FOOTNOTE:
[27] The historical pictures which compose the gallery of Corinne, are either from copies or originals of the Brutus of David, the Maurius of Drouet, and the Belisarius of Gerard; among the other pictures mentioned, that of Dido was done by M. Rehberg, a German painter; that of Clorinda, is in the gallery of Florence; that of Macbeth, is in an English collection of pictures from Shakespeare; and that of Phèdre, is by Guérin; lastly, the two landscapes of Cincinnatus and Ossian, are at Rome, and were done by Mr Wallis, an English painter.
Book ix.
THE POPULAR FESTIVAL, AND MUSIC.
Chapter i.
It was the last day of carnival, which is the most noisy festival of the year, when a fever of joy, a mania of amusement, unparalleled in any other country, seized the Roman people. Everybody is disguised; hardly does there remain at the windows, an unmasked spectator: the scene of gaiety commences at a given hour on a certain day, and scarcely ever does any public or private event of the year hinder any person from joining the sports of the season.
It is then that we can form a judgment of the extent of imagination possessed by the common people. The Italian language, even in their mouths, is full of charm. Alfieri said that he went to the public market at Florence to learn to speak good Italian,—Rome has the same advantages: and perhaps these are the only two cities in the world where the people speak so well that the mind may receive entertainment at every corner of the street.
That kind of humour which shines in the authors of harlequinades and opera-buffa, is very commonly found even among men without education. In these days of carnival, when extravagance and caricature are admitted, the most comic scenes take place between the masks.
Often a burlesque gravity is contrasted with the vivacity of the Italians; and one would say that these fantastic vestments inspired a dignity in the wearers, not natural to them; at other times, they manifest such a singular knowledge of mythology in their disguises, that we would be inclined to believe the ancient fables still popular in Rome; and more frequently they ridicule different gradations of society with a pleasantry full of force and originality. The nation appears a thousand times more distinguished in its sports than in its history. The Italian language yields to every shade of gaiety with a facility which only requires a light inflection of the voice and a little difference of termination in order to increase or diminish, ennoble or travesty, the sense of words. It is particularly graceful in the mouth of children[28]. The innocence of this age and the natural malice of the language, form an exquisite contrast. In truth, it may be said, that it is a language which explains itself without any aid and always appears more intellectual than he who speaks it.
There is neither luxury nor good taste in the feast of carnival; a kind of universal petulance makes it resemble the bacchanals of the imagination; but in imagination only is this resemblance, for the Romans are in general very sober, and except the last day of carnival, tolerably serious. We often make sudden discoveries of every sort in the character of the Italians, and this is what contributes to give them the reputation of being subtle and crafty.—There is, undoubtedly, a strong habit of dissimulation in this country, which has supported so many different yokes; but it is not to dissimulation that we must always attribute the rapid transition from one manner of being to another. An inflammable imagination is often the cause of it. The character of a people who are only rational or witty, may be easily understood and will not suddenly surprise us, but all that belongs to the imagination is unexpected. It leaps over intermediate barriers, it is often hurt at nothing, and frequently indifferent to that which ought most to affect it. In fact, it is a law unto itself, and we can never calculate its impressions from their causes.
For example, we cannot comprehend what amusement the Roman nobility find in riding in their carriages from one end of the corso to the other for whole hours together, as well during the carnival as on the other days of the year. Nothing ever diverts them from this custom. There are also among the masks, men who saunter about with every appearance of weariness, in the most ridiculous costume imaginable, and who—melancholy harlequins and silent punchinellos,—do not say a word the whole evening, but appear, if it may be so expressed, to have satisfied their carnival conscience by having neglected nothing to be merry.
We find at Rome a certain species of mask which is not seen elsewhere: masks formed after the figures of the ancient statues, and which at a distance imitate the most perfect beauty—the women often lose greatly by removing them. But nevertheless this motionless imitation of life, these stalking wax countenances, however pretty they may be, have something terrifying in them. The great nobles make a tolerably grand display of carriages on the last days of the carnival; but the pleasure of this festival is the crowd and the confusion: it seems like a relic of the Saturnalia; every class in Rome is mixed together. The most grave magistrates ride with official dignity in the midst of the masks; every window is decorated. The whole town is in the streets: it is truly a popular festival. The pleasure of the people consists neither in the shows nor the feasts that are given them, nor the magnificence they witness. They commit no excess either in drinking or eating: their recreation is to be set at liberty, and to find themselves among the nobility, who on their side are pleased at being among the people. It is especially the refinement and delicacy of amusements as well as the perfection of education, that places a barrier between different classes of people. But in Italy this distinction of rank is not very sensible; the country is more characterised by the natural talent and imagination of all, than by the extraordinary cultivation of the upper classes. There is therefore, pending carnival, a complete confusion of ranks, of manners, and of sentiments: the crowd, the cries, the wit, and the comfits with which they inundate without distinction the carriages as they pass along, confound every mortal together and set the nation pell-mell, as if social order no longer existed.
Corinne and Lord Nelville, both buried in thought, arrived in the midst of this tumult. They were at first almost stunned; for nothing appears more singular than this activity of noisy pleasures, when the soul is entirely absorbed in itself. They stopped at the Piazza del Popolo to ascend the amphitheatre near the obelisk, whence is seen the race course. At the moment they got out of their calash, the Count d'Erfeuil perceived them and took Oswald aside to speak to him.
"It is not right," said he, "to show yourself in this public manner, arriving from the country alone with Corinne; you will compromise her character, then what will you do?" "I do not think," answered Nelville, "that I compromise the character of Corinne by showing the attachment she inspires me with. But even were that true, I should be too happy if the devotion of my life—" "As to your being happy," interrupted the Count, "I do not believe it;" people can only be happy in acting becomingly. Society, think as you may, has much influence "upon our happiness, and we should never do what it disapproves."—"We should then never be guided by our own thoughts and our own feelings, but live entirely for society," replied Oswald. "If it be so, if we are constantly to imitate one another, to what purpose was a soul and an understanding given to each? Providence might have spared this superfluity."—"That is very well said," replied the Count, "very philosophically thought; but people ruin themselves by these kind of maxims, and when love is gone, the censure of opinion remains. I, who appear to possess levity, would never do any thing to draw upon me the disapprobation of the world. We may indulge in trifling liberties, in agreeable pleasantries which announce an independent manner of thinking, provided we do not carry it into action; for when it becomes serious—" "But the serious consequences are love and happiness," answered Lord Nelville.—"No, no;" interrupted the Count d'Erfeuil, "that is not what I wish to say; there are certain established rules of propriety, which one must not brave, on pain of passing for an eccentric man, a man—in fact, you understand me—for a man who is not like others."—Lord Nelville smiled, and without being in the least vexed; for he was by no means pained with these remarks; he rallied the Count upon his frivolous severity; he felt with secret satisfaction that for the first time, on a subject which caused him so much emotion, the Count did not possess the least influence over him. Corinne, at a distance, conjectured what was passing; but the smile of Nelville restored tranquillity to her heart, and this conversation of the Count d'Erfeuil, far from embarrassing Oswald or his fair companion, only inspired them with a temper of mind more in harmony with the scene before them.
The horse-racing was about to begin. Lord Nelville expected to see races like those of England; but what was his surprise, when informed that only little Barbary horses without riders were to run against each other. This sight excites the attention of the Romans in a singular manner. The moment it is about to commence, all the crowd arrange themselves on each side of the way. The Piazza del Popolo, which was covered with people, is empty in a moment. Each one ascends the amphitheatres which surround the obelisk, and innumerable multitudes of heads and dark eyes are turned towards the barrier from which the horses are to start.
They arrive without bridle or saddle, with merely a rich cloth thrown over their backs, and led by extremely well-dressed grooms, who take a most passionate interest in their success. The horses are placed behind the barrier and their ardour to clear it is extreme. At every moment they are held back; they prance, they neigh, they clatter with their feet, as if they were impatient of a glory which they are about to obtain themselves without the guidance of man. This impatience of the horses and the shouts of the grooms at the moment when the barrier falls, produce a fine dramatic effect. The horses start, the grooms cry "Stand back! Stand back!" with inexpressible transport. They accompany the horses with their voice and gestures till they are out of sight. The horses seem inspired with the same emulation as men. The pavement sparkles beneath their feet; their manes fly in the air, and their desire, thus left to their own efforts, of winning the prize is such, that there have been some who, on arriving at the goal, have died from the swiftness with which they have run. It is astonishing to see these freed horses thus animated with personal passions; it almost induces a belief that thought exists beneath this animal form. The crowd break their ranks when the horses are gone by, and follow them in disorder. They reach the Venetian palace which serves for the goal. Never was anything like the cries of the grooms whose horses are victors. He who had gained the first prize, threw himself on his knees before his horse[29], and thanked him, recommending him to the protection of St Anthony, the patron of animals, with an enthusiasm as serious as it was comic to the spectators.
It is generally the close of day when the races finish. Then commences another kind of amusement, much less picturesque, but also very noisy. The windows are illuminated. The guards abandon their post to mix in the general joy[30]. Each one then takes a little torch called a moccolo, and they seek mutually to extinguish each other's light, repeating the word ammazzare (kill) with a formidable vivacity. Che la Bella Principessa sia ammazata! Che il signore abbate sia ammazata! (Let the fair princess be killed, let the abbot be killed!) is shouted from one end of the street to the other. The crowd, become emboldened, because at this hour horses and carriages are forbidden, hurl themselves in all directions. At length there is no other pleasure than that of tumult and disorder. In the meantime night advances, the noise ceases by degrees—a profound silence succeeds, and there only remains of this evening the confused idea of a dream, in which the people had forgotten for a moment their labour, the learned their studies, and the nobility their idleness.