Lent observances—Compulsory confession—The sepulchres on Holy
Thursday—Procession on Good Friday—Blessing the houses—Joyful
celebration of Easter.
In my last chapter, I find I stepped somewhat abruptly from winter to
spring, and talked of merry-makings in the country, while in the one
immediately preceding it I left the good townspeople of Ancona enjoying
their last night of Carnival, with the dreary prospect of a supperless,
theatreless Lent before them. The amusements of the so-called gay
season had not been sufficiently numerous to render the transition
very remarkable to a superficial observer, yet in many little ways
the regulations peculiar to this period were felt as a thorn in the
flesh, and conveyed with them some mortification to those by whom they
were conscientiously carried out. For instance, their dietetic rules
were rather peculiar: it was not allowed to make more than one full
meal a day, to eat any supper at night, or to take milk above once
in the twenty-four hours; on Friday and Saturday of every week, milk
was wholly forbidden; besides a number of similar enactments, which
depended on the bishop of the diocese, who every Lent issued a fresh
table of regulations, modified according to his ideas, or to the actual
condition of the country.
In some of the churches, friars or Jesuit fathers, specially summoned
for the purpose, delivered a course of sermons, inveighing against
the prevailing irreligion and unbelief. But if the preacher's talents
were only of an average description, his audience was limited to a
few ladies and old women: when, on the contrary, he happened to be
distinguished by a flowery and popular style of eloquence, all classes
would flock to hear him, numbers of young men amongst the rest,
who came in and out, lounged against the columns, talked together
in the pauses, stared at their acquaintances, carried on a little
flirtation—in fact, conducted themselves much as if they were in the
pit of a theatre. In the same way any great _funzione_, where good
music and singing were sure to be heard, never failed to attract the
gioventù in crowds to the church in which it was celebrated; while the
stimulus of a higher motive than mere curiosity, or the employment
of an idle hour, never appeared to be felt or even dreamed of. This
total absence of religion, or rather of all religious belief, is
spreading fast, and, no longer confined to young men of fashion as
their exclusive prerogative, is descending to the lower classes of the
community, who, discontented and repining, and debarred from all means
of enlightenment, look upon the blended temporal and spiritual system
of their Government with the same hostility and mistrust.
Towards the close of the Holy Week however the whole population becomes
compulsorily devout. The parochial clergy go round to every house in
their jurisdiction, taking down the names and ages of the inhabitants,
and delivering to all a ticket filled up with their name, requiring
them to repair, within a given period, to the parish church, for
confession and communion. Any freewill-offering, any spontaneous act
of grace in these religious duties, is thus lost; and with the young
men especially, _prender Pasqua_, as it is termed, becomes a most
irksome task, which they endeavour to shuffle over, or resort to every
expedient and deception to evade altogether. The Government however
has always been very strict in enforcing this ordinance, with the
_political_ view of maintaining its fast-waning influence through the
confessional, going even the length of refusing pontifical subjects
their passports, if they require to travel, when it can be proved that
they have neglected their Easter duties—an odious abuse of authority,
tending to bring religion into contempt.
I remember hearing of the astonishment and indignation of some members
of the V—— family, the first year they passed in Ancona, when the
priest, having taken the statistics of the household, and ascertained
that they professed the Roman Catholic faith, handed to each of them
in succession a printed ticket requiring them to conform to this law.
In France, they declared, they had never heard of such a measure; and
they could not, even before us, forbear from expressing their disgust.
It required all their mother's persuasions, and the example of her
unquestioning submission to whatever emanated from priestly authority,
to stifle the murmurs of the young ladies and enforce their obedience.
On Holy Thursday, after mid-day, an unwonted silence seemed to fall
upon the town, unbroken till the same hour on Saturday. No bells were
tolled, no matins or vespers rung, no mass celebrated in the churches;
while the streets were filled with people hastening to the _sepolcri_,
or sepulchres, of which seven must be visited by the faithful. Each
church has its _sepolcro_, varying in the details, but agreeing as
to the general characteristics of the representation. The high-altar
is divested of its usual ornaments, in token of mourning; and on the
platform immediately before it, surrounded by all the emblems of the
Passion, is a figure in wax, of life-size, of the Saviour, as if just
removed from the cross. All around and on the steps leading up are
a profusion of natural flowers and tapers; and sentinels with arms
reversed are stationed at intervals to keep back the crowd.
In some churches more figures are introduced—such as Joseph of
Arimathea, the Beloved Apostle, the three Maries; others have a greater
display of flowers and wax-lights, but the pervading effect in all is
invariably the same. The complete stillness; the ceaseless, noiseless
swaying of the crowd, as those who occupy the foremost places,
after a few minutes' admiring inspection and a few muttered prayers,
quietly give room in their turn to fresh comers; the indiscriminate
blending of rich and poor, as the lady in her silken robes kneels on
the pavement beside the tattered beggar; the motionless forms of the
Austrian soldiers in all the glittering panoply of war, surrounding the
marred and blood-stained effigy of the Prince of Peace; the saturnine,
matter-of-fact faces of the attendant priests and sacristans, who hover
about, re-lighting any taper that is accidentally extinguished, or
adjusting any of the arrangements that may be displaced; the air heavy
with the scent of flowers mingling with the exhalations of the vaults
beneath, where moulder the remains of those who in their day have gazed
upon this spectacle, for centuries repeated, for centuries unchanged:
all this has struck each stranger in his turn, and is but a feeble
transcript of the varied impressions it produces.
On Good Friday there is always a procession through the principal
streets of the town, which, without any of the devotional accessories
of the sepolcri—the time-worn churches, the subdued light, the hushed
voices—cannot fail painfully to impress the English spectator who has
not been inured to sights of this description.
By the people it was eagerly looked forward to as a pleasant variety
in the monotony of their lives, an opportunity of sauntering about,
of looking out of the windows, of nodding to their acquaintances,
and furthering some flirtation or intrigue. Any idea of investing the
pageant with a religious significance seemed foreign to the minds of
the great majority of the assembled throng.
When the muffled drums were heard announcing that the procession was
approaching, and a detachment of troops began to line the street under
our windows, I remarked a thrill of excitement, but certainly not
of awe, as every head was impatiently turned in the direction from
whence the torches and banners of the confraternity of _Passionisti_
first came in view. Men of all classes belonged to this _campagnia_,
all similarly dressed in loose robes and cowls of grey linen, which
concealed the features, a crown of thorns round the head, and a girdle
of knotted cords; the difference of rank being discernible only by the
whiter feet of some amongst them, and the evident pain with which they
trod the sharp, uneven pavement. I must however pause to observe here,
that a bent head and hoary hair would be the general accompaniments
to these marks of gentle birth, were the drapery in which they are
enshrouded to be suddenly thrown aside.
Next came friars and priests, all walking according to established
rule and precedence—Capuchins, Franciscans, Carmelites, Dominicans,
Augustinians, carrying lighted tapers and chanting litanies. Following
these were more Capuchins, to whom was especially delegated the office
of carrying all the objects belonging to the Crucifixion; and thus they
passed on, white-bearded, tottering old men, bearing successively an
emblem of this day's great sacrifice, profaned by being paraded, like
some mummery of old, before the idle crowd, who gazed, and sneered, and
talked, indifferent to the awful event thus commemorated. The crown of
thorns, the purple robe, the scourge, the nails, the dice with which
the soldiers had cast lots, the spear, were all carried slowly along;
the sacred form itself, in the utter prostration of death, stretched
upon a bier, coming next in view. A few knelt here, not one in twenty
though; the rest all listless, unthinking, or unbelieving.
Some paces behind, upon a sort of platform, appeared a huge image of
the Madonna, considerably above the size of life, dressed in violet
robes, with long brown ringlets, and pierced through with seven
daggers—all the spiritualized beauty with which the “blessed among
women” should be invested, lost in the vulgarity of this most material
representation. This, with the dignitaries and magistrates of the
town walking two and two, closed the procession; after which marched
more soldiers, those who had been stationed along the streets falling
into the ranks, and the band performing a funeral-march—the same the
Austrians always play after the interment of any of their comrades.
I have not exaggerated this description. To some enthusiastic poetic
minds, to whom such things seem beautiful in the abstract, I know my
account will prove distasteful. But thus it always is: a close insight
into the countries where these time-honoured traditional ceremonies are
still maintained, strips them of the mysterious charm with which, to a
foreigner, they might seem to be invested, and accounts for the levity
with which they are witnessed by those familiarized to them since their
earliest childhood.
As another instance: there was the custom of blessing the houses on
Easter Saturday, which I had heard of long before visiting Italy, and
imagined must prove equally edifying and impressive. But when I saw a
very dirty priest in his _alb_—I think that is the name—a sort of linen
ephod worn over the black gown, attended by a still more dirty little
boy carrying holy-water, walking hastily through the house, muttering
a few unintelligible words on the threshold of each room, only pausing
a little longer in the kitchen to crack a few jokes with the servants,
without the least semblance of devotion on his side or of reverence on
theirs—and gratefully accepting a few _pauls_ sent out to him by the
family—why, I fell from the clouds, and my cherished illusions were
dispelled. It seemed almost as hollow as blessing the horses on the
17th of January, the festival of St. Anthony, the patron of animals,
which had previously greatly astonished me.
All the post and _vetturino_ horses, all those belonging to private
families, were taken on that day, gaily decked out with ribbons, to
a square in front of one of the principal churches, where priests,
standing on the steps of the portico, sprinkled them with holy-water,
and pronounced a formula of benediction. A small gratuity was given
for each horse, and in return the donors were presented with a little
wax-taper and a small loaf of bread, by which the grooms, rather than
the poor quadrupeds, were the gainers. There was a favourite cat in my
uncle's establishment—a cat of great size and beauty, and of doglike
sagacity—which the servants were in vain desirous he would send to
be blessed, though prompted by no other motive than the pleasure
of dressing it up, and of joining in the crowd of idlers before the
church.
Generally however it would appear as if some vague idea of averting
ill-luck, of deprecating some sinister influence, must linger in the
hearts of the coachmen and postilions who still adhere to this custom,
which is practised by the priests—so Young Italy will tell you—solely
to maintain their hold upon the superstitious fears of the lowest ranks
of the populace.
But stay—I am wandering from my more immediate subject, although all
the church-bells let loose, and ringing their merry peals, proclaim
it is noon on Holy Saturday, and that Lent is over! There is something
very heart-stirring in this rejoicing: I wish we had the same custom in
England to usher in the triumphant glories of the Easter morn. Why it
should be anticipated here by twelve hours, and the bells give forth
their jubilee, and salvos of artillery be fired at mid-day, instead
of midnight, I do not exactly know: I think I have somewhere read an
explanation of this usage, of which I retain no clear remembrance, save
that it is of very remote antiquity. Be this as it may, a few hours
sooner or later are of little import; it is the pleasing impression
on which I dwell, and it is one of the customs that, even with my hard
matter-of-fact notions about the “good old times,” I should gladly see
revived amongst us.
On Easter Sunday, every one who has scraped the wherewith together,
puts on new clothes, and dines on roast lamb; baskets of stained eggs
are sent about as presents, and children feast on cakes embellished
with the figure of the Paschal Lamb. In the week following, many
marriages take place, as, except under particular circumstances,
weddings are never solemnized in Lent.
Dinner-parties are also frequently given at this season amongst
intimate friends; more formal ones sometimes on Easter Monday or
Tuesday, by the principal families, to some great personage, the
delegate or the bishop, for instance. But throughout all, whether on a
social or more ceremonious footing, the same kindly feeling, the same
absence of ostentation, invariably prevail. Would that we resembled the
Italians in this respect! They literally follow the evangelical precept
of asking to their banquets those by whom they cannot be bidden in
return. At every dinner-party there are always to be met three or four
old gentlemen, friends of the family, neither useful nor ornamental
accessories, not distinguished by sprightliness, riches, or good looks.
They would be classed as insufferable bores by us, and if asked at all,
only grudgingly, to fill up a vacant place; but here, on the contrary,
their age and infirmities constitute their title to admission; and
unfailingly, whenever a _trattamento_ is given—as any gathering for
the purpose of making good cheer is denominated—are these old friends,
seen in their accustomed seats at the table, not the least tinge of
patronage being mingled with the cordiality of their reception.