Turin in 1858—Partisans of the old régime—The native
Protestants—The conservative party—Their hostility
to Cavour—Clerical intolerance—The fashionable
promenade—Turinese characteristics—The Piedmontese dialect—A
marriage in high life.
The lover of strong contrasts would have enjoyed the transition from
a morning spent at the Valentino to an evening at the Palazzo ——, the
circles of which include the most determined _codini_ in the kingdom.
The palace itself would have been counted handsome even in a city more
rich in handsome palaces, and all the accessories were in keeping;
no slovenliness, no undemolished cobwebs, no traditional crevices. In
all this its owners were unconsciously doing homage to the spirit of
the age. A wide, well-kept marble staircase, spacious vestibule and
ante-rooms, servants in liveries on which time had laid no hallowing
touch, and a suite of drawing-rooms, sparingly lighted on account of
the intense heat, but profusely furnished with all the modern variety
of couches, _causeuses_, arm-chairs, rocking-chairs and divans,
looking-glasses, nick-nacks, cushions, flowers, everything you could
wish for, except books; of these I could not discover a trace.
In the last saloon were the guests, not formally invited, but the usual
frequenters of the marquise's weekly reunions; a dozen or so of ladies,
dressed in the height of Parisian fashion, either talking French
or Piedmontese (the old _régime_ set their faces perversely against
Italian, which the Government desires should be generally in use), and
calling each other incessantly by their titles, and a score of men,
all seemingly octogenarians. High in name and station, this assemblage
comprised the most conspicuous partisans of the old system, and by
their ceremoniousness of manner, their profound courtesies and bows,
carried me back, notwithstanding the vast difference in the material
accompaniments of the scene, to the antiquated _conversazioni_ of the
patricians of Ancona, in which I had yawned away so many hours.
The very way in which they greeted a bishop in violet stockings was
significant. Such reverence belongs not to the present order of things.
In point of animation, however, if my reminiscences did not deceive
me, I should give the palm to the _coteries_ of central Italy. The talk
flowed more genially, barren of subjects as they were, than among these
Turinese, with whom peevish regrets for the past, bitter allusions to
the present, and Cassandra-like forebodings, furnished the staple of
conversation.
Seated on the outskirts of a dreary semi-circle of _élégantes_,
some fragments of the discourse of a group surrounding the bishop
occasionally reached my ears. It related to the opening of the Italian
Waldensian or _Valdese_ church in Genoa, the erection of which they
evidently considered an act of sacrilege in the Government to have
permitted. Of the four native Protestant churches built within the
last six years in the Sardinian States (the others are at Turin,
Nice, and Pignerol), this has been the most fiercely opposed by the
clerical party. I had a specimen of the bitterness of their feelings
in the stories which were mingled with their invectives. It was
inexpressibly diverting to one who knew the straitened circumstances
of the _Valdese_ pastors, and the difficulties they had encountered
in raising subscriptions for the building of this church, to hear of
the immense bribes they employed to gain converts to their communion.
Three, four, nay five thousand francs was no uncommon largesse to a
hopeful catechumen![22] The circulation of Bibles was next lamented as
a national calamity; the burden of the whole being that, through the
impiety and atheistical toleration of Cavour, the most sacred interests
of religion were in jeopardy.
It was the same amongst the women. After they had discussed their
children's health and perfections, for the Piedmontese fine lady is
a tender, anxious mother; the tittle-tattle of which Turin, like all
small capitals, has a superabundant share; and the court news from
Vienna and Naples, as if, in the degeneracy of their own monarchy, the
houses of Hapsburg and Bourbon were alone worthy of their attention,—no
subject could be started which failed to bring in the President of
the Council as a mark for their abuse. At one moment denounced as
a socialist, the next as a renegade; whatever went amiss, according
to _codino_ ideas, was laid upon him. You heard the name of Count de
Cavour as often quoted in reference to his capacity for evil, as that
of the Marquis of Carabas, in “Puss in Boots,” cited by the feline
phenomenon as the holder of each fair domain on which the king's eyes
rested.
Availing myself of my privilege as a stranger, I sat more as a
looker-on than a participator in the scene, and tormented my next
neighbour, an acquaintance of some years' standing, with inquiries
as to the different notabilities who were present. The good comtesse,
knowing my inquisitive tendencies of old, though not indeed the fatal
propensity of transferring my experiences into print, was obligingly
communicative; her information being, of course, tinged with the sombre
hue peculiar to her school of politics.
“That fine white head belongs to the Marquis Brignole. He is the last
representative of one of the oldest families in Genoa, and for many
years was ambassador from our court—ah, we had a court then!—to that of
France; but when the constitution was established in 1848, he resigned
his post. He was then named one of the senate by the king, but his
principles did not suffer him to take the oath to a form of government
he disapproved. In 1855, however, when that terrible Cavour brought in
his bill for the suppression of all religious orders,—”
“_Except_ those devoted to preaching, education, and the care of the
sick,” I observed, parenthetically.
“Ah! bah! that was but an insignificant exception. Where was I? Well,
in such an emergency the marquis surmounted his scruples, took his seat
in the upper chamber, and voted against the ministry. If his resistance
was unavailing, at least he had the satisfaction of raising a noble
protest in the church's behalf.”
“And that other old man, with the quick keen eye, who is sitting on the
bishop's right?”
“That is the pillar of our cause, Count Solaro della Margherita. You
have surely heard of him?”
Assuredly I had. Who that lives in Piedmont, or has read anything
of Italian contemporary history, is not familiar with his name? For
many years the absolute minister of Charles Albert, and now head of
the extreme right, as it is termed, in the chamber of deputies, that
small, very small section of the national representatives, which only
avails itself of the privilege of sitting in parliament to endeavour to
overthrow the liberties secured to the kingdom by the charter of 1848.
Forty or fifty years hence the memoirs of this statesman will reveal
some curious secrets. Throughout Italy he is, whether justly or not I
do not pretend to say, accused of having thwarted the late King Charles
Albert in every liberal design; and, strong in the support of Austria
and the Jesuits, to have retarded by some years the reforms which that
monarch had long been desirous of introducing.
“The young abbé, comtesse, who has just come in, so studied in his
dress, his hair so glossy, surely he must be Don Margotti?”
“Quite right. You doubtless know all about him? Our literary champion.
Yonder is his patron, the Marquis Birago.”
Both were well known to me by reputation. The young priest is editor
of the “Armonia,” the chief organ of the clericals,—for by this as well
as the terms _codini_, obscurantists, absolutists, and retrogrades, is
that party equally designated,—and author of a book against England,
which made a great deal of noise in Piedmont last winter. Its title was
“Roma e Londra;” its purport being to demonstrate that, materially,
intellectually, as well as spiritually, the Papal States were far in
advance of Great Britain. The Marquis Birago, celebrated in his young
days as a diplomatist and gay man of the world, has devoted his latter
years to combating the spread of reform. The nominal director of the
“Armonia,” he has given up the ground-floor of his palace at Turin to
its printing-press and offices, and out of his own income makes up the
yearly deficit in its finances; the very fact of there being a deficit
at all arguing ill for the state of the public mind, not in Piedmont
merely, but in the rest of the peninsula, where, of all the Sardinian
newspapers, the “Armonia,” and one or two others of the same family,
alone enjoy free circulation.
Besides all these claims to consideration, peculiar interest just then
attached itself to the marquis and his protégé. Returned as deputies at
the beginning of the winter, their elections had recently been declared
invalid on the ground of religious intimidation exercised upon the
voters by the parish priest; and the result of a new canvass proving
unfavourable, nothing remained for them but to assume the palm of
political martyrdom.
“Talk of liberty, comtesse!” cried a very infirm old general, whom
I remembered having heard of as one of the incapables in the first
campaign of Lombardy, as, quite excited from a conversation with the
victims, he broke the formal circle, and drew a chair in front of her:
“talk of liberty, why, M. de Cavour in this late affair has shown
himself a perfect despot—a despot without reason or conscience! Who
are to advise the common people to use their rights, since they are
forsooth to have them, except their natural counsellors, their priests
and spiritual directors?”
Not caring to argue whether the means employed on the occasion
referred to, such as refusal of the absolution and the sacraments,
did not exceed the limits usually supposed to constitute advice, I
asked whether M. de Cavour had, on his sole authority, instituted this
inquiry.
“Oh, of course there was the farce of a commission appointed by the
chamber, or rather by that majority which is his tool, a majority of
_lawyers_!—that despicable class which of late years has invaded every
department of the State, and by their plausibility and intrigues are
bidding fair to sweep away all that our forefathers held honourable
or sacred. And then, as if lawyers of our own were not curse enough,
we have shoals of them among the political refugees, admitted to the
parliament, yes, even to the ministry!”
“Ah, true,” sighed the comtesse, “we are in a sad position; still we
must not lose hope. Whenever I am unusually depressed I go and see the
Duchess de ——; she is one in a thousand for constancy and courage. Do
you remember, general, her spirited conduct eight years ago, at the
time the Government had confined Monseigneur Franzoni, the archbishop,
in the citadel?”
For the information of those who may have forgotten an occurrence which
at the moment attracted all Europe's attention, it is necessary briefly
to mention that the archbishop's offence consisted in peremptorily
refusing the last consolations of religion to the Cavaliere di
Santa Rosa on his death-bed, unless he solemnly retracted the share
he had borne, as one of the ministry, in the promulgation of some
ecclesiastical reforms. Not choosing to do violence to his conscience,
the dying man, though devoutly attached to the observances of his
church, expired, amidst the tears of his wife and friends, without
receiving the viaticum or extreme unction. It was as a satisfaction to
the popular indignation at this act of clerical intolerance, as well
as to vindicate the authority of the Government, that the archbishop,
after undergoing a few weeks' imprisonment, was banished from the
country.
“What particular instance of the duchesse's spirit do you allude to,
comtesse?” asked the general. “I was in Savoy at the time, and only
heard the barren facts of the outrage committed on the venerable
prelate.”
“Her husband was then in the cabinet, and of course implicated in this
offence; but to show that she at least had no participation in it,
she ordered out the old family coach with four horses, her footmen
in their state liveries, and drove to the citadel, taking the most
frequented streets on her way, to offer her sympathy and condolence to
monseigneur. There she is, madame, nearly opposite to us.”
I had scarcely taken a survey of this modern Griselda,[23] when a stir
was perceptible, a title was announced, and everybody rose. The owner
of a name which will be written in history as having held a post in
the reign of Victor Emmanuel's predecessor, similar to that occupied
in France by a Belle Gabrielle, or a La Vallière, entered the saloon; a
tall and commanding figure, with more than the remains of great beauty
in her face. Until she took a seat, none resumed theirs.
Queenlike she sat, and with queenlike affability greeted those who
advanced to speak to her, or addressed those on either hand, and talked
about charitable societies of which she was the patroness with the
bishop, and the last political intelligence with the ex-ambassador;
complimented the lady of the house on the beauty of her children, and
congratulated the comtesse on an approaching marriage in her family,
graciously announcing her intention to call and see the bride's
_corbeille_.
It was not the fact of her being there which surprised me, but the
deference, the obsequiousness shown towards her. Truly, as a specimen
of the moral code of the strictest circles, the most severely religious
of the high society of Turin, it was sufficiently diverting. But no one
present had a glimmering of this inconsistency.
“Believe me,” said the comtesse, as we parted soon after, having made
an appointment for the morrow to introduce me to her niece, the bride
elect, “believe me, Madame de —— is full of rare qualities. You could
not wish for a better friend or adviser. Her own daughter is one of
the three model wives of Turin, and reflects the highest credit on
her training, which was simple, nay almost austere; at the same time
nothing could surpass her maternal tenderness. I remember a sacrifice
she made upon herself for three years, in hopes of obtaining the
blessing of a grandchild. Passionately fond of ices, she resolutely
abstained from tasting a single one till her prayers were heard!”
The next morning the comtesse and I devoted some time to the mysteries
of shopping before proceeding to her sister's, whose daughter's wedding
presents were to be displayed to us. The arcades or _portici_ which
line the Strada di Po, and the Piazza di Castello, a really magnificent
square, are the resort of all the fashionable idlers of both sexes
in Turin, and, lined on one side by handsome shops, open on the other
to the light and air, sheltered alike from rain and sun, really form
a very attractive promenade. As the belles flit from _magasin_ to
_magasin_, undulating in a maze of crinoline and flounces, they have
the satisfaction of knowing that they are passed in review by the
loungers at the _cafés_, as numerous under the arcades as in every
other part of the town; the most redoubted of these tribunals of
criticism and gossip being the Café Fiorio, frequented by the cream of
the aristocracy. Even the comtesse, who, though not old, was singularly
void of pretension, and quiet in her deportment, thought it necessary
to evince some timidity at encountering this ordeal.
“When I am alone, madame, I always make a great _détour_ to avoid
passing before Fiorio's. It is astonishing what remarks are made by
those _messieurs_, and what stories they contrive to get hold of. When
there is nothing else to be said, they pull one's toilette to pieces,
and are merciless if everything is not perfectly fresh and in good
taste. I assure you the expense of dress now amongst us is positively
frightful; and those, like me, who have not a large income, are almost
compelled to renounce going much into society, unless indeed they do
as some I could point out to you,—run up bills for twenty or thirty
thousand francs, which their husbands will eventually be compelled to
pay, at great sacrifice and inconvenience probably; for we have not
fortunes in Piedmont like your English nobility.”
“It is a pity that men by their fastidiousness contribute to this
extravagance.”
“Undoubtedly it is, but there is no reasoning on the subject. A
mad desire for spending seems to pervade all ranks. Even in the
_bourgeoisie_ a taste for luxury and elegance has of late exhibited
itself which is appalling. The wives of shopkeepers who, ten or fifteen
years ago, would have esteemed themselves happy with a simple cotton
print, a freshly-ironed cap, and a black silk apron, for their Sunday
costume, now sweep along the Rue du Po in brocades of the value of
three or four hundred francs, and with feathers in their bonnets!”
“Still, comtesse, as the example comes from above, it is not surprising
it should find imitators.”
“Ah, _chère_, that is just one of the ideas of the day! For my part,
I cannot understand why difference of rank should not be marked as
it used to be by regulations as to dress. We should see some curious
transformations then!”
By this time we had left the dreaded Fiorio's some way behind, and
coming upon another _café_ of less dazzling celebrity, the open doors
and windows of which gave pleasant glimpses of spacious saloons with
gilded ceilings and mirrors, crimson velvet sofas, and a profusion of
little circular marble tables, the comtesse proposed that we should
enter and refresh ourselves with an ice, Turin etiquette not imposing
the necessity of male escort on such occasions.
Though the Anglo-Piedmontese Gallenga, rendered fastidious by a quarter
of a century's sojourn in England, complains, in his recent work on
his native country, of the tawdriness and dirt of the Turin _cafés_,
they were so superior, in my humble scale of comparison, to those of
the other parts of Italy where I had resided, that I found them most
welcome and inviting. There was a luxurious sense of repose in looking
forth upon the fierce sunshine on the Piazza di Castello through
the softened twilight in which we sat, discussing, for the moderate
consideration of twenty centimes each, two pyramidical masses of _crême
à la vanille_, while plants and flowers in the window-sills, without
impeding the view of the busy life without, screened those within
from the gaze of the passers-by. In such an atmosphere the _dolce far
niente_ would have seemed likely to predominate, but I noticed in the
people as they came and went, in the earnestness with which they read
the newspapers, the quick, short sentences in which they commented
to each other on their contents, even while sipping the mixture of
coffee and chocolate which is the favourite beverage of the Turinese,
a certain air of decision and promptitude not elsewhere to be found
in Italy. Men of every grade were amongst them, from those pointed
out to me by the comtesse in a whisper as senators and deputies, to
some whose dress would have required no sumptuary laws to define their
position. I also observed that Italian was almost universally spoken,
the Piedmontese _patois_ comparatively rarely, French not at all.
This was an indication of the _café's_ politics. By the persevering
use or rejection of the Italian language, political sentiments in
this country can be pretty well ascertained. The ministry, bent on
its general adoption, have caused it to be substituted in the infant
schools for the native dialect, of all the dialects of the peninsula
the most guttural and the most mutilated, an innovation the wisdom
of which it requires thorough stiff-necked _codino_-ism not to
recognise. Instead of learning to read, as was formerly the case, in
a tongue only partially understood, for no books are, or used to be,
printed in Piedmontese, children are familiarized with Italian as the
preliminary step. In every department over which its influence extends
the Government shows the same desire; the circulation of newspapers,
the presence of the _emigrati_, and the discussions in the chambers
powerfully assisting its endeavours, which have only failed with the
aristocracy. Hence Italian is much more spoken by the middle than the
higher classes in Turin.
But I have digressed, while, to finish my picture, it must be added
that there was less talking among the visitors at the _café_ than
would have been possible in central or southern Italy, and but little
lounging. Though a few appeared listless and unemployed, to the
majority time was evidently not a worthless commodity; even in the ten
minutes we passed there, some of the tables near us had more than once
changed occupants.
“_Allons donc_,” said the comtesse; “what shall we do now? Stay, there
is the jeweller's where I must execute a commission for my sister, and
then, if you please, we will pay her our visit.”
At the shop we encountered a lady with whom I had a slight
acquaintance; one of the _élégantes_ of Turin, of the same political
opinions, but of a more mundane turn of mind than my companion. She
was elaborately dressed in visiting costume, and coming towards us with
both hands extended, told the comtesse she was selecting a _souvenir_
for her niece. Not to embarrass her choice, after a few complimentary
phrases, we removed to some distance, the aunt not very graciously
commenting on the announcement.
“A _souvenir_ indeed! How I detest the indiscriminate fashion of giving
presents! It confounds friends of yesterday with one's closest and
dearest connections, and at last is regarded as an odious tax. Just
because Madame de —— was my sister's _compagne de loge_ last winter,
when they shared a box at the opera, she fancies this attention is
expected of her, or rather calculates it will give her _éclat_, when
all the gifts are shown, to be cited as one of the donors. Look at her
now, what open sleeves, and how short! All to display her arms, she is
so vain of them! You may be sure she has been exhibiting them before
Fiorio's. I shall hear from my brother, who is generally there. Do you
not think them too stout?”
The approach of their owner here cut short any more disparaging
observations, and the house to which we were bound being close at hand,
we all proceeded thither very lovingly together.
Just before we arrived I bethought myself that amidst all the rejoicing
over the approaching marriage, I had not heard a single word with
respect to the bridegroom's mental or personal attractions, and
guardedly ventured on some inquiries concerning him.
“He is a very fine young man,” said the comtesse, seemingly indifferent
to what might have been thought no inconsiderable adjunct to the
favourable features of this match; “just twenty-five. Thérèse is
nineteen.”
Upon hearing this I hazarded the supposition that, both being young and
good-looking, they were in all probability attached.
“He is certainly very much taken with Thérèse, and she, as far of
course as she can understand such feelings, is greatly pleased with
him. I hope it may turn out well,” added the good lady dubiously,
“but one always fears for these marriages of affection.” A sentiment
to which the Marquise de ——, the fair one of the arms, adjusting her
bracelets, uttered so fervent a response, that I at once concluded her
to be a victim to this novel kind of misfortune.
The subject of these forebodings was waiting with her mother to receive
us, all smiles and ecstasy, and without delay we were admitted to
gaze on the glories of the _trousseau_ and _corbeille_, before they
were exposed to the general run of visitors. The _trousseau_, it is
scarcely necessary to state, comprises the bride's outfit in wearing
apparel, carried now-a-days in Piedmont to the most lavish profusion,
twelve dozen of each description of underclothing not being considered
anything out of the common way: the _corbeille_ is a general term for
all the bridegroom's presents, formerly enclosed in a basket of elegant
workmanship and decoration. In these days of change, however, the
genuine _corbeille_ is replaced by an inlaid coffer, or any other sort
of expensive receptacle. An elaborately-ornamented work-table had in
this instance been chosen by the bridegroom to contain his offerings.
Mademoiselle Thérèse stands by, radiant with joy and pride, while
her mother turns the key; and there, amid satin and lace, repose two
Cashmere shawls. One from India; four thousand francs could scarcely
have procured it, the gay marquise hastily calculates. The other
French, but so beautiful a production that the most practised eye could
scarcely detect the difference. Ah, how lovely, how enchanting! But see
here, that _garniture_ of Brussels lace; flounces, the bridal veil,
trimming for berthe! What, a similar set in black Chantilly! Never,
never has she seen their equal. There are, besides, dozens and dozens
of gloves from Jouvin's, fans, and embroidered handkerchiefs, some with
the coronet of a marquise surmounting the name of Thérèse, each letter
a perfect study of delicate flowery needle-craft; others with her
family arms united with those of the bridegroom on the same escutcheon.
What precision in the work, what exquisite cambric! Who would not be
married to gain such treasures?
“And the diamonds?” Even the comtesse grows excited now, as the mamma
calmly touches a spring, and the casket flies open. It is the crowning
stroke; few brides in Turin can boast its equal. The diadem, the
sprays for the hair, the pendants, the necklace. Oh, how entrancingly
beautiful they are! The marquise devours them with greedy eyes; the
aunt, stifling a sigh at the thought that she has no daughter to marry,
mingled perhaps with a momentary pang at the contrast to her own modest
_corbeille_ fifteen years before, looks proud and gratified,—not the
less so because she has detected the emotion of the _compagne de loge_,
on whom, since the intimacy with her sister, she bestows her intense
aversion.
“But that is not all,” said the bride's mother, who, though older than
my comtesse, yet, as being handsomer and much richer, still kept her
place as a belle, “we have a few trifles here besides.” And a set of
pearls, a watch, rich chain, and all sorts of those ornamental trifles
called _breloques_, were successively exhibited.
“And all this from your _futur_?” Thérèse smilingly assents. “My
child, you are indeed happy!” and the marquise kisses her with warmth,
mentally weighing the chances of finding for her own daughter, when she
comes home from the convent where she is being educated, a match equal
in wealth or munificence.
“Then there are all the other pretty presents and _souvenirs_,” and
the mamma opens a cabinet of ivory and ebony, from the drawers of
which she produces an infinite variety of morocco cases, some round,
some long, some oval-shaped. Bracelets, ah, what bracelets! Enamelled,
gem-encrusted, plain, arabesqued, inland, circles of emeralds and
pearls, gold and coral, diamonds and rubies. Earrings too, and brooches
to correspond. Crosses and lockets: a perfect shopful of trinkets. It
is the realization of many a maiden's dream; surely of thine, Thérèse!
Every relation of the two families, almost every acquaintance, was here
represented; the ambition of not being outdone in generosity on these
occasions of almost public display, leading many of the donors, as the
comtesse had truly said, and as I found confirmed by general opinion,
to regard as a heavy tribute to custom that which should be the
spontaneous offering of friendship. But a truce to such reflections.
The marquise has produced her present, and a glittering bauble of some
three hundred francs' value is added to the young bride's collection.
Fortunate Thérèse! Her wedding dress is now brought forward. Being
summer time, white muslin has been selected as the most appropriate
material, but this is so richly embroidered as to render it most
costly. Her mother relates with complacency that the dressmaker has
just sent her word that so magnificent a _toilette de mariée_ has never
issued from her work-rooms. Thérèse drinks all this in with silent
rapture. What would it matter if she had to marry the Beast in the
fairy-tale, with the certainty he could never turn into the Prince to
boot, so long as all these joys are hers? Of her future husband, except
as the appendage to their possession, she clearly never thinks, never
has been taught to think. For the results of a marriage of affection
such as this, the comtesse need have no fears.