The sweetmeats the caffè fabricates are still more primitive than its cakes, principally consisting of unbleached almonds, coarsely incased in flour and sugar, chocolate in various forms, and candied citron. Immense quantities of these are prepared at Christmas, partly disposed of to outdoor customers, and the remainder, piled up on large trays, are raffled for among the frequenters of the place, with a zest which shows that, however insignificant be the prize, or paltry the venture, the delight in all games of chance is still predominant.
Besides the caffè, properly so called, with its talkers and loungers and smokers, its players at dominoes and cards, its readers of the few newspapers permitted—so meagre of details, so garbled in their statements, that little information can be gathered from their columns—the premises generally contain a sala del bigliardo upstairs, and sometimes a private room for the accommodation of such systematic card-players as nightly resort there, and do not wish the magnitude of their stakes to attract public attention. Members of the oldest nobility, and the most questionable mezzo cetto, princes and brokers, merchants and marchesi, Jews and Christians, are known to pass every evening of their lives together in this manner; and, nevertheless, hold no intercourse at other times, never entering each other's houses, or acknowledging or seeking any further acquaintance beyond the mysterious precincts of the caffè.
CHAPTER VI.
Prejudice against fires—General dilapidation of dwelling-houses—A lady's valet de chambre—Kindness towards servants—Freedom of intercourse with their masters—Devotedness of Italians to the sick—Horror of death—Funerals—Mourning.
While thus curious about the middle ranks, it must not be forgotten that in the upper there was quite sufficient difference from all one's preconceived ideas of elegance or comfort to render their domestic habits interesting. One of the strangest things that struck me as the winter came on, was the prejudice prevailing against the use of fireplaces, or, indeed, against any appliances to mitigate the severity of the weather. Horace Walpole, in his letters, says, very justly, that the Italians never yet seem to have found out how cold their climate is; and this remark, made a hundred years ago, is still perfectly applicable—at least as regards the people of Ancona.
The dread of sitting near a fire, and the contempt for carpets expressed by the old inhabitants, are perfectly ludicrous: they mourn over the effeminacy of the rising generation, who, so far as they are permitted, gladly avail themselves of these pernicious indulgences. A gentleman one night came freezing into our drawing-room, and as he stood complacently before the fire, made us laugh at the account of a visit he had just been paying to the Count M——, the admiral of the port—a sinecure office, it is needless to remark. He found him in bed with a slight attack of gout, and his wife and daughter-in-law, with several visitors, were sitting round him, making la società: the gentlemen in their hats and cloaks, and the ladies in shawls, handkerchiefs tied over their heads, and the never-absent scaldino, filled with live embers, in their hands. Our friend was pressed by the admiral to follow the general example, and cloak and cover himself. He declined at first, being of a very ceremonious disposition; but soon, he admitted, his scruples gave way before the excessive coldness of the room, on a northern aspect, destitute of fire or carpet; and he resumed his out-door apparel like the rest.
It used often to happen, when paying a morning visit, that the drawing-room fire was ordered to be lighted out of compliment to us, in spite of our entreaties to the contrary; the result, as we too well anticipated, after many laborious efforts on the part of the unhappy servitor, with a vast expenditure of breath—a method of ignition seemingly preferred to bellows—being invariably a hopeless abandonment of the enterprise, a stifling amount of smoke, and an unlimited number of apologies.
In the daytime, the Anconitan ladies, even of the first rank, rarely occupy their drawing-rooms, which are merely entered to receive visitors; they mostly sit in their bed-chambers until evening; and hence the formal appearance, the absence of all comfort, that strikes an English eye so much on first entering their houses. From the street you proceed, by a large porte cochère, of which the gates are closed at night, into a court or vaulted passage, wide enough to admit a carriage. Of this, evidence is afforded by the appearance of that vehicle in dim perspective; while undoubted proofs arise, through the olfactory nerves, of the immediate vicinity of the stables. You ascend a handsome stone staircase, but rarely swept, and only traditionally whitewashed, on which groups of beggars are stationed in various attitudes, and pause at the first-floor, before a door that has not been painted for thirty years, when the present owner of the palace was married. Your first summons is unheeded; and it is not till after ringing a second time rather impatiently, you are admitted by a dirty manservant, who has evidently been cleaning lamps, and is uneasily settling himself into his tarnished livery-coat, which had been hanging on a clothes-horse in a corner of the hall, in strange contrast with a large genealogical tree in a massive gilt frame, and four carved benches painted with armorial bearings, but literally begrimed with dirt, forming its principal furniture. You next traverse a magnificent apartment—the hall of state in olden times—about fifty feet long and forty wide, still retaining traces of its former splendour. The lofty ceiling is richly painted in those fanciful arabesques which belong to a period between the school of Raphael and the decadence of art at the end of the seventeenth century. The walls are hung with family portraits of various epochs—knights in armour, children in starched ruffs and brocades, cardinals in their scarlet robes; and alternated with these are immense mirrors, dimly reflecting on their darkened surface the changes that have crept over the once gorgeous scene. The rich gilding above and around you, of the frames and candelabra, of the splendid cornices that surmount the inlaid doors, and of the ponderous chairs in their immovable array—all this does not more forcibly bear witness to the lavish profusion that must once have presided here, than do the torn and faded draperies, the broken and uneven pavement, the unwashed and uncurtained windows, to the present neglect and penury which make no effort to ward off the progress of decay.
Beyond this is the drawing-room, fitted up according to the fashion of thirty years ago, since which nothing has been added to its decorations. The walls are covered with crimson brocaded satin, as well as the two upright forbidding-looking sofas and the chairs which are stationed around; there is a carpet, but it is very thin and discoloured. Between the windows there is a marble console, on which is placed a time-piece; and on the opposite side of the room stands a corresponding one, embellished by a tea-service of very fine old china, and a silver lucerna, one of those classic-shaped lamps that have been used in Italy since the days of the Etruscans; there is no table in the centre, or before the sofa, no arm-chairs, and no books. Wood is laid in the fireplace ready for us; it has thus remained since our last visit, and we entreat that it may stay unmolested.
The marchesa comes in to see us; she has a tall figure, but rather bent, and though little more than fifty, looks in reality much older. She takes snuff, and carries a checked cotton pocket-handkerchief: she kisses us on both cheeks, and calls us her dear children. There is some difficulty about adjusting our seats, because she wishes to give up the sofa to my cousin Lucy and me, at which we of course remonstrate; and the difficulty is not removed until we propose a compromise, and sit upon it one on each side of her. The servant places footstools before us, and brings his lady her scaldino. She is an invalid, and we talk at first about her health; but though naturally not averse to such a topic, she has not the keen relish for medical disquisitions which Thackeray declares is the peculiar attribute of the British female; this perhaps is owing to her ideas of the healing art being very much circumscribed—not extending beyond ptisans and sudorifics, the Italian panacea for all the ills of life. Next we discourse about the Opera, the carnival season from Christmas to Lent having just commenced; and the marchesa inquires if we often go there, and how we like the prima donna: she says that her nuora (daughter-in-law) is passionately fond of everything connected with the theatre, but hints that she might oftener renounce the indulgence of that taste, and stay at home to make the partita at cards with her. Being, however, as she herself remarks, a very amiable specimen of the genus suocera, she does not attempt in this respect to coerce the marchesina's inclinations, remaining satisfied with the privilege of occasionally grumbling, and claiming sympathy for her forbearance. Then we are told of the progress of a lawsuit which has been pending more than twenty years between her brother and herself, and can never be concluded, because the Legislature admits of appeals from one tribunal to another, against the judgment last pronounced; so that these affairs are generally prolonged while the litigating parties have life or funds at their disposal. Disputes of this kind between near relations are of such common occurrence as to excite no surprise or animadversion. Of course, we sympathize with her anxiety as to its termination; and then a turn is given to the conversation by the entrance of one of her married daughters, residing in the same street, who now comes in to pay her mother her accustomed daily visit, and kisses her hand with a mixture of deference and affection that is novel, but not unpleasing.