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 (4_s._ 6_d._ to 6_s._ 9_d._), 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.