A conversazione verbatim—Admiration for Piedmont—An attack of
banditti—The Marchesa describes the actual wretchedness of
the country—Cardinal Antonelli's addition to the calendar
year—Monopoly of the Corn trade—Entrance of the Knight of
Malta.
The conversazione, in its outward features, I have elsewhere
sufficiently dwelt upon; but its portraiture of domestic life, of
fettered thoughts, of quaint opinion, as exhibited in one evening at
the Palazzo Marziani, I would fain reproduce for the English reader,
who may probably live to see the day when a mighty revolution will
uproot all traces of the system of society feebly, though truthfully,
mirrored in these pages.
I should, however, be sorry to convey any idea of the ponderous
formality of some of the frequenters of the Marchesa Gentilina's
circle; or the fatiguing effect which the unvarying ceremoniousness
of their demeanour on entering produced upon me. Though accustomed to
visit the family every night for scores of years, having formed part
of the old Marchesa Marziani's _società_ while she lived, as regularly
as they now did that of her successor, they never presented themselves
without the same profound bow, and the same “Marchesa, I rejoice to
see you well! How is the Marchese Alessandro? I met your esteemed
father-in-law, the marchese, not long since, on his way to the casino.
I concluded, from this circumstance, that his cold was better; the
violet-tea he was ordered to take last night, doubtless produced a
copious perspiration.” Or else: “I hope the Marchesa Silvia and her
children are in good health. I thought her looking rather fatigued when
I saw her taking her accustomed airing to-day. Perhaps nursing does
not agree with her;” and so on, uniting the most punctilious etiquette
with the most detailed minutiæ of everyday life, such as is now seldom
seen except in the heart of Italy, where intercourse with foreigners
is still too rare to have any influence in modifying the old-fashioned
tone of conversation.
Then the budget of news would be unfolded, and every murder or highway
robbery within the circuit of fifty miles, every accident that has
taken place in the town that day, is as circumstantially related as
if a reporter from Scotland Yard had been in attendance. Next, there
are the maladies of all their invalid acquaintances to be discussed;
while any remarkable complaint amongst members of the _mezzo cetto_ and
shopkeepers, whom of course they all know by sight and name, is also
gratefully admitted to the general repository. Add to these the births,
present or anticipated, in the high world of Macerata, and, above all,
the marriages—an unfailing source of speculation and interest—and a
tolerable idea may be formed of the home department of the Colloquial
Gazette, which supplies the place of newspapers and weekly periodicals,
&c., to an Italian interior. The foreign intelligence is almost equally
well supplied, though not so widely, or, more properly speaking, not
so unreservedly communicated. How they contrived to know all they did
of what was passing in other countries, considering that the newspapers
allowed to be circulated only gave the official report of some events,
and pertinaciously ignored others, was always a surprise to me, though
fully weighing the stimulus to inquiry of which the Government's
senseless restrictions were naturally productive.
But this information, as I have remarked, was not common to all,
nor dispensed to all equally. The happy possessor of any contraband
political novelty could be detected by his air of mysterious
importance, his unwonted sententiousness, his impatience till the one
or two old _codini_, who had devolved like family heir-looms upon the
marchesa, had taken their leave; when it would be related, with the
accompaniment of many gleeful expressive gestures, how such and such
tidings had been received, that must have been like gall and wormwood
to the existing powers.
Piedmont—constitutional Piedmont, progressist Piedmont—generally
furnished the substance of these discourses. One day it would be
whispered that a law was being contemplated in that contumacious
little kingdom, for the suppression of many among the monastic orders;
another, that its clergy were rendered amenable to civil tribunals
for offences unconnected with ecclesiastical discipline: or else it
would be ecstatically reported that the minister Cavour snapped his
fingers at the threatened interdict, and answered the vituperation
of the exiled Archbishop of Turin by fresh concessions to liberty of
conscience. These graver themes were but interludes, however. As if
fearful of lingering too long upon them, they used to pass to more
trivial subjects with strange versatility, though losing no opportunity
of levelling a shaft against their own Government, and inveighing
at the existing and daily-increasing grievances, which not even the
respectable codini any longer attempted to defend.
The marchesa's _società_ had not more than four or five unvarying
frequenters; but in a small town like Macerata, where most of the
ladies received, this was considered quite a brilliant circle. No
refreshments of any kind were served or thought of, and no other light
was supplied than what the _lucerna_ furnished. If the reader, who has
followed me through my first day in the bosom of the Marziani family,
likes to hear something of its conclusion, he may fancy himself seated
on a brocaded chair in that corner—he need not fear being discovered,
the lucerna's rays do not penetrate so far—he may put on his cloak if
he is cold—there! I have pushed a little square of carpet towards him
for his feet, while for the first time he _assists_, to use a foreign
idiom, at a genuine Italian conversazione.
“Has the marchesa heard of the strange adventure at the Villa D——,
two nights ago?” inquired a young physician, who, uniting some
poetical to a considerable share of medical reputation, had the
_entrée_ to the palazzo, which its mistress was only restrained
by the fear of compromising her husband, from throwing open to all
the disaffected professional men in Macerata and its environs. “The
house was attacked soon after midnight by a number of banditti, some
of them with fire-arms, of which the people left in charge were
of course destitute—our new-year's gift from the Austrian general
having been, as you remember, a peremptory refusal to our petition
that country-houses in isolated situations might retain one or two
fowling-pieces as a defence. Well, the wind was high, so that the
unfortunate inmates feared their cries for help, and the ringing of
the alarm-bell, would be alike unheard; while the robbers, finding the
coast clear, after having, luckily enough, lost a good deal of time
in trying to force open the strongly-secured house-door, bethought
themselves of _undermining_ it. They had almost finished their labours,
when the storm beginning to lull, the beleaguered garrison succeeded
in attracting attention. A picket of _finanzieri_ (custom-house
officers) who chanced to be patrolling, on the look-out for smugglers,
hastened to their assistance; and the enemy, hearing them approach,
precipitately dispersed.”
“_Ehi poveri noi!_” sighed the old Marchese Testaferrata, the strongest
advocate of retrogradism in the società, “we are indeed in a bad case!
The boasted improvements of this century, its fine liberalism, its
socialism, its toleration to heretics, ahem, ahem!—it is all being
visited now upon us! I grant you, yes, even I confess, that this
military law is a little severe. But if we had not this, ugh! we should
have worse. _This_ is what the Mazziniani would give us if they could.
_We_ can speak of that with some experience, _ehi_?” and tapping his
heart with his forefinger, to denote stabbing, he then extended it
horizontally as an emblem of shooting; after which he drew in his two
hollow cheeks, so as to form a still greater cavity, and slowly nodding
his head, looked as if he thought quite enough had been said upon so
unpleasant a subject.
The young doctor shrugged his shoulders; the marchesa took up the
gauntlet.
“If we had not this! _Per Bacco_, you are right, we _should_ have
worse. If the Austrians go on in this way, who will reap the harvest
of the odium they have plentifully sown? Why, the priests, of course,
whom they are now supporting with their bayonets and the stick! _They_
are safe from popular vengeance. What has an army like theirs to fear?
But let their backs be once turned—let the last sail of the fleet which
will bear them from our shores have sunk beneath the horizon, and who
can estimate the violence with which the torrent, so long forcibly
restrained, will break forth? Who can assign any limits to popular fury
under provocation, such as daily, weekly, yearly, is crying to Heaven
for redress? And who will be the sufferers along with the priests? Why,
we nobles, of course, whom the people, right or wrong, identify with
them, and hate with equal hatred.”
“_Per carità_, marchesa,” interposed a very timorous-looking little
man, turning pale, and wiping his forehead, “let us not speak of
such things. Those who have outlived the Reign of Terror of '49, have
reasonable grounds for not expecting to see anything so horrible again.
Besides, we are all friends here; but still, walls have ears.”
“It cannot be denied, however, that we are in a cruel position,” said
a quiet, benevolent-looking man, with a stoop of the shoulders, and a
great weakness of sight—the latter an appanage of old descent in many
of the noble families in the Marche. “It is quite true that the people
place us in the same category with the priests, while the priests drain
us like a sponge! We shall have soon to choose between the excesses of
Mazzinianism or beggary. This additional claim for the land-tax from us
poor _possidenti_—coming after the long-standing prohibition to sell
our grain for foreign exportation, and the losses consequent upon the
low price at which we have been compelled to dispose of it—is really
almost too much for mortal patience to endure.”
“_Come, come?_ What do you mean?” cried old Testaferrata, one of the
largest landed proprietors in the country. “I pay the bi-monthly tax
upon the produce of my estates every two months in anticipation. It
is heavy enough already, in all conscience; but I remember an army of
occupation cannot be maintained for nothing, and they who necessitated
the Austrians being here are those we have to thank for it. _Ma, ma_,
I think we bear our part sufficiently. You surely do not mean to say
anything more is expected from us?”
“_Caro mio_,” answered the lady of the house, “in this extremity,
miraculous powers have developed themselves to aid the suffering
Church. The calendar year, without disturbing the order of nature,
will henceforth consist of fourteen months! No _new_ measure is in
contemplation; tranquillize yourself on this point; simply, we are
to pay seven _bimestri_, instead of six, as heretofore, to supply the
exhausted coffers of the treasury—or, in more straightforward terms,
to line the pockets of a certain _eminentissimo_ and his amiable
relations.”
“Impossible! impossible!” groaned the poor codino, “it is too hard.
Surely some distinction should be made.”
“Without arguing upon differences of opinion,” mildly remarked the good
Alessandro, whose office it was to spread oil upon the troubled waters
of political discussion, “I am sorry to assure you, marchese, that what
Gentilina tells you is too true. You may always trust to her sources of
information.”
“Yes, he is right,” said the marchesa, looking at her husband with
a pleased expression. “Alessandro knows I have never misled him yet
in any news of this kind; and you will see that, at the end of this
month, although you paid punctually at the beginning of last, you will
be again summoned to do so; and then, just as if it was in the proper
course of things, your usual _bimestre_ will, a few days afterwards, be
called for!”
By way of parenthesis, I must state that the correctness of the
marchesa's information, in the course of a few days, was fully
demonstrated, while this singular arrangement is still continued
yearly.
“But this is not the worst,” she continued. “Our good Conte Muzio
there”—indicating the quiet man who had first alluded to the increased
taxation—“lamented our losses by this long prohibition upon the
exporting corn-trade—a measure rendered indispensable, we were told,
by the fears entertained respecting a scarcity after next harvest;
so, although commerce languished, and in the seaports thousands of
people were thrown out of their usual employment, we did not complain,
but acquiesced in its necessity. We sold our grain meantime—at low
prices, it is true—but still we sold. There was a silent yet almost a
simultaneous demand for it all over the country. Once or twice I had
my misgivings, and asked who the buyers could be, and what part of
the State it was principally intended to supply. 'The interior, the
interior,' was always the answer. There was nothing to say against
that. Notwithstanding, I remarked once or twice to Alessandro: 'There
will be some _diavoleria_ here yet.' Now my words have come true! The
prohibition is removed for a limited period; the ports are open again.
At Civita Vecchia it is known to-day; the welcome news will reach
Ancona to-morrow morning. For a moment there will be great joy. The
merchants will scour the country to buy grain, but there is nothing
left for them. It has all been sold—sold unsuspectingly into the
hands of one person, the Cardinal Antonelli's brother. He has it all—a
perfect monopoly of the corn-trade. Ha! ha! was it not cleverly done?
There will be just time given for it to be all shipped, and then down
comes another courier. The ports are once more closed, and the curtain
falls upon the brother—or somebody else—chuckling over a few hundred
thousand dollars he has realized by this pretty little transaction.”
“I cannot believe that till I have seen it,” said Testaferrata.
“You need not shake your head, marchese,” she retorted; “it is as
true as that we are all sitting here. As for ourselves, nobody forced
us to sell our corn: so, although to a certain degree we have been
dupes, I see no particular cause of complaint. But it is the juggling,
the pretence of sparing the country's resources, only to drain them
tenfold more than by legitimate commerce, which it stirs my bile to
contemplate! And if the coming harvest is _not_ plentiful, and the
price of bread rises in the autumn, what will become of the miserable
population, already poor enough?”
The entrance of another personage at this moment gave an opportune
turn to the conversation. The new-comer was a handsome, graceful young
man about thirty, with an ease and sprightliness of manner that was
remarkably opposed to the formality and ceremoniousness of those who
had previously appeared. He was hailed with evident pleasure by the
whole società; and the marchesa, with an exclamation of joy, gave him
her hand to kiss, and inquired what good-fortune had sent her dear
Checchino (the diminutive of Francesco) down from Rome.
“I am only here _di passaggio_, dear lady! My duty summons me to
Ancona, to await our grand-master who is expected there next week from
Venice; and my affection prompted me to leave Rome a few days earlier
than necessary, that I might stop at Macerata with my friends.”
While the marchesa asked half a dozen questions in a breath about
her Roman acquaintances, Alessandro, who had not yet gone out, told
me, _sotto voce_, that this Checchino was a young cousin of theirs, a
knight of Malta, whom they were all very fond of.
“A knight of Malta?” I answered, surveying him with increased interest.
“I had fancied the order no longer existed.”
“No more it ought, to say the truth. You should hear Gentilina rave
about it,” he said, raising his eyebrows, and emitting a sibilating
sound from his lips, to denote the excess of her eloquence; “and I
cannot deny that she has reason. It is _un voto iniquo_, a wicked,
unnatural vow—an order which, if I were Pope, I would abolish the
very first hour of my reign. The knights of Malta are rich; they
have large revenues: Checchino receives one thousand dollars a year
(£200), and has his apartments rent free in the palace of the Order in
the Via Condotti in Rome, besides other advantages; so, for a single
man, he is amply provided for. Then it is a distinction in society;
only members of the best families are admitted; and a _cavaliere di
Malta_ is fit company for kings. But he cannot marry: he is bound by
a vow as irrevocable as that of priests or friars, although exposed
to far greater temptations; for he may go to every ball, theatre, or
concert in Rome, or wherever he may be, without censure. He dances,
he dresses in the height of fashion, he pays court, and yet he cannot
marry—anything but that! What will you have? Gentilina has too much
justice in all she says!”