A visit to Macerata—The journey—The Marziani family—Volunnia
the old maid—The Marchesa Gentilina's midnight
communications.
I was invited to her house in the ancient and aristocratic city of
Macerata, by the Marchesa Gentilina Marziani, a lady well known not
only in the provincial circles of the Marche, but in those of Rome,
where, in the lifetime of her first husband, who held one of those
lucrative monopolies of the necessities of life which the Pontifical
Government farms out to its adherents, she had occupied rather a
conspicuous position. As a sort of protest against her sexagenarian
lord's principles and party, to which and all else pertaining to him
she had vowed opposition, the fair Gentilina delighted in assembling
numbers of artists and men of letters, both native and foreign, under
her roof, where she promoted the discussion of political topics, and
the free expression of opinion, by a hardihood and boldness of speech
that none of the other members of the coterie would have dared to
imitate, and on which the protection of her uncle, a wealthy cardinal,
alone enabled her to venture with impunity.
When, after many weary years of wedlock, the death of the old
_appaltatore_ left her at liberty to form less irksome ties, the choice
of the buxom and well-endowed widow, amidst a crowd of aspirants,
fell upon the Marchese Alessandro Marziani, a young noble of Macerata,
several years her junior, and with apparently little but his good looks
and old name to recommend him. To universal surprise, the marriage
proved on the whole a happy one. The marchese looked on his wife
as a model of genius and wit; never questioned her opinions, though
careful to avoid compromising himself by uttering any of his own; and
grateful for the support she furnished to the declining fortunes of his
house, and the grace with which she consented to reside several months
of each year with his family—thus enabling him to pay that dutiful
attention to his father's old age which Italians are so solicitous to
discharge—showed her a respect and esteem which amply atoned for the
absence of shining qualities in himself.
In one of the visits to Ancona, whither a natural desire for change
used occasionally to lead her, I made the marchesa's acquaintance; and,
through the same seeking for variety, she was doubtless prompted to
the novel experiment of introducing the _Signorina forestiera_ into the
heart of her husband's family, moulded after the most approved fashion
of ancient Italian households.
Macerata is about forty miles distant from Ancona, on the high-road
to Rome, finely situated on the loftiest point of a ridge of hills
running midway between the sea and the grand chain of Apennines which
form the noble background to most Italian scenery. Even at that early
period of the year the country through which we passed was remarkable
for its beauty and fertility; but the marchesa talked too much and
too energetically to permit me to observe anything in detail; so that
it was fortunate I was enabled some months later again to see and
thoroughly enjoy what the natives, with pardonable pride, designate as
“the Garden of Italy.”
We travelled in the marchesa's carriage, a party of four, or rather
five; for, in addition to her, her good-humoured spouse, and myself—the
three _padroni_—there was the _cameriera_, whom they would have
thought it most inhuman to have seated on the outside, and the parrot.
This last occupied a great circular tin cage, and wore a dejected
aspect, which perhaps arose from jealousy at his mistress engrossing
the whole of the conversation, though the marchese attributed it to
indisposition, and vainly strove to cheer him by proffering cakes
and sugar, or his own finger to be pecked at, thus beguiling the
tediousness of the well-known road; while his wife, charmed at having a
new listener, held forth about the abuses of the Government, the frauds
of Cardinal Antonelli, the weakness of the Pope, and the insolence of
the Austrians, requiring nothing beyond a shrug of the shoulders, or an
affirmative groan, when she appealed to her husband to corroborate her
statements. Every hour, at least, there was a stoppage at the foot of
some hill, while cows or oxen were summoned from the nearest peasant's
house to assist the horses in dragging us up these ascents, which for
steepness exceed everything that can be imagined, except indeed the
corresponding precipitousness of the declivity on the other side.
With this single drawback, the journey was very pleasant. We dined at
Recanati, a very small but ancient town, crowning an eminence, like
most of the cities in this country, which were built at a period when a
position from whence a good view could be obtained of any advancing foe
was an indispensable requisite for security; and here the parrot so far
recovered his spirits, that the whole inn was thrown into ecstasy with
his performances, which the marchesa, from being seriously occupied
with partaking of needful refreshment, allowed him to exhibit without
a competitor. The _sala_ in which we took our repast was crowded with
an admiring audience, the beggars who infested the courtyard and stairs
having also crept in unreproved; and their comments and exclamations
at every fresh proof of the _pappagallo's_ loquacity seemed to afford
unqualified pleasure to his owners, without any thought of offended
dignity at the intrusion—such as would have disturbed the equanimity,
and spoiled the digestion of British travellers—ever entering their
minds.
It was night when we arrived at the Palazzo Marziani—a handsome pile
of building, of a massive style of architecture, faced with large
square slabs of marble, like the old Florentine palaces, wide balconies
projecting from the windows, and a grand portico, surmounted by
armorial bearings in _alto rilievo_, through which the carriage passed
into a court that in olden time had evidently been surrounded by an
open arcade, with a fountain in the centre. The interstices between the
columns, however, as a daylight view revealed, had been filled up with
brickwork; the fountain no longer played; and the grass sprouted up in
tufts between the pavement, or waved in rank luxuriance amid the rich
cornices of the façade.
On one side of this piazza were the stables—perceptible, alas! to other
senses besides the ocular—and on the opposite one rose the staircase,
in broad and easy flights, with marble busts of various ancestors of
the family in niches upon each landing. The apartments of the marchesa,
as wife of the eldest son, were upon the first floor, and thither were
we lighted, with great jubilee and welcome, by an old white-headed man
in plain clothes—the _maestro di casa_, whose real name had merged into
that of _Rococo_—and one or two subordinates in livery-coats of faded
blue and yellow, just like the lackeys who come forward upon the stage
in Italian theatres to carry away the moss-grown seat upon which the
rustic primadonna has been reclining.
The second brother, the Marchese Oliverotto Marziani, whose patronymic
was a superfluity, inasmuch as I never heard him addressed by it;—his
wife, the Marchesa Silvia, a quiet little body, with two or three
children clinging to her side, the proprietorship of whom alone
enabled her to make head against the overwhelming supremacy of her
sister-in-law Gentilina;—the Marchesina Volunnia, the eldest daughter,
unmarried, and with a great reputation for learning;—and, finally, a
very old man, with a quavering voice and infirm gait, appeared to greet
our arrival.
The brothers, both tall and handsome, fine specimens of the manly
style of beauty of which this part of Italy retains the distinctive
type, loudly kissed and brushed their black beards against each
other with great affection, while the ladies embraced with clamorous
demonstrations, but little warmth; and then, on the approach of
his father, Alessandro, hastening to meet him, bent over his hand,
and raised it to his lips with an air of unaffected tenderness and
respect. These salutations over, they all paid their compliments to
the new-comer with great politeness, eyeing me all the time with very
allowable curiosity, for I am sure it was the first occasion on which a
foreigner and a heretic had ever come thus familiarly amongst them.
After this, supper being announced, we all betook ourselves to that
meal, descending the grand cold staircase, already described, to the
eating-room, which was on the ground-floor, in the vicinity of the
kitchen, and not particularly remote from the stable. We were here
joined by a priest, Don Ciriaco, who lived in the house as a sort of
secretary and companion to the old marchese or _papà_, as they all
called him, and imparted the rudiments of Latin and the Catechism
to the children. He was evidently in a very servile position, being
treated with perfect indifference by all assembled, except the Marchesa
Silvia, who now and then addressed to him a few words, though always
with an implied and unquestioned sense of his inferiority, which
reminded me of Macaulay's delineation of the footing of domestic
chaplains in England at the close of the seventeenth century. Two
of the children sat up to supper, one on each side of their mother,
muffled in huge napkins tied round their chins, and completely
engrossing her attention by the cutting up and preparing of their food.
I thought their presence at this meal was an indulgence conceded to
celebrate their uncle and aunt's return, never dreaming that such a
custom as infants of their tender age sitting up till past ten o'clock
to eat heartily of soup, roast-meat, and salad—of which viands the
repast consisted—could ever be habitual. Such, however, was the case;
for no other reason, as the marchesa humorously confided to me, than
its being in accordance with the practices of former days; which, to
a mind so full of scruples as poor Silvia's, she added, were second
only to the decrees of the Council of Trent or the dictates of her
confessor. After hearing this, and ascertaining that in those families
who partook of supper—some only indulging in one ample meal in the
middle of the day—the custom of the children joining in it was very
general, it was not difficult to account for the variety of ailments
with which the rising generation seemed afflicted, more especially
the vermicular affections—in all the varied phenomena of which, from
hearing them so constantly discussed, I became quite a proficient.
Being tired with our long day's journey, we were glad to retire to
rest; and I was conducted to my room by the marchesa and the erudite
Volunnia, who, I speedily found, was less occupied with lore than
with the vanities and heart-burnings of her sex. My spinsterhood in
this case, however, proved a passport to her affections: albeit nearly
twenty years my senior, she took me to her heart, as her equal in age,
and partner in misfortune—promising, as she kissed me at parting for
the night, to summon me early in the morning, that she might have the
pleasure of introducing me to her own apartments, books, and studies.
The marchesa lingered for a few more words.
“I need not tell you, _carina_, that poor Volunnia is a character.
In fact, this whole family are originals. Nature formed my Alessandro
different from all the rest, and evidently broke the mould that he was
cast in.—First of all,” she continued, raking up the embers in the
scaldino over which she was warming her hands, “there is that poor
old papà, who, with his obstinacy and prejudice, has ruined himself
by lawsuits. His celebrated _processo_ against his brothers, I daresay
you have already heard of: it lasted twenty-five years, because either
side, whenever sentence was given in favour of its opponent, appealed
to some other court, which, under our happy system, can annul the
judgment previously pronounced. At last, this worse than siege of Troy
drew near its close. The case had been brought before every tribunal
in the Roman States, and was finally submitted by the last defeated
party, papà's brothers, to the supreme court in Rome—the conclusive
one of appeal in such instances. My Alessandro was there, awaiting
the result, but comparatively with little anxiety, so confident was
he of success. _Poveretto_, he was too good. Had he known me then, I
would have taken care things should turn out differently! The night
before the judgment was to be pronounced, he was privately warned that
unless he offered a large bribe to one of the prelates of the Rota,
before whom the suit had been pleaded, it would be given against him;
that the other side had bid high, and all he could do was to outbuy
them! 'Bah! bah!' he said; 'this monsignore whose influence will have
so much weight with the other _uditori_ in our cause to-morrow is
above all venal motives: he is too high in the church.' (He was one
of those ecclesiastics, my dear, who wear violet stockings, and talk
so sweetly to your fair compatriots in Rome.) 'O no,' he reasoned with
his heart, _da galant'uomo_, 'the thing is impossible: it is merely a
trick of the enemy,'—and so went to sleep without any misgiving. The
next day”—snapping her fingers expressively—“he found out his mistake,
and the famous _causa_ was irrevocably lost! Poor old papà—they tell me
he has never been the same man since: the very want of the accustomed
excitement must be a blank to him. Now and then he pricks up his ears,
in the hopes of finding some source of litigation with his sons-in-law
about his daughters' portions, or searches out old family claims,
which he wants to revive, and so on—but we take care nothing shall
come of it. So he sits with Don Ciriaco, going over legal accounts and
rummaging among title-deeds in the morning, and spends his afternoons
_in conversazione_ at the Casino, listening to all the stories people
can remember of lawsuits as intricate and unfortunate as his own. All
know his passion for such relations, and good-naturedly try to amuse
him with them. The family affairs Alessandro takes care of now, and
is really getting them into order. Though he says so little, he has a
great head for business.”
To the marchesa's honour, be it added, that it was not from herself I
learned that something beyond Alessandro's clever management had been
requisite here, which she liberally supplied. But on the good services
she thus rendered, as well as her own extensive charities, though so
communicative in other respects, she was always silent; and, perfectly
unostentatious in her dress and other personal expenses, never seemed
conscious of being richer than any of her surrounding kindred.
But I have digressed, while the marchesa is still talking. “Volunnia,
poor soul!” she went on, clearing her voice, I grieve to record, to
the detriment of the floor—“Volunnia has been the chief sufferer by
all these troubles. She was the eldest of the family, senior even to
Alessandro, and considerably older than her sisters. While her parents
were in all the _furore_ of this lawsuit, they had no time to think
about getting her married, or it was not convenient to bring forward
a _dote_ suitable to their position and reputed wealth. So years and
years rolled by, and the _poverina_ not augmenting in good looks, saw
her chances of being settled fast diminishing. It is ten years since I
came into the family, and then she was nearly thirty-four! I soon found
two _partiti_ for the younger sisters; but as for Volunnia, though I
have made immense researches, hitherto they have been without success.
In fact, she is too full of instruction—at least the men think so, and
they are afraid of her—and yet, with all her studies, she is consumed
by mortification at not being married. As for Oliverotto, what you see
him, that he is,—a _buon diavolo_—his only fault an unhappy propensity
for play. He has already eaten up part of poor Silvia's dowry, which
he managed to get into his hands. We have secured the rest now as well
as we can, and he has promised to reform. But what will you have? With
such a little stupid _bacchettona_ (that is, bigot) as that for his
wife, it is not surprising he should seek some distraction. Per Bacco!”
she exclaimed, as the midnight chimes were heard, “I had no idea it was
so late!” and lighting a small taper at my massive silver _lucerna_,
the marchesa at last retired, carrying with her the scaldino, and
saying she would desire one of the women-servants to come and take my
commands.