Unwillingness of the Italians to speak on serious
topics—Indifference of the majority to literature—Reasons for
discouraging the cultivation of female intellect—The Marchesa
Gentilina relates her convent experiences—Admiration of
English domestic life.
One day so closely resembles another in the general course of existence
in the provincial towns of Central and Southern Italy, that it would
be difficult, with any regard to truth, to throw much more diversity
into the description of twelve months than of twelve hours; the only
variation of any importance being connected with the seasons when the
Opera is open, for which the majority of the population retain the
absorbing attachment that grave thinkers, like the good and enlightened
Ganganelli, so far back as a century ago, lamented as the bane of the
inhabitants of the Marche. On this, however, as on a variety of other
matters, his successors held different opinions from Clement XIV.;
and by their encouragement to the taste for theatrical performances,
fostered the levity which that pontiff in his correspondence so much
deplores—well content to see the eagerness, the interest, the hopes
which in other countries men are _taught_ it is more fitting to
bestow on questions of science, politics, and religion, centre among
their own subjects on the _trilli_ of a prima donna, or the legs of a
_ballerina_.
That which, perhaps, out of a hundred other traits, most forcibly
attracted my notice, as evincing the most striking contrast to English
manners—for, he it remembered, I never set up for a cosmopolite, but,
conscious of my inherent insularities, measure everything by the gauge
of English opinion and English custom—was the complete absence, in
their familiar conversation, of all allusion to a topic which, more or
less, for better or for worse, is always a predominant one with us.
It was some time before I could assure myself that the silence
connected with religion, in all save its most material forms—such
as just saying, “I am going to mass;” or, “How tiresome! to-morrow
is a vigil, and we must eat _maigre_!”—did not arise from reserve at
the presence of a heretic; but at length I was convinced that there
was no design in this avoidance of themes which, in England, you can
scarcely take up a magazine, or a fashionable novel, or pay a morning
visit, or go twenty miles in a railway, without encountering. Instead
of interweaving their conversation with phrases akin to those which,
either from piety, or habit, or, alas! from cant, are so frequently
upon the lips of English people, the Italians seemed anxious to put
aside whatever tended to awaken such unpleasant considerations as the
uncertainty of life or a preparation for eternity; casting all their
cares in this last particular—when they considered it worth caring
for—upon their priests, with a confidence it was marvellous to witness.
Never, certainly, judging them as a totality, was there a set of people
who “thought less about thinking, or felt less about feeling;” who went
through life less troubled with self-questionings of what they lived
for, or whether they lived well; or who, dissatisfied and listless as
they might be in their present condition, manifested less inclination
to dwell upon the hopes and prospects of futurity.
Yet, although thus opposed to any serious reference to sacred things,
they resemble the French in the levity with which they will introduce
them on the most unseasonable occasions, without any apparent
consciousness of impropriety. Nay, there was thought to be nothing
profane in a _tableau vivant_ which I heard them talking of, as having
recently taken place at the house of one of the noble ladies of the
society; the subject—a Descent from the Cross, or the Entombment, I
know not which—impersonated from an ancient picture. Suffice it to say,
that our Saviour was represented by a remarkably handsome young student
from Bologna, whose style of features and long brown hair resembled the
type which all painters have more or less followed in their pictures of
Christ; and that the Magdalen was the lady of the house, a Florentine
contessa, whose Rubens-like colouring and billowy golden hair had first
suggested her fitness to sustain a part for which her detractors, of
course, added she was also in other respects well qualified.
The sentiments I expressed at this exhibition evidently caused
surprise, as, in fact, was invariably the case at the manifestation
of any religious tendency on my part. I think I have before mentioned
that _Protestant_ amongst these worthy people was but a polite term for
Atheist; as in the case of the Marchesa Silvia when I offered her one
of our prayer-books, the superstitious shrink from being enlightened
upon our tenets; while to the unbelieving, they are a matter of
profound indifference, respecting which they never dream of asking
information. And under these two heads, with but rare exceptions, and
a vast and increasing preponderance to the side of infidelity, it is no
want of charity to say that the population of the Pontifical States may
be classified.
Second only to the avoidance of all serious subjects, that which most
struck me was their complete indifference to literature, even in its
simplest form. Unknown to them is the veneration we cherish for the
popular authors of the day, our familiar reference to their works, our
adoption of their sayings. During childhood they have no story-books to
fill their minds with images which, converted into pleasant memories
in advancing life, it is like letting sunshine upon the soul to muse
over. Their ripening years see them with the same void; for, however it
may be objected that a nation possessing Dante and Tasso, Filicaja and
Alfieri, Monti and Leopardi, should never be taxed with the barrenness
of its literature, I reply that I am here speaking of the requirements
of the generality of the masses, for whose capacity such authors
range too high. The only attempts to supply this deficiency which the
present time has witnessed—or rather, it should be said, the jealous
surveillance over the press has permitted—have been half-a-dozen
historical novels from the pens of Azeglio, Manzoni, Guerrazzi, and
one or two others. But as yet the experiment has failed: you may say
of the Italians as of a backward child, “They do not love their books!”
Reading is looked upon as inseparable from study; as a monopoly in the
hands of a gifted few; and the most hopeless part of the case is, that
they are not sensible of their deficiency, nor lament the deprivation!
Were scores of what we consider unexceptional works for youth to be
spread before Italian parents and preceptors—tales, travels, and
biographies—they would not bid the rising generation fall to and
read. “Let them alone,” they would say; “the boys must attend to their
education: reading for mere amusement will distract their thoughts.” As
for girls, the refusal would be still more decided, for they could be
expected to gather only pernicious notions about seeing the world, or
independence, or choosing for themselves in marriage, from the perusal!
I talked this over one day, not long before my return to Ancona, with
the Marchesa Gentilina, who was sufficiently free from prejudice to
listen quietly to some of my remarks, and sometimes even to acquiesce
in their justice. But on this last point she was not amenable to my
reasoning.
“It is all very well, _carina_; in England, I daresay, it may
answer. But your women are of a different temperament, and society is
differently constituted. As long as parents have the right, as with us,
of disposing of their daughters in the manner they think best suited
for their eventual benefit, the less they learn beforehand of the
tender passion, the better. There are reforms enough wanted amongst our
political abuses, without seeking to introduce innovations into private
life. The whole system must be changed, or else girls had better be
left in their present ignorance and simplicity.”
“But, marchesa——! This from you, who are such an advocate for progress!”
“_Cosa volete?_ I do not think the warm hearts of our daughters of the
south could read as phlegmatically as Englishwomen those tales in which
love and courtship are ever, must ever, be predominant.”
“And if they could thereby learn to form a more exalted idea of what
we tax you Italians as regarding in too common-place a light? If they
were led to look upon marriage less as a worldly transaction than as a
solemn compact, not to be lightly entered into, but to be lovingly and
faithfully observed?”
“If, if, my dear Utopist! If, instead of all these fine results, you
gave them glimpses of a liberty and privileges they could never know,
and so ended by making them miserable? Take my own case for an example.
I was sixteen. I had never left the convent for nine years; I was
always dressed in cotton prints, of the simplest make and description,
and thick leather shoes, with great soles, that clattered as I walked
along the mouldy old corridors, or ran about with the other pupils
in the formal alleys of the garden, of which the four frowning walls
had so long constituted our horizon. My pursuits and acquirements had
varied but little from what they were when I entered the convent; and
to give you in one word the summary of the infantile guilelessness
in which the _educande_ were presumed to exist, I had never seen
the reflection of my own face except by stealth, in a little bit of
looking-glass, about the size of a visiting-card, which I had coaxed
my old nurse to bring me in one of her visits, and that we smuggled
through the grating of the _parlatojo_ concealed between two slices of
cake!
“I knew this was to go on till a partito was arranged for me, for my
parents did not like it to be said they had an unmarried daughter at
home upon their hands; besides, many men prefer a bride fresh from the
seclusion of the convent, and in those days especially, this was the
strict etiquette. I had seen my eldest sister discontented and fretting
till she was nearly twenty, before the welcome sposo could be found,
and I had no inclination to be incarcerated so long, though hope, and
certain furtive glances at my mirror, kept encouraging me to look for a
speedier deliverance.
“At last, one Easter Sunday—how well I remember it!—I was summoned to
the parlatojo, and there, on the outer side of the grating, stood a
group of my relations: my father and mother, my sister and her husband,
and one or two of my aunts. I was so flurried at the sight of so many
people, and so taken up with looking at the gay new Easter dresses of
my visitors—my sister, I recollect, had an immense sort of high-crowned
hat, with prodigious feathers, as was the fashion then, which excited
my intense admiration and envy—that I had not time to bestow much
notice upon a little dried-up old man who had come in with them, and
who kept taking huge pinches of snuff and talking in a low tone with
my father. My mother, on her side, was engaged in whispering to the
Mother-Superior, and from her gestures, seemed in a very good humour;
while the rest of the party drew off my attention by cramming me with
sweetmeats they had brought for my Easter present.
“The next day but one, I was again sent for, and, with downcast eyes,
but a bounding heart, presented myself at the grating. There I found
my mother, as before, in deep conversation with the Superior, who, on
my bending to kiss her hand, according to custom, saluted me on both
cheeks with an unusual demonstration of tenderness.
“'Well, Gentilina,' said my mother, 'I suppose you begin to wish to
come out into the world a little?'
“I knew my mother so slightly, seldom seeing her more than once a
month, that I stood in great awe of her; so I dropped a deep courtesy
and faltered, '_Si, signora_;' but I warrant you I understood it all,
and already saw myself in a hat and feathers even more voluminous than
my sister's!
“'The Madre Superiore does not give you a bad character, I am glad to
find.'
“'_Ah davvero!_' was the commentary upon this, 'the contessina has
always shown the happiest dispositions. At one time, indeed, I hoped,
I fancied, that such rare virtues would have been consecrated to the
glory of our Blessed Lady, and the benefit of our order; but since
the will of Heaven and of her parents call her from me, I can only
pray that in the splendour and enjoyments that await her, she will
not forget her who, for nine years, has filled a mother's place.' At
the conclusion of this harangue, I was again embraced with unspeakable
fervour.
“In my impatience to hear more, I scarcely received these marks of
affection with fitting humility; while forgetting all my lessons of
deportment, I opened my eyes to their fullest extent, and fixed them on
my mother.
“'Ha, ha! Gentilina,' she said, laughing, 'I see you guess something
at last! Yes, my child, I will keep you no longer in suspense. Your
father and I, ever since your sister's marriage, have never ceased
endeavouring to find a suitable match for you. The task was difficult.
You are young, very young, Gentilina; and we could not intrust our
child to inexperienced hands. It was necessary that your husband
should be of an age to counterbalance your extreme youth. On no other
condition could we consent to remove you from this so much earlier than
your sister. But at last a sposo whom your parents, your family, the
Madre Superiore herself, think most suitable, has been selected for
you; and——'
“But I waited to hear no more. The glorious vista of theatres, jewels,
carriages, diversions, which we all knew lay beyond those dreary
convent-walls, suddenly disclosing itself before me, attainable
through that cabalistic word matrimony, was too much for my remaining
composure; and clapping my hands wildly, I exclaimed, '_Mamma mia—mamma
mia_, is it possible? Am I going to be married? Oh, what joy, what
happiness!' and then checking my transports, I said earnestly, 'Tell
me, mamma, shall I have as many fine dresses as Camilla?'
“I declare to you, signorina, that the name of my destined husband was
but a secondary consideration; and when they told me he was rich and
noble—the same individual who had come to the grating on the previous
Sunday to satisfy his curiosity respecting me—I acquiesced without
repugnance, ugly, shrivelled, aged as he was, in the selection of my
parents. Knowing nothing of the world, having scarcely seen a man
except our confessor, the convent gardener, and my father, I went
to the altar eight days afterwards without a tear!—This sounds very
horrible to you, I dare-say,” she resumed, after a short pause, in
which, notwithstanding her careless manner, I saw some painful memories
had been awakened; “but let me ask you—had my head been filled with
notions of fascinating youths, as handsome as my Alessandro when I
first remember him kneeling at my feet, and saying, 'Gentilina, I
adore you!'—should I not have added a vast amount of misery to what,
Heaven knows, was already in store for me—in resisting a fate which was
inevitable, or whose only alternative would have been the cloister? No,
no; since our domestic code is thus constituted, and as long as parents
retain such arbitrary sway, let girls be left in happy ignorance that
they have so much as a heart to give away! If they are to be married,
they will then not dream of any opposition; if, on the contrary, as
in the case of my poor sister-in-law, a suitable match has not been
attainable, why, they will not, like her, be full of romantic ideas
gathered from their books: and so, instead of wearying their family
with their blighted hopes, will take the veil, and retire contentedly
to a convent, limiting their notions of happiness to standing high
in the good graces of the father-confessor, or the preparation of
confectionary and cakes.”
“If I believed you to the letter, marchesa, you would have me conclude
that all the women of the Roman States are, or should be, totally
uncultivated.”
“Before marriage, I meant, remember that! Afterwards, all is changed.
A woman of intelligence soon gets wearied of the frivolities she has
been brought up to prize so highly, and will eagerly seek to instruct
her mind. Study will then be her greatest pastime and her greatest
safeguard.”
I knew she alluded to her own experiences, but I could not forbear
pressing the subject: “And for those who have no refined understanding
to cultivate, no desire to study, and yet have learned too late they
have a heart which they were not taught must be given with their
hand—what safeguard is there for those, marchesa?”
“_Per Bacco!_” she cried, shrugging her shoulders, “that is the
husband's affair; nobody else need meddle with it! You see, my dear,”
she added, laughing at my dissatisfied air, “we are a long way off from
the state of things you would desire to bring us to; and if you would
wish for any reformation in this as well as in any of our other abuses,
you must request your friends the English ministers, next time we try
to shake them off, not to lure us on by sympathy and approbation, and
then abandon us to worse than our former condition.”[6]
Subsequently, I ascertained that the marchesa did not advance any
more than the opinions generally held by her country-people upon this
subject; although there seems a strange inconsistency in persons
ever disposed to rail at the defects of their internal policy,
upholding these _rococo_ ideas, alleging in their justification that
the impulsive Italian character in youth is unsuited to the liberty
conceded at so early an age to Englishwomen.
A lady I conversed with upon this system, some time afterwards in
Ancona—supposed to have had a liberal education, having been brought
up in Northern Italy under her mother's roof—told me that, although
she did not marry till twenty, she had not previously been allowed to
peruse any work of fiction, excepting one after she was betrothed,
and that was _Paul and Virginia_! For which restriction, it may be
parenthetically remarked, she fully indemnified herself in the sequel,
being of a studious turn, by devouring all the French novels she could
lay her hands upon. I must add, however, in fairness, that although
they considered our national manners in respect to the training of
young women ill adapted to themselves, they were all warm admirers of
the virtue and harmony in married life which they believed to be the
general characteristic of English people. _Un Matrimonio all'Inglese_,
meant mutual fidelity, love, and devotion. In arriving at this
conclusion, they were aided by an example of twenty years' standing
constantly before their eyes: that of the English Consul at Ancona.
From my uncle they judged that Englishmen make good fathers. Mr * * *
showed them what an English husband is like. His family lived retired
in the country, and mixed but rarely in the society of the place; but
they were sufficiently known and respected to be still quoted as an
illustration of English wedded happiness.