morning, every stalk stiff and proud, as if saying: “You
thought I belonged in the fields, didn’t you? No, indeed, _my_ place is
in a palace!”
Very different is the anemone of Villa Doria, far away across the city,
on the Janiculum. It too nestles beneath the stone-pines, in the fine
short grass, but it is a patrician bloom, each flower perfect, with
broad polished petals of pure ivory or vivid scarlet or monsignore
purple, diverging from a heart as black as jet. It is chary of growth
and keeps close to the ground, and you must tread delicately or you
will crush some yet unopened buds. It meant a good deal to some of
us—I wonder if the others remember? One did. Far away in China, just
before my eldest boy was born, there blew to me across the world a
film of Honiton lace, and when I spread it out, there was a garland of
Villa Doria anemones worked in the red West Country that is the Italy
of England, and sent as a greeting by a comrade of the vanished Roman
days. Why don’t we all die when we are young and sweet and true?
But to return—(for the —th time?)—to my very much strayed sheep—the
old October entertainments in the Villa Borghese. Those who have not
lived in them would find it hard to understand what that month means to
the children of the grape countries. It is the very crown of the year
in Romagna, indeed all over Italy. The heats of summer, the stifling
languors of scirocco, are over and gone; the air is divinely cool and
bright, and everything sparkles in a sun that warms but no longer
scorches; the wind comes dancing over the mountains, like a song,
rustling the trees and shaking little showers of bronzed leaves down on
one’s head. In the vineyards the vines were stripped of most of their
leaves in August to let the grapes bake in the sun till their hearts
are like syrup in the black tight-drawn skins. Now, if the year is a
good one, the rain came after the Feast of the Assumption to soften and
swell the purple covering to all but bursting point, and the few leaves
that hang on the vines have turned scarlet and yellow, so that they
look like huge gaudy butterflies hovering round the long pear-shaped
clusters of fruit. The strong wilful “ceps” is like fretted gold in the
sunshine; every bunch that is brought to one’s table must be of perfect
shape and have two or three inches of that corrugated stem to carry
it by and two leaves at its head for wings; but by the first day of
October the mere cutting for market is over, and the real business of
the vintage begins, when the great wains go lumbering down the alleys
of the vineyard, drawn by meek white oxen who move slowly but plunge
into the rich loose soil up to the fetlock at every step.
The vintners creep through the vine-rows, clipping, clipping with their
clumsy shears, and tossing the fruit into the osier baskets strapped
on their backs, while they sing the strange old songs that have been
sung at the vintage since the days of Servius Tullius; the women’s
white head-coverings and dark blue skirts and scarlet bodices blaze out
against the gold and green of the vine-rows, and as they carry their
baskets—on their heads, after immemorial custom—to the man waiting
on the wagon, they move with smooth, stately steps, like caryatides
released from the marble. Towards midday the first wagons are full and
go trailing up to the wine press near the house; the “treaders,” the
strongest of the young men, have been sitting on the stone bench in the
shade, for their work is all before them and they have to keep limbs
and garments clean. Now the wagon is drawn close to the vat, and the
vintagers, working like demons, toss in a ton or two of grapes till the
huge receptacle is piled high above its edges with a mountain of purple
fruit. A ladder is set against it and the treader scrambles up, his
bared limbs gleaming like copper in the sun, and the next instant he is
a young Dionysus, leaping and dancing on that piled sweetness, chanting
the song to which his feet keep time, while the rosy froth streams from
the opening below into a second vat that ere long becomes a lake of
dimpling crimson must, whose heady fragrance floats out intoxicatingly
on the October air. Ah, the good days! It would indeed have been a poor
heart that could not rejoice in them!
More than once it was my good fortune to watch this almost sacred
process in the villa where I happened to be spending the summer, and,
though I am jealous for the glories of Romagna, I must admit that it is
far more picturesque and attractive in Tuscany. The whole atmosphere
there is imbued with a purity and calm unknown to the perfervid
rollicking South; the hills are the hills of Umbria—of Perugino’s and
Francia’s backgrounds, pale and clear, rounding into little knolls
that are more silvery than golden when the sun kisses side or summit;
the mulberry and the acacia and the olive throw fans of timid tracery
against the elusive sky; where the olive rustles to silver in the
breeze a thousand shades of grey delight the eye, and on every ridge
the sparse spires of the Tuscan cypresses, so feathery slender that
the tapering points are fragile as a fern’s fronds, delimit the view
in lines of dark delicacy most restfully symmetrical and definite.
All is ascetic, yet tender, save where, far off on the plain, the low
red wall of a city lies like a sword across the land. In the distance
Umbria, with its clean, pale landscapes, so significant and lucent
under the quivering dome of white, seems less of earth than Heaven,
almost breathlessly impersonal, a country more for angels than for men;
but nearer at hand she smiles at you, like some saint turning from the
ravishments of contemplation to encourage a fellow-being whose vision
is not clarified to behold what she has seen.
If you stand where I used to stand, on the terraced eminence of a
Tuscan “podere,” you find yourself at the apex of a net of deep and
wide grassways, diverging from you in every direction till the lines
are lost in a froth of greenery, trained along avenues of mulberry
trees that humbly support the airy garlands twenty and thirty feet
from the ground. The trees are set with perfect regularity, but wide
apart, and the grapevines fling themselves from one to another in
sweeping curves that are a joy to see. In Romagna the vineyard has
little beauty of its own, for the modern cultivator keeps his grapes
within a few feet of the ground; often he pulls them up every year,
stores them carefully, and replaces them in the spring. But further
north the stocky stem is encouraged to grow and harden for all time;
time bestows upon it the proportions and ruggedness of a tree; and the
fruit, gloriously confident of its parent, throws out bunches sometimes
two feet long; of incomparable fulness and flavour. Around Chiusi,
in the heart of Etruria, the grapes are all muscatels, big globes of
pale green jade, freckled with agate, and the perfume they distill is
that of the white Roman rose—a fragrance indescribably exquisite, and
individual to that fruit and that flower alone. In my girlhood there
were times when I was not very strong; life was almost too full, and
I had to rest from it sometimes. Then my angel mother would make me
lie down in her favourite room, the one where the walls were rose
and old-gold, and the ceiling a vault of mother-of-pearl seen through
Tuscan grapevines, and she would set a bunch of those white roses and
a tiny Venetian goblet of amber-coloured “Est-Est” beside me, and leave
me alone for hours, while the fountain played in the courtyard and the
Roman dusk came down and made shadows in the room. Then I used to close
my eyes and play a little game, trying to find out which was rose and
which was wine—and fall asleep before the point was decided—to dream
that I was angel or butterfly—all wings, anyway, free in a world where
language was scent and music. Spoiling? Surely. But it was training,
in a way. Why not develop all the senses that can help us in the long,
long march of life?
There was nothing languorous in the Tuscan airs. Even in the hottest
hour of summer one was eager, interested, glad to move about; and
when early autumn brought the vintage, life simply bubbled in one’s
veins. I could stand all day watching the oxen crawling up those grassy
roads between the trellised vines, with the splendid loads of grapes,
or hover near the vats where the white-clad youths, who looked like
Carpaccio’s pages, danced and leapt as they trod the wine-press. We had
to come away before the vintage was over, so as not to miss too much of
the October loveliness at home, but the grapes followed us all the way.
There was one station—that of Chiusi, I think—where the “ristorante”
consisted of a little hand-cart with a high rail all around the sides;
the rail was hung with hundreds of bunches of those scented, freckled
grapes—two sous a bunch, if you please—and the vendor pushed it up and
down the platform close to the carriage windows. It was a hot day, and
never was fruit more welcome!
In the “spacious days” of the earlier part of the century the
Borghese family, being, though not the most ancient, the wealthiest
in Rome, used to mark the crown of the year by giving in their villa
certain entertainments, intended chiefly for their own tenants, but
the hospitality of which was extended to the entire population. The
princely lavishness of these festivities resembled nothing that I have
ever heard of in modern times; it recalled indeed the days of Roman
Emperors whose only claim to the throne rested on their popularity
with the people. On the Sundays of October the villa was thrown open at
sunrise, and from all the “castelli” of the Sabine and Alban Hills, and
from the sea-coast too, the peasants, who had been watching all night
(and in some cases all the previous day), having heard Mass, trooped in
with their wives and families, to eat and drink and enjoy themselves.
Those were the times when every district had its distinctive costume,
and the dazzling effects of colour were such as we shall never see
again. The coast towns are very Greek, and the dress of the Nettuno and
Fano women is almost Greek still—a clinging skirt and close-fitting
coatlet of vivid scarlet, the tint that makes the eyes swim and
wince—imparted, by secrets of their own, to a cloth of such velvety
purity and softness that it lasts through three and four generations,
and cost them (it is probably unobtainable now) five dollars the
“palmo” of ten inches—half a dollar an inch. The hair was worn in two
long braids hanging down the back from under a small cap of the same
cloth, set rather far back on the head, and cap and bodice and skirt
were stiff with gold embroidery. The effect was magnificent.
Very different was the dress of the Albanese, with which, in a modified
form, most travellers are familiar, since the women of Albano still
have the privilege of nursing the aristocratic babies of Rome. Their
costume consists of a long full skirt of flowered silk, pale blue
or cinnamon colour, brocaded with red carnations or pink roses; the
“busto” or corset, as well as the tight long cuffs that reach from
wrist to elbow, are of that same scarlet cloth and trimmed with heavy
gold braid; but the chief beauty of the costume is in the fine lace
of the voluminous “fichu” which is pinned low down in folds behind to
leave the strong young neck bare, and folded in to the corset in front,
over a camisole of finest linen, also much adorned with lace. The fichu
leaves all the throat—such a column of ivory!—and some expanse of chest
bare to rise and fall under half a dozen strings of dark faceted red
coral, huge beads bought by the ounce and treasured for hundreds of
years; the earrings are great danglums of dropping pearls, and the
headdress a crown of ruffled ribbon three or four inches wide, set
tight round the coil of braids and held in place by big pins of gold
filigree, while two long streamers of the ribbon hang nearly down to
the hem of the skirt behind. A lace apron, like that which Hungarian
ladies wear with court dress, completes the costume, and nobody can
quarrel with “Balia” for holding her handsome head very high when she
wears it.
No greater contrast can be imagined than that presented by these two
costumes, of which one or the other strikes the type all through
Romagna; and the men, in old times, were as picturesquely clad as
the women, though deprived of the gold and lace in which the latter
delighted. Fancy hundreds and hundreds of these splendidly attired
beings, with the beauty which is still the land’s blessed heritage,
streaming up the different avenues under those noble trees and then
gathering in to the feast prepared for them in the private garden—a
large open space laid out in variegated flower-beds of quaint design,
and, on these famous Sundays, converted into an open-air banqueting
hall where, at long tables loaded with good things, the crowds could
eat their full, quenching their thirst at one of the fountains which
ran with wine from dawn to dark. None were debarred from sharing the
Prince’s hospitality, whether they were his own people or strangers,
and the “plebs” of Rome, who poured out in thousands, were as welcome
as all the tenants and labourers on his many estates. My dear old
stepfather, who saw it all when he was a young man and described it
to me, said that what most impressed him was the perfect order that
prevailed all day, the Romans having the happy gift of being able to
enjoy themselves without becoming riotous.
One of the great features of the villa is the “Teatro di Siena,” the
amphitheatre on the Pincio side of the principal avenue. The base
is a green expanse of turf, from which rise several tiers of narrow
terraces marked in white marble and also paved with turf. The summit
of the circle is guarded by a ring of tall stone-pines which close
it in and make an admirable frame for the spectacles of one kind and
another which have taken place there. The prettiest I ever saw was the
tournament given at the time of the Duke of Genoa’s wedding, in which
the present King of Italy, then a young boy, took such an animated
part.[9] In the October days of which I was speaking a still more
interesting show was provided in the form of chariot races, copied
exactly from the ancient Roman ones, the charioteers, bareheaded
youths in classical costume, standing in the gilt “bigas” and urging
their teams to wildest speed round the broad race-course, while the
bands filled the air with stirring music, and the people stood up in
their seats and yelled and cheered, and laid their money on this or
that chariot, just as their ancestors did in the Coliseum or in Nero’s
circus two thousand years ago. Now, as then, the only official reward
for the victor was a laurel crown and the renown that came with it.
The upheavals of 1848 made an end of the old feudal ways and
festivities; but, though it may appear incomprehensible to the
philistines who rule the world to-day, they furnished mighty strands
in the ties of sympathy and good-will which hold class and class
together and keep a country sober, contented, and law-abiding. All
healthy human nature needs healthy excitement from time to time, and,
if that be unattainable, the craving is so imperative that it will find
satisfaction in other and less wholesome ways.
Talking of excitement, one realises that the ancients, in spite of the
good taste with which we usually credit them, would have participated
only too joyfully in all our modern crimes of speed had the opportunity
been afforded. The inscription unearthed at Pompeii the other day shows
that they could be as callous as ourselves in the pursuit of pleasure.
“To-day”—here follows the date—“a Roman Knight in his biga ran over our
little Calpurnius, aged three years. May Pluto shortly have his soul!”
One is reminded of the child at the East-end Sunday-school, who, being
asked to define the meaning of the clause in the Creed which speaks of
“the quick and the dead,” replied: “Them that runs away when the motors
is coming is the quick, and them that _doesn’t_ is the _dead_!”