“Poor girl! What a nervous affair it will be!” I said. “What is the ceremonial to be observed?”
“Why,” said the contessa, quite gravely, “I do not exactly know; mamma does not mention in her letter: it depends on circumstances. Generally the sposo merely comes forward, is presented to the young lady, and makes a low bow. Sometimes, if the families previously have been intimately acquainted, he is directed to kiss her hand; and lastly—but this is very rare”—and she lowered her voice—“it is only adopted where there is the oldest friendship or relationship subsisting—the gentleman salutes his bride upon the cheek.”
Amused as I was by this account, I could not help thinking it must be exaggerated, or at least that these courtships, whose programme was as accurately defined as a state ceremony, must be restricted to a few rare instances; but I found this was not the case, and that the contessa had merely stated what was usual in every family of the nobility of Ancona and the adjacent towns. In many instances, I afterwards learned, the preliminaries for the marriage of a young lady were all settled before she left the walls of a convent where she had been brought up, her wedding taking place within eight days of her return to her parents' house; but this, though esteemed highly desirable, cannot always be arranged, especially where no great recommendations exist, either as to beauty or fortune. As a general rule, girls are kept excessively retired, even in their own families, until some partito has been found; everything being done to foster the impression that their speedy settlement in life is to be the signal for their admission into all the pleasures of society, from which in the mean time they are sedulously excluded. Dressed with scrupulous plainness, seldom or never taken into company, rarely appearing out of doors, except for a drive in a close carriage, or to go to mass, or to call on some old female relation—without the advantages of a cultivated mind or literary resources—the condition of our Italian unmarried woman is as cheerless and insignificant as it is possible to conceive. Small marvel is it, then, that at the first mention of a suitor, a girl's thoughts should fly to all the fine dresses she will possess, to the becoming coiffures she will adopt, and—should her imagination have ever ranged so far—to the liberty of speech and action she will be entitled to enjoy. Not a thought is given to the disposition, tastes, or habits of the person to whom she is soon to be irrevocably united; he is accepted as the condition indispensable to the attainment of all that has been so earnestly desired.
The scene of the first introduction generally takes place with the formality the little contessa described, very rarely going beyond a stately bow and courtesy exchanged between the betrothed. After this interview, the gentleman is every evening expected to pay a visit of an hour or so at the house of his promessa, all the members of her family, and the old friends who compose the usual società, being present. He is not placed next to her, nor is he to address himself particularly to her. Should he feel inclined to venture on a remark, she will answer in monosyllables, with downcast eyes, never moving from the sofa on which she sits bolt upright by her mother's side. After a week or so has elapsed, it is an understood thing that he should ask for her portrait, and give her his own in return. At this stage of the proceedings, he is allowed to kiss her hand on presenting the miniature; and on succeeding evenings he brings her a nosegay, but without any repetition of this privilege; meanwhile the bride elect is very complacently occupied in knitting him a purse, or embroidering him a smoking-cap, or something of that sort—whatever she is told is customary, in fact—and finally goes to the altar without a thought upon the duties and responsibilities of her new condition.
Even their manner of celebrating a wedding is very different from ours. No bridesmaids are ever seen; for it would not be considered in good taste for any girls to be present at the religious ceremony; neither do they take part in the great dinner which closes the day. The newly-married pair do not go into the country, or set out upon a journey, but at once enter into possession of the apartments destined for them in the house of the bridegroom's family.
My uncle used laughingly to quote a remark made to him by a lady in reply to some observation on the contrast thus afforded to an English wedding-tour: “It may be all very well for your nation, who make marriages of sentiment, caro mio signore, but I confess that to any of us this prolonged tête-à-tête with a husband whom one knows nothing at all of, would be tedious in the extreme.” To avoid being thrown upon this terrible companionship, the first week or so of the young sposa's married life is fully taken up in receiving the congratulatory visits of her friends and acquaintances; after which, she and her husband make what is called the first sortita together, go to hear mass, call upon every one in due form, and are considered fairly started in their new position. The dingy Palazzo subsides into its wonted monotony; and the young couple, with no interest or authority in the house, treated like mere children, are expected to conform to the hours and habits of the old people, who, having yielded the same submission in their day, are by no means backward in exacting it themselves.
We knew a family, that of the Marchese G——, one of the most ancient and wealthy in Ancona, where the eldest son, though upwards of thirty-six, and married for more than ten years, was not at liberty to invite any friend of his own to the family-table without his father's permission; neither could he nor his wife, for any convenience of their own, anticipate or retard the fixed hour for dinner, or order that meal to be served in their apartments. All their expenditure was regulated for them, a pair of carriage-horses kept at their disposal, their servants' wages paid; even their subscription to the theatre provided for, and a sum assigned for their dress and pocket-money—being twenty dollars a month to the heir of this noble house, and to his wife fifteen. This was considered very liberal. All the disposal of the income of the family—very large in reference to the country; it was reported to be nearly 20,000 dollars (£4000) a year—all insight into the accounts and expenditure, was exclusively reserved for the old marchese, who would have resented any hint or advice from his son as unwarrantable interference.
Another strange species of coercion that seemed generally kept up in families of this stamp, was in the selection of Christian names for the younger branches. It is not an uncommon thing to hear a young mother lament the uncouth appellations bestowed upon her offspring, and saying, with a shrug of her shoulders, “But what is to be done? It is an old family name, and my suocera would have it.”
The vexatious tyranny exercised by the mother-in-law, the suocera, has almost passed into a proverb, as the source of innumerable evils; yet such is the force of custom amongst the Italians, that if a son were possessed of independent fortune, and established himself away from the paternal roof, he would be exclaimed against as undutiful in the extreme. I could tell of many sad instances of unhappiness produced by the suocera's influence. In the first place, she is almost invariably ignorant, prejudiced, and bigoted—such being the characteristics of the greater part of Italian women, born and educated some fifty or sixty years ago—and sets her face stubbornly against everything that is not precisely according to her code, whether it relates to politics, the management of her household, or the treatment of her grand-children. I heard a lady herself recount how she lost five children in succession, owing to their being sent out to be reared by rough peasant-women in the country. They were delicate infants, and could not stand the exposure and want of care to which they were subjected; and so they died off, one after the other, their poor mother vainly attempting to move the old contessa to allow her to have a wet-nurse in the house.
“In her day,” persisted the unrelenting woman, “children were brought up in the country; and why should it be otherwise now?” and she had authority enough over her son to compel him to resist his wife's piteous supplications. Often has she said, “My five children were sacrificed to a suocera's power. She yielded at last and I saved the sixth”.