Diary And Notes Of Horace Templeton, Esq. Volume I. Lever Charles James
was on one evening, when, having lost a very heavy sum, that his turn came to deal; and, with the superstitious feeling that only a play-man can understand, he resolved to stake a very large amount upon the game. The attention of the bystanders – never very deeply engaged by the scène– was now entirely engrossed by the play-table, where Beauclerc and his adversary were seated at écarté. It was that critical moment when the cards were dealt, but the trump not yet turned, and Beauclerc sat enjoying, with a gambler’s “malign” delight, the eager anxiety in the other player’s countenance, when suddenly a voice said, —
“Ha, Beauclerc! the Marquesa is rising – she is about to leave the theatre.”
“Impossible!” said he; “it is only the second act.”
“It is quite true, though,” rejoined another; “she is putting on her mantle.”
“Never mind our party, then,” cried Beauclerc’s antagonist; “I will hold myself ready to play the match out whenever you please.”
“I please it now, then!” said he, with a degree of energy that heavy losses had, in spite of him, rendered uncontrollable.
“Il Signor Beauclerc!” said a servant, approaching, “the Marquis d’Espagna desires to see you.”
“Tell him I am engaged – I can’t come,” said Beauclerc, turning up the trump-card, which he held out triumphantly before his adversary, saying, “The king!”
At the same instant the old Marquis entered, and, approaching the table, whispered a few words in his ear. If an adder had pierced him with its sting, Beauclerc could not have started with a more agonised expression; and he sprang from the chair and rushed out of the theatre, not by the door, however, where the Marquesa’s carriage was yet standing, but by a private passage, which led more easily towards his lodgings.
“What is this piece of news, that all are so amused by?” said the King, the next morning, as he was rising.
“Your majesty alludes to the Marquis d’Es-pagna, no doubt,” said Count Villafranca. “He challenged the young English attaché last night, at the theatre, and they have been out this morning; and, strange to say, that the Marquis, the very best swordsman we have ever had here, was disarmed and run through the side by his antagonist.”
“Is the wound dangerous?” said the King, coolly.
“I believe not, your Majesty. Beauclerc has behaved very well since it happened; he has not left the Marquis for a moment, and has, they say, asked pardon most humbly for his offence, which was, indeed, a very gross neglect of the Marchesa no husband could pardon.”
“So I heard,” said the King, yawning. “The Marquis is very tiresome, and a great bore: but, for all that, he is a man of spirit; and I am glad he has shewn this young foreigner that Italian honour cannot be outraged with impunity!”
Such is the true version; and, let people smile as they like at the theory, I can assure them it is no laughing matter. It is, doubtless, somewhat strange to our northern ideas of domestic happiness that a husband should feel called on to punish a want of sufficient attention to his wife, from the man whom the world regards as her lover. We have our own ideas on the subject; and, however sensitive we may feel on this subject, I sincerely hope we shall never push punctilio so far as the Neapolitans.
Such, without the slightest exaggeration, are the pictures Italy presents, for more impressive on the minds of our travelling youth than all that Correggio has touched or Raphael rendered immortal. Will their contemplation injure us? Shall we become by habit more lenient to vice, and less averse to its shame? or shall we, as some say, be only more charitable to others, and less hypocritical ourselves? I sadly fear that, in losing what many call “our affected prudery,” we lose the best safeguard of virtue. It was, at the least, the “livery of honour,” and we shewed ourselves not ashamed to wear it. And yet there are those who will talk to you – ay, and talk courageously – of the domestic LIFE OP ITALY!
The remark has been so often made, that by the mere force of repetition it has become like an acknowledged truth, that, although strangers are rarely admitted within its precincts, there exists in Italy and in Italian cities a state of domestic enjoyment to which our boasted home-life in England must yield the palm. Never was there any more absurd assertion less propped by fact – never was the “ignotum” so easily taken “pro beatifico.”
The domestic life of England has no parallel in any part of Europe, save, perhaps, in some of the French provinces, where the old “vie du château” presents something similar; but, even there, it rather lingers like the spirit of a departed time, the relic of bygone associations, than in the full reign of a strong national taste. In Germany, notwithstanding the general impression to the contrary, there is still less of it: the passion for household duties by the woman, the irresistible charms of beer and tobacco to the men, suggest different paths; and while she indulges her native fondness for cookery and counting napkins at home, he, in some wine-garden, dreams away life in smoke-inspired visions of German regeneration and German unity. In Italy, however, the points of contact between the members of a family are still fewer again: the meal-times, that summon around the board the various individuals of a house, are here unknown; each rises when he pleases, and takes his cup of coffee or chocolate in solitary independence – unseen, unknown, and, worse still, unwashed!
The drawing-room, that paradise of English home-existence, has no place in the life of Italy. The lady of the house is never seen of a morning; not that the cares of family, the duties of a household, engross her – not that she is busied with advancing the education of her children, or improving her own. No: she is simply en deshabille. That is, to be sure, a courteous expression for a toilet that has cost scarce five minutes to accomplish, and would require more than the indulgence one concedes to the enervation of climate to forgive.
The master of the family repairs to the café: his whole existence revolves around certain little tables, with lemonade, sorbets, and dominoes; his physical wants are, indeed, few, but his intellectual ones even fewer; he cares little for politics – less for literature; his thoughts have but one theme – intrigue; and his whole conversation is a sort of chronique scandaleuse on the city he lives in.
There is a tone of seeming good-nature – an easy, mock charity, in the way he treats his neighbours’ backslidings – that have often suggested to strangers favourable impressions as to the kindliness of the people; but this is as great an error as can be: the real explanation of the fact is the levity of national feeling, and the little impression that breaches of morality make upon a society dead to all the higher and better dictates of virtue – such offences being not capital crimes, but mere misdemeanours.
The dinner-hour occasionally, but not always, assembles the family to a meal that in no respect resembles that in more civilised communities. The periodical return of a certain set of forms – those convenances which inspire, at the same time, regard for others and self-respect – the admixture of courtesy with cordial enjoyment – have no representatives around a board where the party assemble, some dusty and heated, others wrapped up in dressing-gowns – all negligent, inattentive to each other, and weary of themselves – tired of the long, unbroken morning, which no occupation lightens, no care beguiles, no duty elevates. The Siesta follows, evening draws near, and at last the life of Italy dawns – dawns when the sun is setting! It is the hour of the theatre – the Theatre, the sole great passion of the nation, the one rallying point for every grade and class. Thither, now, all repair; and for a brief interval the silent streets of the city bustle with the life and movement of the inhabitants, as, on foot or in carriages, they hasten past.
The “business of the scène” is the very least among the attractions of a theatre in Italy. The opera-box is the drawing-room, the only one of an Italian lady; it is the club-room of the men. Whist and faro, ombre and piquet, dispute the interest with the prima donna or the danseuse in one box; while in another the fair occupant turns from the ardent devotion of stage-passion to listen to the not less impassioned, but as unreal, protestation of her admirer beside her.
That the drama, as such, is not the attraction, it is sufficient to say that the same piece is