Decline of Carnival diversions—Dislike to being brought
into contact with Austrians—The theatre—Public
_Tombole_—Short-sighted policy of the Government.
It is Carnival-time, but only the name remains to mark the period
intervening between Christmas and Lent; all the masquerades and
revelries associated with the season are now suspended. Since the
Revolution of 1848-49, masks have been prohibited, from the facility
these disguises afforded for holding political meetings, and making
plots against the Government; the zest with which all ranks used to
join in this amusement renders its interdiction a serious deprivation,
and does not augment the good-will with which the enactments of the
papal authorities are now regarded.
The balls at the Casino, which formerly enlivened the Carnival, have
likewise declined, from the unwillingness of the natives to mix in any
degree with the Austrian garrison, the general and officers of which
were of course invited to be present. Even those families of Codini,
whose known retrograde principles rendered them well disposed towards
the _Barbari_, were afraid of braving public opinion by appearing to
be on good terms with the supporters of their pontiff; so that the
Austrian officers, at the first public ball, to which they repaired
with all their proverbial eagerness for the dance, found a large and
handsome ball-room, brilliant lights and excellent music, but, alas, to
their great chagrin, nought but empty benches to receive them!
The theatre is now the only neutral ground where all assemble; but even
there the line of demarcation is very jealously observed, and it is
only in one or two boxes of native families that the obnoxious white
uniform is ever discerned. To an Italian, the theatre is home, senate,
forum, academy—all and everything in life. He does not go there half
so much for the sake of the performance, as to fill up four or five
hours of his daily existence, to see his friends, to hear what is going
forward, to look at any strange face that may attract his notice, to
contemplate from his stall near the orchestra the different flirtations
carried on in the boxes above and around him, and to take his own
share, perchance, in the numerous little comedies of real life that are
here nightly performed, while the mock-drama on the stage forms but a
minor part of the interests so curiously concentrated in this building.
There was but one theatre in the town—a very pretty structure, much
larger and handsomer than would be met with in any provincial town in
England; and all its accompaniments of dress, scenery, and orchestra
on the same scale of superiority. Either operas or prose pieces were
given, according to the seasons of the year and established custom. In
the autumn, comedies and dramas were performed from September till the
beginning of Advent, when theatrical entertainments were suspended.
From Christmas till the end of Carnival there was the Opera, succeeded
during Lent by a dreary time of mortification. After Easter, the
public spirits were sustained by the speedy prospect of a good spring
campaign; and great excitement always prevailed as to the operas to be
represented, the names of the singers engaged by the manager, whether
the municipality, by assisting his funds, would enable him to give a
ballet; and so forth.
Of course, none of the great vocalists, whom the north seems to
have monopolized, were ever heard, although this theatre could often
claim the distinction of having been the nursery in which they were
trained, and their latent powers first called forth. The Government,
impoverished as it is with gaunt distress assailing it in the shape
of houseless poor, decaying buildings, and an exhausted treasury,
never hesitates to support and promote theatrical entertainments.
The theatre, to an Italian population, is like a sweet cake to a
fretful child: it serves to stop its crying, and divert its attention
for a moment, and the intelligent nurse is satisfied. It is a safe
diversion: they cannot conspire or talk politics, for spies, as they
well know, are largely mingled with the audience, and every movement
or knot of whisperers would instantly be noted. The pieces performed
are carefully selected, and none with any allusion to freedom, revolt,
or anything of the sort permitted; for instance, a chorus containing
the word _libertà_ would be suppressed, or another word of different
signification substituted for it. Auber's _Muta di Portici_ is not
allowed to be represented, because its hero, Masaniello, is the leader
of a popular insurrection; nor Rossini's _Guglielmo Tell_, for similar
reasons; besides many others that it would take too much space to
enumerate. Verdi's _Ernani_ is no longer given, although in the early
days of Pius IX., when, after granting the amnesty to all political
offenders, he was hailed as the regenerator of Italy, the scene in
which Charles V. pardons the conspirators, and exclaims, “_Perdono
a tutti_,” was received in every theatre of Italy with a frenzy of
enthusiasm that must have been perfectly electrifying. It has often
been described to me how in Ancona the whole audience used to sit
hushed in reverential awe till the expected words had been pronounced,
when, as with one voice and impulse, they would break forth into a wild
clamour of applause, which had in it something inexpressibly thrilling
and sublime.
But all this has passed away; the brief glory, the dream of
independence, the unwonted exultation, with its lamentable reverse of
ingratitude and folly, opportunities neglected, and powers misapplied.
The daystar has risen again for their brethren, while the Anconitans
are shrouded in even darker oppression than of yore, and heavier
chains have been riveted upon them; yet stay, for I have wandered from
my theme, which was of the garlands twined around their fetters, and
of the gay strains and idle talk beneath which the patriot's sigh is
often stifled. So let us go back to the interior of the theatre, if you
please, and take a survey of its various occupants.
It is seven o'clock, and the house is beginning to fill: clerks,
shopkeepers, spies, artisans and their wives, Austrian soldiers, are
taking their places in the pit, and the orchestra are tuning their
instruments. As the overture begins, the frequenters of the stalls
saunter into their usual places. Of these, the majority are the
officers of the garrison, who always make a great clanking of their
long broadswords, and always twirl their moustaches. The boxes, too,
are rapidly becoming tenanted. Every family has its own, and the scene
grows more animated as one bright well-known face after another appears
in her accustomed seat.
The husband, in all well-regulated establishments, accompanies his
wife to the theatre, and remains in the box until some visitor appears,
which is generally the case as soon as she has been seen to enter. He
then takes his leave, and does not trouble her with his presence till
the close of the evening, to escort her home; as it would be considered
very insipid to be seen sitting long together, and infallibly be
looked upon as the result of the lady's want of attraction, or the
lack of resources on his side to fill up the time. Released from his
attendance, therefore, as soon as the welcome sound is heard of the
curtain at the door being drawn aside to give admission to a visitor,
he hastens in his turn to commence a round of calls, to those ladies
especially whose houses, when the theatre is not open, he is most in
the habit of frequenting. Thus the leading belles gather round them
their usual _società_, and they talk and laugh, as is their wont,
without much regard to the performance, except at any favourite air or
duet, when, as if by magic, the whole audience is silent and breathless
with attention. The loquacity prevalent is sometimes annoying to
the pit and gallery, particularly in a prose piece, when the actors
are scarcely audible from the hum of patrician voices, and an angry
“_Zitto, zitto!_” gives an indication of popular feeling. But even
this departure from the usual orderly demeanour of the people is very
rare. It would be difficult to find more decorum and correctness of
deportment than they present: there is no bad language, no quarrelling,
no drinking—not even any popping of ginger-beer, or fragrance of
orange-peel.
The same operas are repeated night after night, without intermission,
for weeks. In the course of a season lasting nearly two months, seldom
more than two operas are given, the expense of getting up a greater
variety being of course one reason; while the taste of the Italians
themselves leads also to their preferring the frequent repetition of
their favourite composers, rather than a constant change, which, in
music, they declare is a drawback to enjoyment.
The price of admission during the Carnival appears ridiculously
low, the ticket being only fifteen bajocchi—equal to 7-½_d._; and a
subscription for the season can be taken out for fifteen pauls—6_s._
9_d._, which insures admission for every night, excepting benefits.
In the spring, as there is a ballet besides the opera, the price is
doubled; in the autumn, when the _commedia_—the national term for
dramatic representations—is given, it is only a paul—5_d._
The boxes, as I said before, are all private property; each is
partitioned off from the other as at the Italian Opera in London.
They are fitted up on either side with narrow sofas, on which the
società lounge and gossip at their ease. Amongst their fair owners,
the respective number of visitors is a great subject of heart-burning,
it being an enviable distinction to have one's box constantly filled.
As regards the toilet of the ladies, there is but little display: in
winter, they are scarcely more dressed than for a walking out, many of
them even retaining their bonnets; and on account of the extreme cold,
it is often customary to send _chauffepieds_ to keep their feet warm
during the performance. The house is dimly lighted to English eyes,
accustomed to the flaring gas of our own theatres, for there is only a
large chandelier from the centre, and the foot-lights; but Italians are
not fond of a strong glare, and resorting thither so constantly as they
do, a greater degree of brilliancy would prove fatiguing to the sight.
The existing arrangement permits them to see and to be seen, and with
this they are perfectly satisfied; and thus they go on, every night of
the week while the season lasts—excepting Mondays, when an inferior
singer takes the prima donna's place, and Fridays, when the theatre
is closed—gossiping, trifling, complaining, but still led there by an
irresistible impulse, a void in domestic life which, so long as English
hearths and homes maintain their proud supremacy, will happily remain
an unsolved mystery to us.
Amongst the few remaining of the popular diversions that used to be
permitted in Carnival are the public _tombole_ or raffles, held on
Sundays and Feste in the principal square of the town, to which the
lowest of the people eagerly resort. No drunkenness or fighting is
ever seen, although, amongst that vast crowd of priests, peasants,
Jews, young caffè-loungers, shopkeepers and their wives, grisettes
and gendarmes, at least one or two thousand of the very dregs of the
population are assembled, all intent upon the game, which is nearly
allied to one I remember as a child, called Lotto, which we used to
play at for sugar-plums.
On the balcony of the government palace, in a conspicuous position,
is placed a wheel containing the numbers, ranging from one to ninety,
which are drawn from it by a child blindfolded, and proclaimed
aloud as they successively appear. The players, on paying eleven
bajocchi—5-½_d._—are each furnished with a card containing three
rows of figures variously transposed, so that no two cards are alike.
Whoever has a corresponding number on his card to the one called out,
marks it; and he who first can boast of an unbroken row of five numbers
thus filled up, is the winner, and shouts out “_Tombola fatta!_” in
a voice that makes the welkin ring, and flings his hat, if he be so
fortunate as to possess one, into the air.
I do not believe the amount of the prize depends on the number of
persons engaged in the game; the value of the tombola to be played
for is always known beforehand; some are of fifty, a hundred, or even
more dollars, and the fascination of this pastime for the populace
may therefore easily be imagined. Those who are too poor to afford the
outlay necessary for a card, go into partnership with others, and often
four or five are jointly interested in the purchase.
The scene during the drawing of the numbers is very picturesque, and
is well set off by the old piazza, with its quaint irregular buildings,
leading at the upper end by a semicircular ascent to the church of the
Dominicans, in front of which is stationed the colossal statue of one
of the popes—Clement XII., I think—in his pontifical robes and triple
crown, forming the centre of a group of market-women, seated beside
the baskets of fruit and vegetables they daily bring hither for sale. A
little further down the Austrian band is stationed: it has been playing
before the commencement of the game as only Austrian military bands
can play; and the intoxicating strains have wrought still higher the
general expectation and ferment. Every balcony and window are tenanted
by anxious players and lookers-on, for gentle and simple are equally
ardent and absorbed; while the whole space beneath is filled up by
the eager, clamorous crowd, watching their own or their neighbour's
progress, as if life and death were staked on the result.
Handsome peasant-girls in gay holiday attire, saturnine, calculating
priests, laughing milliners' apprentices, sturdy fishermen, tattered
women, beggars in every stage of misery—here are groups that a painter
would long to delineate, for, discernible upon all, stamped as if with
nature's signet, is the impress of beauty and of race.
The clear wintry sun shines on those upturned heads, and the blue
unclouded sky forms a brilliant background to features of so much
fire and animation, such coal-black kindling eyes, and figures of so
much artistic outline and perfection, that the very originals of some
of Raphael's master-pieces seem again presented to our view, and we
recognise faces whose lineaments are familiar to us in the Sacrifice at
Lystra, or the Preaching at Athens.
As the game wears on, when nearly ninety numbers have been called out,
and the result yet remains undecided, the thrill of agitation preceding
each successive, announcement,—the sudden silence, as if every one held
his breath to catch the first sound on which his fate might hang,—is
very remarkable and suggestive.
It is a grand spectacle of gambling, openly countenanced, nay more,
encouraged by the Government, which sees not that in thus feeding the
love of hazard and thirst for excitement in its subjects, it is but
arming them with weapons that sooner or later will be employed to its
own destruction.
But in their short-sighted policy, the Roman rulers discern nought but
the expediency of furnishing the people with amusement, and turning
their thoughts from politics. And when the diversions of the afternoon
are ended, when the crowd disperses, as only an Italian crowd can
disperse, without shrieks, or jostling, or rough-usage, while a murmur
of animated voices diffuses itself through the streets,—no watchful
eye seems to penetrate through this fair surface, no warning voice
denounces what poison lurks in the anodyne which has been administered
that day.