A marriage in high life—Wedding outfit—The first
interview—Condition of single women—The laws of
courtship—Dependence of young married people—Anecdotes of
mothers-in-law.
I did not tire of my life in Ancona, as my friends in Florence had
predicted. There was something so quaint, so unlike anything I had ever
before known, in the people among whom I found myself, and they formed
such a contrast to the busy, practical sphere in which I had been
brought up, that, for the sake of novelty alone, I should have been
amused at the change. I hope, however, that some better motive was at
work than mere curiosity to interest me. I had always felt a sympathy
for the Italians, and resented the indiscriminate abuse with which it
is the fashion to assail them; but until the opportunity for personal
observation now afforded, I had not understood how many of their
failings may be ascribed to their erroneous system of marriage, their
defective method of education, and other domestic evils—evils so deeply
rooted, that it will require a complete upheaving of the existing
framework of society to destroy their baneful influence.
It was not long before I was enabled to see how matches were made up
according to the most orthodox system; for the marriage of the niece
of a lady whom we often saw—our little friend who disliked country
walks so much—was being negotiated, and we were daily informed of the
progress of affairs. The young lady was not residing in Ancona, but
at Macerata, a town about forty miles distant; and being an orphan,
and not largely dowered, her establishment had been a matter of
considerable anxiety to her relations, particularly to her grandmother,
with whom she lived.
“Congratulate me,” said the contessa, with a beaming face, one morning:
“mamma writes me she has great hopes of a _partito_ for our poor
Isotta.”
“I am very glad, indeed,” said my cousin Lucy, who was always the chief
spokes-woman, being the eldest daughter of the house, and of a sedate
and prudent turn, which suited her mature age of one-and-twenty—“I am
very glad, indeed, to hear this; and what does Isotta say?”
“Oh, she knows nothing about it yet; mamma is making the necessary
inquiries, and will then settle everything with the young man's father,
old Conte G——, the brother of our cardinal here. Up to the present
moment, a mutual friend, who first originated the idea, has been the
only channel of communication.”
“And if your niece should not chance to like him?” I suggested.
Our little friend lifted up her eyes in astonishment, as she replied,
“Not like a person her grandmamma approves. Of course she will be
pleased!” and then reverting to the great topic of interest on such
occasions, she said, “If, as we hope, all will be soon arranged, mamma
will have a great deal to do in ordering the _corredo_. It is to be
a very handsome one, for the _sposo's_ family are known to be very
particular in such things; and, naturally, we, on our side, do not wish
to cut a bad figure.”
I asked her some of the details respecting this same corredo, or
wedding outfit, and she gave me a list of such supplies of linen
and every description of wearing apparel, as appeared extravagant
in proportion to the young lady's fortune, which was only 12,000
dollars[2] (about £2400), an average dowry in this part of Italy. If
the sum ascends as high as 20,000 dollars, it is considered large;
but in any case the corredo has likewise to be provided, at an expense
often of 2000 dollars (£400), or even upwards. This outlay, however,
is not felt, as a certain sum is always destined for each child from
its infancy, and large stores of linen and damask table-services are
gradually accumulated, in expectation of the great event. The greatest
luxury is, perhaps, displayed in petticoats, night-dresses, and such
gear, which are of the finest materials, often trimmed with rich lace
and embroidered, and are to be counted by sixes of dozens of each kind.
In fact, their number is so great, that it is one of the anxieties of
an Italian woman's life to look after her hoards of linen, and see that
all is kept properly assorted and in good order. Nor is this ambition
for a handsome corredo confined to the upper classes, it is shared
alike by all; descending even to the humblest peasant-girl, who is
scarcely out of her leading-strings before she thinks of laying by for
this long-coveted possession.
But to return to the young lady whose fate was being decided. Two or
three days after, her aunt came to announce that all was settled; that
both Isotta and the young count had expressed themselves perfectly
satisfied, and their first meeting was to take place the following
evening, in presence of all the members of the two families residing at
Macerata.
“Poor girl! What a nervous affair it will be!” I said. “What is the
ceremonial to be observed?”
“Why,” said the contessa, quite gravely, “I do not exactly know; mamma
does not mention in her letter: it depends on circumstances. Generally
the _sposo_ merely comes forward, is presented to the young lady,
and makes a low bow. Sometimes, if the families previously have been
intimately acquainted, he is directed to kiss her hand; and lastly—but
this is very rare”—and she lowered her voice—“it is only adopted where
there is the oldest friendship or relationship subsisting—the gentleman
salutes his bride upon the cheek.”
Amused as I was by this account, I could not help thinking it must
be exaggerated, or at least that these courtships, whose programme
was as accurately defined as a state ceremony, must be restricted to
a few rare instances; but I found this was not the case, and that
the contessa had merely stated what was usual in every family of
the nobility of Ancona and the adjacent towns. In many instances,
I afterwards learned, the preliminaries for the marriage of a young
lady were all settled before she left the walls of a convent where
she had been brought up, her wedding taking place within eight days
of her return to her parents' house; but this, though esteemed highly
desirable, cannot always be arranged, especially where no great
recommendations exist, either as to beauty or fortune. As a general
rule, girls are kept excessively retired, even in their own families,
until some partito has been found; everything being done to foster the
impression that their speedy settlement in life is to be the signal
for their admission into all the pleasures of society, from which in
the mean time they are sedulously excluded. Dressed with scrupulous
plainness, seldom or never taken into company, rarely appearing out of
doors, except for a drive in a close carriage, or to go to mass, or to
call on some old female relation—without the advantages of a cultivated
mind or literary resources—the condition of our Italian unmarried woman
is as cheerless and insignificant as it is possible to conceive. Small
marvel is it, then, that at the first mention of a suitor, a girl's
thoughts should fly to all the fine dresses she will possess, to the
becoming _coiffures_ she will adopt, and—should her imagination have
ever ranged so far—to the liberty of speech and action she will be
entitled to enjoy. Not a thought is given to the disposition, tastes,
or habits of the person to whom she is soon to be irrevocably united;
he is accepted as the condition indispensable to the attainment of all
that has been so earnestly desired.
The scene of the first introduction generally takes place with the
formality the little contessa described, very rarely going beyond a
stately bow and courtesy exchanged between the betrothed. After this
interview, the gentleman is every evening expected to pay a visit of
an hour or so at the house of his _promessa_, all the members of her
family, and the old friends who compose the usual _società_, being
present. He is not placed next to her, nor is he to address himself
particularly to her. Should he feel inclined to venture on a remark,
she will answer in monosyllables, with downcast eyes, never moving from
the sofa on which she sits bolt upright by her mother's side. After
a week or so has elapsed, it is an understood thing that he should
ask for her portrait, and give her his own in return. At this stage
of the proceedings, he is allowed to kiss her hand on presenting the
miniature; and on succeeding evenings he brings her a nosegay, but
without any repetition of this privilege; meanwhile the bride elect is
very complacently occupied in knitting him a purse, or embroidering
him a smoking-cap, or something of that sort—whatever she is told is
customary, in fact—and finally goes to the altar without a thought upon
the duties and responsibilities of her new condition.
Even their manner of celebrating a wedding is very different from
ours. No bridesmaids are ever seen; for it would not be considered
in good taste for any girls to be present at the religious ceremony;
neither do they take part in the great dinner which closes the day.
The newly-married pair do not go into the country, or set out upon a
journey, but at once enter into possession of the apartments destined
for them in the house of the bridegroom's family.
My uncle used laughingly to quote a remark made to him by a lady in
reply to some observation on the contrast thus afforded to an English
wedding-tour: “It may be all very well for your nation, who make
marriages of sentiment, _caro mio signore_, but I confess that to
any of us this prolonged _tête-à-tête_ with a husband whom one knows
nothing at all of, would be tedious in the extreme.” To avoid being
thrown upon this terrible companionship, the first week or so of
the young _sposa's_ married life is fully taken up in receiving the
congratulatory visits of her friends and acquaintances; after which,
she and her husband make what is called the first _sortita_ together,
go to hear mass, call upon every one in due form, and are considered
fairly started in their new position. The dingy Palazzo subsides
into its wonted monotony; and the young couple, with no interest or
authority in the house, treated like mere children, are expected to
conform to the hours and habits of the old people, who, having yielded
the same submission in their day, are by no means backward in exacting
it themselves.
We knew a family, that of the Marchese G——, one of the most ancient and
wealthy in Ancona, where the eldest son, though upwards of thirty-six,
and married for more than ten years, was not at liberty to invite any
friend of his own to the family-table without his father's permission;
neither could he nor his wife, for any convenience of their own,
anticipate or retard the fixed hour for dinner, or order that meal to
be served in their apartments. All their expenditure was regulated for
them, a pair of carriage-horses kept at their disposal, their servants'
wages paid; even their subscription to the theatre provided for, and a
sum assigned for their dress and pocket-money—being twenty dollars a
month to the heir of this noble house, and to his wife fifteen. This
was considered very liberal. All the disposal of the income of the
family—very large in reference to the country; it was reported to be
nearly 20,000 dollars (£4000) a year—all insight into the accounts
and expenditure, was exclusively reserved for the old marchese, who
would have resented any hint or advice from his son as unwarrantable
interference.
Another strange species of coercion that seemed generally kept up in
families of this stamp, was in the selection of Christian names for
the younger branches. It is not an uncommon thing to hear a young
mother lament the uncouth appellations bestowed upon her offspring, and
saying, with a shrug of her shoulders, “But what is to be done? It is
an old family name, and my _suocera_ would have it.”
The vexatious tyranny exercised by the mother-in-law, the suocera, has
almost passed into a proverb, as the source of innumerable evils; yet
such is the force of custom amongst the Italians, that if a son were
possessed of independent fortune, and established himself away from
the paternal roof, he would be exclaimed against as undutiful in the
extreme. I could tell of many sad instances of unhappiness produced by
the suocera's influence. In the first place, she is almost invariably
ignorant, prejudiced, and bigoted—such being the characteristics of the
greater part of Italian women, born and educated some fifty or sixty
years ago—and sets her face stubbornly against everything that is not
precisely according to her code, whether it relates to politics, the
management of her household, or the treatment of her grand-children. I
heard a lady herself recount how she lost five children in succession,
owing to their being sent out to be reared by rough peasant-women
in the country. They were delicate infants, and could not stand the
exposure and want of care to which they were subjected; and so they
died off, one after the other, their poor mother vainly attempting to
move the old contessa to allow her to have a wet-nurse in the house.
“In _her_ day,” persisted the unrelenting woman, “children were brought
up in the country; and why should it be otherwise now?” and she had
authority enough over her son to compel him to resist his wife's
piteous supplications. Often has she said, “My five children were
sacrificed to a suocera's power. She yielded at last and I saved the
sixth”.
Another lady, whom I saw much of, one of the handsomest women in
Ancona, was in such subjection to her mother-in-law, that she dared
not sit down in her presence unless invited to do so; and, although the
mother of a grown-up son, was as much looked after and interfered with
as if she had been still a child. Sometimes her spirit rose, and she
attempted to remonstrate, or invoked her husband's assistance, which
was invariably the signal for his ordering his horse to be saddled,
and going out for a ride—saying, he would have nothing to do with her
quarrels with his mother. And this, and worse than this, is the true
picture of an Italian Interior, where distrust, variance, and the
weakening of domestic ties are the fruits of the lamentable system
I have attempted to describe; which is further perpetuated in the
training of the rising generation in the same errors and intolerance.