I thought their presence at this meal was an indulgence conceded to celebrate their uncle and aunt's return, never dreaming that such a custom as infants of their tender age sitting up till past ten o'clock to eat heartily of soup, roast-meat, and salad—of which viands the repast consisted—could ever be habitual. Such, however, was the case; for no other reason, as the marchesa humorously confided to me, than its being in accordance with the practices of former days; which, to a mind so full of scruples as poor Silvia's, she added, were second only to the decrees of the Council of Trent or the dictates of her confessor. After hearing this, and ascertaining that in those families who partook of supper—some only indulging in one ample meal in the middle of the day—the custom of the children joining in it was very general, it was not difficult to account for the variety of ailments with which the rising generation seemed afflicted, more especially the vermicular affections—in all the varied phenomena of which, from hearing them so constantly discussed, I became quite a proficient.
Being tired with our long day's journey, we were glad to retire to rest; and I was conducted to my room by the marchesa and the erudite Volunnia, who, I speedily found, was less occupied with lore than with the vanities and heart-burnings of her sex. My spinsterhood in this case, however, proved a passport to her affections: albeit nearly twenty years my senior, she took me to her heart, as her equal in age, and partner in misfortune—promising, as she kissed me at parting for the night, to summon me early in the morning, that she might have the pleasure of introducing me to her own apartments, books, and studies.
The marchesa lingered for a few more words.
“I need not tell you, carina, that poor Volunnia is a character. In fact, this whole family are originals. Nature formed my Alessandro different from all the rest, and evidently broke the mould that he was cast in.—First of all,” she continued, raking up the embers in the scaldino over which she was warming her hands, “there is that poor old papà, who, with his obstinacy and prejudice, has ruined himself by lawsuits. His celebrated processo against his brothers, I daresay you have already heard of: it lasted twenty-five years, because either side, whenever sentence was given in favour of its opponent, appealed to some other court, which, under our happy system, can annul the judgment previously pronounced. At last, this worse than siege of Troy drew near its close. The case had been brought before every tribunal in the Roman States, and was finally submitted by the last defeated party, papà's brothers, to the supreme court in Rome—the conclusive one of appeal in such instances. My Alessandro was there, awaiting the result, but comparatively with little anxiety, so confident was he of success. Poveretto, he was too good. Had he known me then, I would have taken care things should turn out differently! The night before the judgment was to be pronounced, he was privately warned that unless he offered a large bribe to one of the prelates of the Rota, before whom the suit had been pleaded, it would be given against him; that the other side had bid high, and all he could do was to outbuy them! 'Bah! bah!' he said; 'this monsignore whose influence will have so much weight with the other uditori in our cause to-morrow is above all venal motives: he is too high in the church.' (He was one of those ecclesiastics, my dear, who wear violet stockings, and talk so sweetly to your fair compatriots in Rome.) 'O no,' he reasoned with his heart, da galant'uomo, 'the thing is impossible: it is merely a trick of the enemy,'—and so went to sleep without any misgiving. The next day”—snapping her fingers expressively—“he found out his mistake, and the famous causa was irrevocably lost! Poor old papà—they tell me he has never been the same man since: the very want of the accustomed excitement must be a blank to him. Now and then he pricks up his ears, in the hopes of finding some source of litigation with his sons-in-law about his daughters' portions, or searches out old family claims, which he wants to revive, and so on—but we take care nothing shall come of it. So he sits with Don Ciriaco, going over legal accounts and rummaging among title-deeds in the morning, and spends his afternoons in conversazione at the Casino, listening to all the stories people can remember of lawsuits as intricate and unfortunate as his own. All know his passion for such relations, and good-naturedly try to amuse him with them. The family affairs Alessandro takes care of now, and is really getting them into order. Though he says so little, he has a great head for business.”
To the marchesa's honour, be it added, that it was not from herself I learned that something beyond Alessandro's clever management had been requisite here, which she liberally supplied. But on the good services she thus rendered, as well as her own extensive charities, though so communicative in other respects, she was always silent; and, perfectly unostentatious in her dress and other personal expenses, never seemed conscious of being richer than any of her surrounding kindred.
But I have digressed, while the marchesa is still talking. “Volunnia, poor soul!” she went on, clearing her voice, I grieve to record, to the detriment of the floor—“Volunnia has been the chief sufferer by all these troubles. She was the eldest of the family, senior even to Alessandro, and considerably older than her sisters. While her parents were in all the furore of this lawsuit, they had no time to think about getting her married, or it was not convenient to bring forward a dote suitable to their position and reputed wealth. So years and years rolled by, and the poverina not augmenting in good looks, saw her chances of being settled fast diminishing. It is ten years since I came into the family, and then she was nearly thirty-four! I soon found two partiti for the younger sisters; but as for Volunnia, though I have made immense researches, hitherto they have been without success. In fact, she is too full of instruction—at least the men think so, and they are afraid of her—and yet, with all her studies, she is consumed by mortification at not being married. As for Oliverotto, what you see him, that he is,—a buon diavolo—his only fault an unhappy propensity for play. He has already eaten up part of poor Silvia's dowry, which he managed to get into his hands. We have secured the rest now as well as we can, and he has promised to reform. But what will you have? With such a little stupid bacchettona (that is, bigot) as that for his wife, it is not surprising he should seek some distraction. Per Bacco!” she exclaimed, as the midnight chimes were heard, “I had no idea it was so late!” and lighting a small taper at my massive silver lucerna, the marchesa at last retired, carrying with her the scaldino, and saying she would desire one of the women-servants to come and take my commands.
CHAPTER XVII.
Comfortless bed-room—National fear of water—Waste of time—Occupations of the different members of the family—Volunnia's sitting-room—Her acquirements.
When the marchesa was gone, I proceeded to take a survey of my apartment, which, had I not resolutely set aside all comparison with England and English customs, would have been mentally noted down as exceedingly uncomfortable. There was no fireplace or stove, no carpet on the stone floor, no curtains to the bed, at the head of which was placed a bénitier for holy water, a palm that had been blessed at Easter, and a little print of some saint. The rest of the furniture consisted of an old-fashioned inlaid chest of drawers, surmounted by a small looking-glass; four walnut-wood chairs, with cane seats; and a washing-stand, or rather tripod, just holding the basin, and beneath it a very small jug. But what redeemed the otherwise meagre aspect of the room was the profusion of oil-paintings, in massive gilt frames, with which the walls were closely covered. Of many, the colours were too darkened by time, or they were hung too high, to enable me to make out their subjects; but, judging from those I could more easily distinguish, I concluded the collection related either to the martyrdoms of saints, in their most varied form of suffering—one picture especially quite disturbed me, St Apollonia kneeling, a tray full of bleeding teeth in one outstretched hand, while she clasps the instrument employed in their extraction to her breast with the other—or to scenes from mythology, singularly inappropriate—all evidently belonging to the school of Bologna, which, diffused by the numerous pupils of the Caracci, is the predominant one in the Marche.
The meagreness of the lavatory arrangements, I confess, however, no pictorial embellishments could redeem; and I made interest with the good-humoured girl who speedily came to offer her services, to bring me that British desideratum, a tub, which for the period of my stay should be considered exclusively as mine. She was much puzzled at first at this request.