Mrs. G. Gretton

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!”