Conversazione continued—Match-making—The Codini opposed
to travelling—Hopes of the liberals centred in
Piedmont—Volunnia's pleasantries—Story of the young noble and
his pasteboard soldiers.
Meanwhile the representative of the knights-hospitallers of St John
of Jerusalem, and the defenders of Rhodes and of Malta, did not seem
at all to regard himself as an object of commiseration, but went on
talking and laughing in the highest spirits, giving a rapid summary of
all the recent Carnival gossip of Rome, and then asked, in his turn,
the news of Macerata in the same gay, careless strain.
“So the Marchese Ridolfi has married his _gobbina_ daughter at last,
I am told? It was no easy achievement, I should say. Who arranged the
affair?”
“As for that, I do not exactly know,” answered the timid old count,
brightening up as he entered on a genial topic; for having disposed of
his own daughters very advantageously some years before, he assumed an
air of superiority whenever the subject was introduced, conscious that
he was regarded with a sort of admiring envy by fathers still burdened
with the care of settling theirs. “I do not exactly know,” he repeated,
rubbing his hands, “whether it was some _amico di casa_ (family friend)
or a matrimonial broker, who arranged the partito; but whoever did,
it was clumsily done enough! The sposo, a Neapolitan baron, thought
the _dote_ very fair, and was tolerably satisfied with the portrait
they sent him before he signed. Ridolfi, on his part, had no cause to
complain of the information he received concerning the young man, his
fortune, and so forth; and accordingly, near the end of Carnival, he
arrived for the celebration of the marriage. Then _corbezzoli!_ there
is a pretty piece of work! The baron perceives that one of the young
lady's shoulders is much higher than the other, a fact the painter
had omitted in her portrait—by the by, it was only a medallion that
was sent—merely the head, ha! ha!—and says, _tutto schietto_, just in
two words, that unless a bag of three thousand additional dollars is
produced, to give her form its required equipoise, he will go back to
his own country as he came, and annul the contract! You should have
seen the way Ridolfi was in. Nothing could bring him to reason for some
time, and a lawsuit seemed inevitable. But then I and some others, who
had not been consulted before, came forward, and we mediated, and we
talked. _Basta!_ there was a compromise, and the wedding took place the
last Tuesday of Carnival. I was really glad, for I had it upon my heart
to get that poor girl married.”
“I don't deny the sposo had some reason on his side,” said the
other Nestor of the group, the Marchese Testaferrata. “But if
Ridolfi had taken my advice, after what we heard of his vagabond
dispositions—instead of thinking it rather a fine thing that his future
son-in-law had been to Paris, and who knows where—he would have had
nothing to say to the match. '_Senti, caro_,' I said to him, 'I have
lived a few more years than you, and I never yet saw any good from
wandering about the world. Let each man stay among his own people,
where his fathers lived and died. What did for our parents, is surely
good enough for us.' But he thought he knew better, _poveretto_; he
would not listen to me, so I washed my hands of the business.”
“What was he to do?” returned the other. “There was the girl to find
a husband for, and he was obliged to adapt himself to what he could
get. Besides, it is agreed that the sposi are to spend alternately six
months with her family here, and six with his in Calabria.”
I could not help mentally pitying the young couple when I heard of this
arrangement; but the next moment's reflection served to remind me that
a _ménage tête-à-tête_ between persons united under such circumstances
could present nothing very inviting, and accordingly I withdrew my
superfluous sympathy.
“And young Della Porta?” ashed Checchino, “he has got into a lawsuit
about something like Ridolfi's affair—has he not?”
“No; not precisely. It appears he employed a regular _sensale_ (broker)
to negotiate his marriage with a rich heiress of Ancona; and as she was
really a capital match, and several other candidates were in the field,
he promised him a large percentage—I do not recollect how much—upon
the total amount of her fortune, should he succeed in arranging it.
Everything went on smoothly, and the marriage took place; but somehow
our good friend did not find it convenient to fulfil his agreement. So
the broker cites him before the Tribunal, where Della Porta justifies
himself by declaring it is through other channels that success was
obtained, and that the plaintiff's boasted influence _alone_ would
have been ineffectual. So they have gone regularly to law, and a fine
affair they will make of it. To crown the whole, the father of the
sposa is furious, for he finds the broker purposely deceived him about
Della Porta's fortune; he is not half so well off as he gave him to
understand. Ah, well, I can pity him, poor man: I pity all those who
have daughters to marry.”
“And I am sure I pity those who have married his daughters!” cried
Checchino, as the door closed upon the two old gentlemen, who always
went away together at the same hour, to the evident relief of the rest
of the company. “And that old Testaferrata, too, with his still more
ultra-codino theories. He ought certainly to have been a Chinese. I
remember when his grandson wanted to visit the Great Exhibition of
London. _Corpo di Bacco!_ he might as well have requested leave to go
to the infernal regions.”
“Oh, as for that, I could tell you of scores of young men whose
passports were refused them by our most enlightened Government for that
dangerous expedition.”
“If I was to repeat that in England,” I said, “I should either be
accused of wilful exaggeration, or of being misled by party feeling.”
“The signorina is right!” exclaimed the doctor. “It is easy to conceive
that these miserable puerilities, these minutiæ of despotism, are below
the comprehension of a people who have never been denied either freedom
of action or of speech.”
“This condition of things cannot last, however,” said the Conte
Muzio, who, since the departure of the two codini, had become more
animated; the presence of the old conte, so exulting over all those
oppressed with matrimonial cares, always sensibly affecting him—so
they afterwards told me—burdened as he was with five marriageable
nieces, for whose sake he had long laid aside all projects for himself,
devoting his little patrimony to augmenting his widowed sister's scanty
resources. “No, no, it cannot last. From what my nephew writes me from
Turin, of the steadiness of the ministry amidst the attacks of the two
extreme parties—the Retrogrades and Republicans—and their determination
to uphold the constitution to the utmost, I augur better times for
ourselves. Let it be but consolidated by a few more years, that
precious constitution, the only reality left of the dreams and hopes,
and alas! the excesses of a period so bright in its dawning, so dark
in its close—let this be, and all of us, lifting up our drooping heads,
looking to Piedmont as our example and regenerator, will yet find those
beautiful words, '_Italia unita_,' are no delusion.”
“Then he is as enthusiastic as ever with his adopted country, your
nephew, _ehi_?” inquired Checchino. “He is quite a Piedmontese.”
“He is Italian, I hope,” said Muzio, quietly. “I look for the day when
_that_ will be the only designation of all born within the length and
breadth of the fairest country in Europe.”
“You are an optimist, _caro_, as well as the king of uncles. I hope
we shall see him a general some day. Do you know, signorina,” turning
to me, “that this unparalleled Conte Muzio, to gratify his nephew's
martial genius, took him to Turin, and has placed him in the military
academy, where—But who have we here at last? Signora Volunnia, I
congratulate myself on seeing you so well. It appeared to me a thousand
years till I saw you again!”
Volunnia received her cousin's greeting with great friendliness,
reciprocating his compliments on the pleasure of meeting, but assured
him her health was far from good, and announced that she purposed
taking some cream of tartar the next morning as a _rinfrescante_, and
would stay all day in bed. These particulars having elicited great
sympathy from the assembled friends, she next playfully tapped the
knight of Malta on the lower part of his waistcoat, remarking: “Ah,
Checchino mio, comminci a metterti un po' di pancia,” which, delicately
translated, signifies, “You are growing rather corpulent;” a proceeding
I could not help looking upon as singular, especially after her
strictures on English propriety.
Checchino, who evidently piqued himself upon his figure, bore the laugh
this sally elicited with tolerably good grace, but revenged himself by
telling Volunnia of the marriages of two or three young ladies in Rome
whose mothers, he well knew, had been her contemporaries; and asked
with tender interest after her sisters and their children, which last
topic always irritated her extremely.
Then, when he thought her sufficiently punished, with the tact that is
almost instinctive to an Italian, he brought back the conversation to
the Conte Muzio's nephew, on whom the good uncle's hopes and affection
were evidently centered.
“So he passed his examinations well on entering? That must have been
a great consolation to you, after all the sacrifices you made, and the
difficulties you had to overcome beforehand. Ah, it is a fine service,
no doubt: the Piedmontese _are_ soldiers!”
“My friend,” said Muzio, “they are also sailors and engineers, and
manufacturers and politicians—in a word, they are MEN. I would sooner
my nephew had chosen another than the military profession: to some
honourable employment I had always destined him; for I resolved at any
cost to emancipate him from the life of caffès and theatres, which
foreigners say is the sole aim of an Italian's existence, but that,
more truly speaking, he is driven to by the peculiarities of his social
position; and it would have suited better with our limited fortune had
the boy made a different selection. But the bias was too strong: it
would have been cruel to resist it.”
“If he had not had you for his uncle,” cried the marchesa, “he would
have turned out a second Paolo Pagano with his toy-soldiers.”
“Who is he?” I asked. “Is not Pagano the name of the old gentleman who
went away with the Marchese Testaferrata?”
“_Per appunto_,” she answered, “he is his father; but you do not hear
so much of poor Paolo, though he is more than thirty years old, as of
the blessing of having disposed of all his daughters. He wanted to
be a soldier too, but it was not to be thought of; so his military
tendencies, denied their natural vent, have displayed themselves in
a ludicrous form. For years he has been employed in the construction
of thousands of little pasteboard figures, which he paints and equips
with the utmost care, according to the uniform of different nations.
To place these in line of battle, to repeat manœuvres he sees the
Austrians practise while out exercising, to go through the routine of
drill, parade, and bivouac, constitutes the occupation and enjoyment of
his life.”
“But you should see the order in which he keeps them,” said Checchino:
“the last time I was here, I got a sight of the army, all equipped
for the winter campaign. You must know, it is believed that, being
perplexed as to the means of providing for so large a body, he once
appropriated the ample cloak of his uncle, a canon, and cut it up into
wrappings for his soldiers!”
“We laugh at this,” broke out the young doctor, rather fiercely;
“but we have more need to weep at the reflections it calls up on
the condition of our country, where it is impossible to gratify
the yearning for military life so common to young men, unless by
following the example of Conte Muzio, and, in addition to great
personal sacrifice, incurring the suspicion and resentment of the
Government—which there are few ready, like him, to brave. Here, in our
States, to be a soldier is synonymous with disgrace! No career, except
the church, is open to the patrician youth. And yet it is in presence
of these abuses, this palsying idleness, that you find men of good
faith, like Testaferrata and Pagano, whimpering after the good old
times, which means, if possible, a greater state of slavery than the
present, and anathematizing every prospect of reform!”
“_Carissimo dottore_,” said Checchino, taking up his hat, “one must be
just after all. Trees of liberty bearing bullets and poniards, do not
tend to enlarge the understanding, or give a taste for another season
of such fruits and foliage. We laugh at Testaferrata, and those who
think like him; but, upon my conscience, if you or I had been stabbed
and shot at in the open daylight, as both he and Pagano were in Ancona
in 1849, simply because it was known we did not coincide with the party
which had got the uppermost (it was during the Pope's absence at Gaeta,
and the short-lived republic at Rome, signorina), I don't imagine we
should ever entertain very amiable sentiments towards the system whose
advocates indulged in such questionable pleasantries.”
“Those were exceptions, not the rule,” cried the marchesa. “Who can be
answerable for the excesses of a faction? It is not fair to bring up
the assassinations of Ancona to the signorina.”
“I am just—I am just,” he answered, laughing; “it is but right to show
the reverse of the medal. You were having it all your own way, if I had
not put in a word on the other side. You have enough left to make out a
very good case, my friends: console yourselves with that. As for me, I
do not expect to see better times, whatever our excellent Muzio may say
to the contrary; so I do not kill myself with care, and endeavour to
make the best of what we have, laugh and amuse myself, and keep out of
politics.—_Signori miei_, good night.”