[BOOK IX.]
ON THE CARNIVAL, AND ITALIAN MUSIC.
[CHAPTER I.]
The last day of the carnival is the gayest in the year. The Roman populace carry their rage for amusements to a perfect fever, unexampled elsewhere. The whole town is disguised; the very gazers from its windows are masked. This begins regularly to the appointed day, neither public nor private affairs interfering with its indulgence. Then may one judge of the imagination possessed by the herd. Italian sounds sweetly even from their mouths. Alfieri said that he went to the market of Florence to learn good Italian. Rome has the same advantage; and, perhaps, these are the only cities of which all the natives speak so well that the mind is feasted at every corner of the streets. The kind of gayety that shines through their harlequinades is often found in the most uneducated men; and during this festival, while exaggeration and caricature are fair play, the most comic scenes perpetually recur. Often a grotesque gravity contrasts the usually vivacious Italian manner, as if their strange dresses conferred an unnatural dignity on the wearers. Sometimes they evince so surprising a knowledge of mythology, in the travesties they assume, that one might suppose them still believers in its fictions. Most frequently, however, they ridicule the various ranks of society with a pleasantry truly original: the nation is now a thousand times more distinguished by its sports than by its history. Italian lends itself so easily to all kinds of playfulness, that it needs but a slight inflection of voice, a little difference of termination, lengthening or diminishing the words, to change the entire meaning of a sentence. The language comes with a peculiar grace from the lips of childhood. The innocence of that age, and the natural archness of the southern tongue, exquisitely contrast each other.[1] One may almost call it a language that talks of itself, and always seems more witty than its speakers.
There is neither splendor nor taste in the carnival: its universal tumult assimilates it in the fancy with the bacchanalian orgies; but in the fancy only; for the Romans are generally sober and serious enough—the last days of this fête excepted. The one makes such varied and sudden discoveries in their character, as have contributed to give them a reputation for cunning. Doubtless, there is a great habit of feigning among people who have borne so many yokes; but we must not always attribute their rapid changes of manner to dissimulation. Inflammable imagination is as oft its cause. Reasoners may readily foresee their own actions; but all that belongs to fancy is unexpected: she overleaps gradations; a trifle may wound her, or that which ought to move her most be past by with indifference; she's her own world, and in it there is no calculating effects by causes. For instance, we wonder what entertainment the Roman nobles find in driving from one end of the Corso to the other for hours together, every day in the year, yet nothing breaks in on this custom. Among the masks, too, may be found wandering victims to ennui, packed up in the drollest of dresses, sad harlequins, and silent clowns, who satisfy their carnival conscience by merely seeking to divert themselves. In Rome, they have one assumption that nowhere else exists—maskers, who, in their own persons, copy the antique statues, and from a distance perfectly realize their beauty. Many of the women are losers by renouncing this disguise. Nevertheless, to behold life imitating motionless marble, however gracefully, strikes one with fear. The carriages of the great and gay throng the streets; but the charm of these festivities is their saturnalian confusion: all classes are mingled; the gravest magistrates ride among the masks with almost official assiduity. All the windows are decorated, and all the world out of doors: the pleasure of the populace consists not in their spectacles nor their feasts; they commit no excess, but revel solely in the delight of mixing freely with their betters, who, on their parts, are as diverted at finding themselves thrown among those beneath them. Only the refined and delicate pleasures that spring from research and education can build up barriers between different ranks. Italy, as hath been said, is more distinguished by universal talent than by its cultivation among the aristocracy. Therefore, during the carnival, all minds and all manners blend: the shouting crowds, that indiscriminately shower their bonbons on the passers-by, confound the whole nation pell-mell, as if no social order remained. Corinne and Nevil arrived in the midst of this uproar: at first it stunned them; for nothing appears stranger than such activity of noisy enjoyment, while the soul is pensively retired within herself. They stopped in the Piazza del Popolo, to ascend the amphitheatre near the obelisk, thence to overlook the horse-racing: as they alighted from their calash, the Count d'Erfeuil perceived them, and took Oswald aside, saying: "How can you show yourself thus publicly returning from the country with Corinne? You will commit her, and then what can you do?" "I think I shall not commit her," returned he, "by showing my affection; if I do, I shall be but too happy, in the devotion of my life"—"Happy!" interrupted d'Erfeuil, "don't believe it! one can only be happy in becoming situations. Society, do what we will, has a great influence; and what society would disapprove ought never to be attempted." "Then," replied Oswald, "our own thoughts and feelings are to guide us less than the words of others. If it were our duty thus constantly to follow the million, what need has any individual with a heart or a soul? Providence might have spared us from such superfluities."—"Very philosophical," replied the Count; "but such maxims ruin a man; and when love is over, he is left to the censure of the world. Flighty as you think me, I would not risk it, on any account. We may allow ourselves the little freedoms and good-natured jests of independent thinkers, but in our actions such liberties become serious."—"And are not love and happiness serious considerations?" asked Nevil. "That is nothing to the purpose: there are certain established forms which you cannot brave without passing for an eccentric; for a man—in fact—you understand me—unlike other men." Lord Nevil smiled, and without either pain or displeasure rallied d'Erfeuil on his frivolous severity: he rejoiced to feel, for the first time, that on a subject which had cost him so much, the Count's advice had not the slightest power. Corinne guessed what had past, but Oswald's smile restored her composure; and this conversation tended but to put them both in spirits for the fête. Nevil expected to see a race like those of England; but was surprised to learn that small Barbary steeds were about to make the contest of speed without riders. This is a very favorite sport with the Romans.
When it was about to commence, the crowd ranged themselves on each side of the street. The Place, lately so thronged, was emptied in a minute: every one hurried to the stands which surrounded the obelisks; while a multitude of black heads and eyes were turned towards the barrier from which the barbs were to start. They appeared, without bridle or saddle, their backs covered by bright-hued stuffs: they were led by well-dressed grooms, passionately interested in their success. As the animals reach the barrier, their eagerness for release is almost uncontrollable: they rear, neigh, and paw the earth, as if impatient for the glory they are about to win, without the aid or guidance of man. Their prancing, and the rapturous cry of "Room, room!" as the barrier falls, have a perfectly theatrical effect. The grooms are all voice and gesture, as long as their steeds remain in sight; the creatures are as jealous as mankind of one another; the sparks fly beneath their feet; their manes float wildly on the breeze; and such is their desire to reach the goal, that some have fallen there dead. To look on these free things, all animated by personal passion, is astounding—as if one beheld Thought itself flying in that fine shape. The crowd break their ranks as the horses pass, and follow them in tumult. The Venetian palace ends the race; then may be heard exclamations of disappointment from those whose horses have been beaten; while he whose darling has deserved the greatest prize throws himself on his knees before the victor, thanking and recommending him to St. Anthony,[2] patron of the brute creation, with an enthusiasm as seriously felt as it is comically expressed. The races usually conclude the day. Then begins another kind of amusement, less attractive, but equally loud. The windows are illuminated; the guards leave their posts, to share the general joy. Every one carries a little torch, called moccolo, and every one tries to extinguish his neighbour's, repeating the word "ammazare" (kill), with formidable vivacity. "Kill the fair princess! let the Lord Abbot be killed!" The multitude, reassured by the interdiction of horses and carriages at that hour, pour forth from every quarter: all is turmoil and clamor; yet, as night advances, this ceases by degrees; the deepest silence succeeds. The remembrance of this evening is like that of a confused vision, which, for awhile, changed every dreamer's existence, and made the people forget their toil, the learned their studies, and the nobles their sloth.[3]
[1] I asked a little Tuscan girl which was the prettiest, her sister or herself. "Ah," she replied, "the best face is mine."
[2] An Italian postilion, beholding his horse expire, prayed for him, crying, "St. Anthony, have pity on his soul!"