Volunnia's inquisitiveness—Her strictures on English
propriety—The Marchesa Silvia's dread of heretics—The
dinner—The Marchesa Gentilina knits stockings and talks
politics.
I was very much diverted, during the investigation of my wardrobe, at
noticing how keenly Volunnia eyed the make and quality of my garments,
as if furnishing some clue to my position in society; still further
to elucidate which, she proceeded to a diligent cross-examination
respecting my birth, parentage, and the reasons which had brought me so
far from my own country.
Strange as it may seem, there was nothing I felt disposed to take
offence at in these interrogatories. They showed so much ignorance
of the world beyond the narrow limits in which she lived; so
much curiosity to learn something of a country that, despite her
school-learning, was almost as much an Ultima Thule to her as to her
Roman ancestors; and displayed besides so amusingly the impression
left upon foreigners by some of our everyday customs, that I should
have been foolishly sensitive, as well as have deprived myself of a
good deal of entertainment, had I resented Volunnia's inquiries, or her
comments upon my answers. But I was evidently an enigma to her, which
it would have required a second Œdipus to unravel.
“_Ma, ma_,” she said at length, as if musing upon the subject—“when
you return to England, will it not hinder your ever marrying to have it
said that you have been abroad, away from your nearest relations?—and
who, after all, will be able to certify where? _We_, in these parts,
know and respect your uncle and his family, and can answer for their
manner of life; but supposing a _partito_ in your own country is
found for you, might not injurious inferences be drawn from your long
absence? Who will vouch for your having been really under the care of
your uncle, or furnish proofs of his excellence and fitness for the
charge?”
I had not weighed all these important considerations, I told her
gravely—nevertheless had no fear, in the event of their being mooted,
that any unpleasant remarks could be applied to my stay with my
relations in Ancona.
“I suppose you know best, carina; but a person who contemplates
marriage has certainly a right to be particular as to the previous
proceedings of the young lady who may be proposed to him as a wife—and
who can satisfy the doubts of a man in such a case? With us, believe
me, the injury to a woman's prospects would be incalculable.”
I rejoined meekly, that in England it was not usual, and, above all,
not deemed advisable, for persons to enter into matrimony without such
knowledge of each other's characters, and mutual trust and confidence,
as rendered it impossible that suspicions like those she hinted at
could ever be entertained.
“You are a singular people, you English!” she exclaimed; “such licence
allowed women when single—such severity shown towards them when
married. I saw a little of your manners several years ago, when I
spent a winter with my parents in Rome. Alas! we were drawn thither
by that ill-fated _processo_, and became acquainted with a family of
your compatriots. I was astonished! Young men were allowed to come
constantly in the evening to the house, and would stand by the piano
while the young ladies played, and turn over the leaves of their
music-books, or assist them in the duties of the tea-table, laughing
and talking without the least restraint; nay, more, hold tête-à-tête
conversations over an embroidery-frame or a chess-board, while the
mother sat at the other end of the room, perfectly indifferent as to
what they might be saying.”
“Because she, doubtless, had confidence that neither the young
Englishmen she permitted to visit at her house would dream of uttering,
nor her daughters so far forget themselves as to listen to, a single
word incompatible with the strictest propriety.”
“Precisely: that is what this lady said when my poor mother,
_buon'anima_, ventured some remark on these proceedings, so singular
to our eyes. Then, what astonished us exceedingly was the great
familiarity with their brothers, by whom I have frequently seen them
kissed, without any motive—such as saying farewell before a long
absence, or a return from a journey—to authorize it; while they were
permitted to walk or ride out without any other escort—one or two
of the sons' most intimate friends sometimes even joining them; the
mother calmly acquiescing, nay, encouraging them, by saying her sons
were the natural guardians of their sisters, and would admit no one to
their society unworthy of that distinction! But the crowning stroke of
all was when a marriage was combined with some _milor_ for one of the
young ladies, or rather when she had combined it for herself—for he
spoke to _her_ before declaring himself to the parents—she was allowed
to take his arm on the Pincian Hill or the Villa Borghese, with only
a sister or a young brother of nineteen or twenty as a chaperon; and
I myself have seen them, under their mother's very eyes, stand for
half-an-hour in the evening on a balcony, under pretence of looking at
the moonlight, and unconsciously turning my head in that direction, I
could not help witnessing ... Ahem!” Volunnia blushed and hesitated.
“A little of the same proceeding you had objected to in the brothers?”
“You are right! At the moment I was so amazed I hardly dared tell my
mother what I had beheld; she would have been too much scandalized!”
“And yet you did not count it worthy of remark, among your own
Roman friends, to see a young woman, but two or three years married,
surrounded by a bevy of admirers; carrying the arts of coquetry to
their utmost height, and taking pride in inspiring attachments and
receiving declarations which would be esteemed an insult to a modest
English wife. And you did not feel shocked, when the first novelty of
her gay life was over—when the society from which she had been shut
out in her girlhood had lost its intoxicating influence—to hear of
her exchanging the homage of the many for the exclusive devotion of
a recognized _cavaliere_, replacing, by his daily assiduities, the
presence of a husband who has found similar occupations for himself
elsewhere! _Scusi_, Signora Volunnia: you are at liberty to call us a
strange people, but permit me to say our system, even taken from your
own point of view, is a thousand times preferable to yours.”
“_Via, via_,” she replied; “you exaggerate a little. What you say
might be applicable fifty years ago, when it used to be stipulated in
the marriage-contract that the wife should have but one _cavaliere
servente_, and the husband often selected a friend whom he thought
trustworthy for that office. But things have changed now: it is no
longer looked upon as indispensable; and I could tell you of several
ladies of my acquaintance who have never had a _cavaliere_, nor the
shadow of one. My own mother, dear soul! I can cite as an instance—a
remarkable one, I admit, for the period when she was young—but then
she had a singular affection for my father, who on his side was always
ready to accompany her to the theatre or the casino; or else, as I
myself remember, whenever she was indisposed, for two or three hours
together would sit in her room, talking most agreeably: altogether, he
showed extreme amiability in paying her those little attentions which
others, less fortunate in their marriage, are glad to receive from
their _cavalieri_. Then take Silvia for another example: I do not think
she has ever had an idea upon the subject; in fact, she has no taste
for amusements, and never cares for anything except her children and
her religious duties, in which last, indeed, she is exemplary.”
The conversation was here interrupted by a servant coming to inquire
whether the marchesina intended to drive or walk before dinner, which
reminded her of the lateness of the hour, and the necessity of retiring
to dress. About one o'clock, the ladies of the family went out—not
together, nor indeed frequently, except Silvia, who daily repaired
with her pale children and two nurses to an avenue of trees outside the
gates of the town, where they descended from the carriage, and crawled
up and down for an hour or so, and then drove home again.
The marchesa seldom cared to leave the house; she always had visitors
at that hour, and preferred talking to any other exercise. Volunnia was
the only one who found any pleasure in a walk—a taste in which she had
no sympathy from the other members of the family, as even her brothers
never dreamed of going further than the caffè, or, at the utmost, a few
steps upon the public promenade. She was, therefore, glad to enlist
me as a companion, and, followed by one of the liveried attendants,
who was especially dedicated to Volunnia's service—being her nurse
in sickness as well as body-guard in health—we took several walks in
the environs of Macerata. Sometimes, too, I went with the marchesa to
pay visits; and once or twice, to propitiate Silvia, I accepted her
invitation to drive with her and the children; but we never became
cordial. I was too much at variance with all her preconceived ideas
of propriety ever to find favour in her eyes; besides, my being a
Protestant was an insurmountable disqualification. I accidentally
discovered she firmly believed that the transmigration of human souls
into the bodies of animals was a dogma of the Church of England—a
conclusion founded upon the circumstance, that some years before, an
English family holding this theory had resided in Macerata, where they
excited much notice by purchasing and fondly cherishing sundry diseased
horses, half-starved sheep, and other suffering quadrupeds, in whom,
they declared, dwelt the spirits of their departed relations. Silvia
could never quite believe that I did not hold this tenet. She did not,
indeed, like conversations on such subjects; and once, when I said
something laughingly in allusion to myself, thus retorted, “Well, what
does it signify, after all? You do not pray to the Madonna, so the rest
matters little.” And on my offering to lend her an Italian translation
of the English Prayer-book, she shrunk back, colouring deeply, and
abruptly declined.
But stay, it is three o'clock, and Rococo stands with a napkin under
his arm, knocking at each door—“Eccellenza in tavola.” And their
excellencies being very hungry, no time is lost in assembling in the
room down-stairs, where the parrot, on a lofty perch, is sounding the
note of preparation with right good-will. “Presto! Presto! La Zuppa.
Ho fame—Ho fame!”—he exclaims in shrill accents, flapping his wings,
while the family, hastily crossing themselves, are taking their places,
and addressing each other in voices almost as piercing to the ear; for
the high key in which Italians carry on their familiar discourse is
one of the peculiarities to which an English person finds it the most
difficult to become reconciled.
The large table is very simply laid; the dinner-service is of the
plainest white-ware, and the glass is equally ordinary. Between
every two places there is a bottle of wine—the growth of their own
vineyards—and a decanter of water; and beneath every napkin a small
loaf of bread. In the centre, a number of small dishes are disposed in
a circle, called the _ghirlanda_: these contain anchovies, caviare,
olives, Bologna sausage cut into thin slices, butter, pickles, and
raw ham, and are partaken of after the soup; broth, thickened with
semolina, has been served out from a sideboard by the _maestro di
casa_, and handed by the other servants, of whom there are three
in attendance. Then are brought round, successively, boiled fowls
stuffed with chestnuts; fried fish; roast lamb; a pie of cocks' combs
and brains, with a sweet crust; polenta—Indian-corn meal—in a form
enshrining stewed birds, and seasoned with Parmesan cheese; onions
dressed _all'agro dolce_ with vinegar and sugar; and, lastly, chocolate
cream—each dish being carved, where carving is necessary, by Rococo.
When these comestibles have been fully done justice to, the cloth is
swept, the _ghirlanda_ is removed, and the dessert, in the same sort of
white dishes, put upon table: apples and pears piled together, oranges
opposite; cheese and celery—all taken indiscriminately on the same
plate.
The repast occupies a long time, for tongues, as well as knives and
forks, are busy, and as great an amount of talking as of eating is got
through. Being the first general gathering of the day, there is all
the out-door gossip, as well as domestic intelligence, reciprocally to
be imparted. In the conversation, the servants even occasionally join,
volunteering an opinion as to whether it will rain the next quarter of
the moon, or announcing that the Signora Marchesa So-and-so is laid up
with a tooth-ache, or that Monsignor the Bishop has the gout; and as
for Rococo, he is continually appealed to, being evidently recognized
as an authority by the whole house.
In conclusion, finger-glasses, with slices of lemon floating in
the water, are presented to us, and we adjourn to the marchesa's
drawing-room, where coffee is served; and after a few minutes, the
majority disperse—Silvia to her babes, the priest to his breviary,
Volunnia to her bower. Papà calls for his cloak and stick, and departs
for the casino, leaning on the arm of Oliverotto, who, having dutifully
accompanied his father thither, adjourns to the caffè, and will
probably not reappear in the bosom of his family until supper.
I remain with the marchesa and Alessandro, who always passes the early
hours of the evening at home, only going out to pay some accustomed
visit or look in at the casino, from eight to ten, at which early
hour, to their great discomfort, they sup on account of papà. It soon
grows dark, and a large _lucerna_ is brought in, before which the
servant adjusts a green shade, effectually precluding the possibility
of reading or working by its light, except, indeed, that marvellous
knitting which the marchesa carries on mechanically, never looking at
her needles, and yet producing all sorts of complicated patterns for
her stockings, the fabrication of which is her sole manual employment.
It is unusually cold for the middle of February, and there is a
contention about the fire, which they insist upon lighting out of
compliment to me; but this I stoutly refuse, knowing that every
indisposition of the family or their visitants for the next fortnight
at least would be attributed to it. So I wrap myself in a large shawl,
have a _cassetta_ filled with live embers for my feet, and feel quite
comfortable. But I must learn to knit too, for then I shall be able to
keep my attention from wandering while the marchesa talks, and really
she is worth listening to, though Alessandro yawns so audibly. She is
holding forth warmly against the English Government for having deluded
the Italians, and especially the Sicilians, by encouraging them to
revolt in 1848, and abandoning them to their fate when defeated in
1849. It is indeed a sorry tale, and there is little to be said in
extenuation, though naturally one tries to make the best of it. Not
with me, not with the English people, is she angry, the marchesa over
and over again repeats; it is with that cold selfishness which is
here considered the blot upon English policy in all its relations with
foreign nations.
There is a ring at the bell! Alessandro rouses himself. It is past six.
The friends who form the conversazione begin to arrive, each person
staying from one to two hours, according to the number of other houses
at which he also habitually visits. Though they come every evening,
they never shake hands, at least not those of the old _régime_, and
they have always something new to say.