Godey's Lady's Book

GODEY'S LADY'S BOOK
Philadelphia, February 1850

THE CARNIVAL AT ROME – 1847.

BY CHARLES G. LELAND.

Le Carnival qui approchait lui en fournait l'occasion, car c'est une epoque qui montre le peuple de Rome tel qu'il est—VIE DE LA PRINCESSE BORGHESE.

This feast is termed the Carnival, which being
Interpreted, implies "Farewell to flesh;"
When there is fiddling, singing, drinking, masking.
BYRON.

Bow shall I ever describe thee, thou glorious Carnival'! How can I ever hope to convey even the shadow of an idea of thy exquisite folly, thy delicious madness? As well might the opium-eater hope to paint his fairy-Land visions, or a German geister seher to describe the brilliant phantasma of the seventh sphere.

" There is one month in the year," say the sober- minded Turks, "during which Christians are insane." And, truly, he who does not enter into the spirit of the Carnival, may well deem himself in a world of lunatics. All the eccentricity, all the grotesqueness, all the wit, folly, singularity, and oddity which can be devised by a people who are eccentric and romantic in their soberest moments, are then brought into play.

There is a broad and beautiful street in Rome, called the CORSO, any part of which presents views which might serve for scenes in theatres. From every window in this street, curtains of crimson and gold, or blue and silver, are hung; and the balconies which project from every house are similarly adorned. These are occupied almost exclusively by beautiful women, in every variety of costume which history can suggest, caprice invent, or imagination devise. Joan of Arc, from one window, makes war on you with sugar-plums; Pulcinella pelts you with peas, while a chance Contadina half kills you with kisses and confits. Anon, a beautiful Odalisque tosses you a flower; while, from an opposing balcony, a Louis Quatorze beauty discharges an egg full on your devoted coat. With heartfelt agony, you watch it as it breaks, and, lo! it is filled with cologne water! With a smile on your lips and rage in your heart, you dash on, only to encounter new showers of confits and new storms of bouquets.

Such is the main business of the Carnival – to ride through the Corso in n carriage; or to stand in balcony, exchanging volleys of flowers and sugarplums with the passers-by; and to crowd, at night, into a masked ball or the opera. But the thousand-and-one little incidents which serve to interest and amuse, while you hardly perceive them—the flirtations of a minute, the coquetries of a second – all these, unimportant by themselves, taken together, serve admirably to dispel the least trace of ennui, and throw an air of romance over the whole scene.

The missiles generally employed during the Carnival are of three sorts, namely –" The Offensive," 'The Complimentary,." " The Indifferent " Among the offensive, I class, first, the plaster sugar-plums (a decided bull – Von Schwartz). These are made either of small balls of clay or pea,, coated over with a mixture of lime and water; and when thrown with energy against any dark object, such as a coat or hat, leave a white mark. When the face and hands are pelted, or the lime powder gets into the eyes, the sensation is rather painful than otherwise. The Papal government, mindful of this fact, issue the strictest commands against such missiles being made of a larger size than the samples which are deposited in the Police Office. Those commands are obeyed with an accuracy only equaled by that of the New York and Philadelphia boys, in regard to the Fourth-of-July edicts against fireworks. The second class of missiles includes potatoes, pebbles, cabbage-stalks, &c., all of which are contraband.

The Complimentary, for the greater part, consist of small bouquets, which are sold in vast numbers at an extremely low price—say a shilling the half-peck. To these may be added fancy confectionery of every description, as well as artificial flowers. The extravagance of the Roman ladies and gentlemen, in these last two items, passes belief. I seriously believe that many a man literally throws away daily, during Carnival, more money than he spends weekly at other seasons. Rut who thinks of prudence or economy at such a time? Carnival is short, and Lent is long; therefore, vive la bagatelle! and hang to-morrow! Such is the principle which actuates every one during this soul-expanding week.

The greater part of a man's happiness at this period, depends upon the skill and tact which he displays in discharging the last-mentioned class of missiles. Should he, a l'Anglais, merely fill his carriage with flowers, and blindly throwaway, right and left, at every girl he meets, he may, indeed, stand s chance of getting flowers in return; but the land looks, the sweet smiles(not to mention the little bags and baskets full of sugar-plums), all of these delicate and interesting little attentions will be lost to him.

What should he do? For the benefit of those gentlemen who propose passing the next Carnival at Rome, I would say, throw your bouquets at individuals, and not, as most do, at windows and carriages. Always select an individual – catch her eye, and, holding out your bouquet in such a manner as to indicate that it is for her alone, toss it gently to her. Having done this, you may, with modest confidence, hold out your hat to catch anything which she may cast in return.

The third class of missiles, or the Indifferent, vary in the manner in which they are applied. Should they be gently tossed, with a sweet smile, we may safely class them among the Complimentary; but when thrown with violence, they are most decidedly offensive. They consist, for the. greater part, of oranges, lemons, large balls of sugar, heavy bon bons, and bouquets in which the stem is the principal part.

The Corso is undoubtedly the head-quarters of the Carnival. But it does not by any means monopolize all the fun. In order to prevent confusion, carriages are compelled to follow each other in succession, keeping to the left, as the Roman law directs. To return to their' place, they are obliged to make a detour through another street, generally the Ripetta; therefore the Ripetta becomes itself the scene of a small Carnival. Moreover, all those pedestrian masks, to whom acting is necessary in order to fully exhibit the part which they have assumed, are obliged to seek a street not overcrowded, such as the Ripetta, in order to obtain an audience. The visitor, therefore, who wishes to fully enjoy the Carnival, must not neglect this street.

These pedestrian maskers are, to many, the most interesting part of the Carnival. Every one is sustaining a part; and not unfrequently two or three unite for this purpose. You will see banditti bending low, and stealing with stealthy step around the corner, threatening to rob the unwary passer-by of his last sugar-plum. An elderly lady, apparently from the country, with a coal-scuttle bonnet, and mask admirably adapted to express terror and confusion, rushes madly through the crowd at right angles, shrieking aloud for her lost child. A man, bearing his wife on his back, and six children hung round, passes by; you laugh, but are deceived at the sight; nor is it until a close examination that you discover that, of all this interesting family, the man only is real – the wife and children being composed of papier mache.

I observed a party of maskers in a car festooned with evergreen, and drawn by a donkey neatly dressed for the occasion, in white pantaloons and known coat, with his tail in a bag. The unfortunate animal walked along with slow steps, apparently in a dream. He was completely confused, bewildered. No longer an inhabitant of this world, he was, apparently, in a transition state to that future life, where, according to the Pantagruelist, beasts change conditions with their masters.

Every one at Rome, as I have already intimated, either gives or receives flowers during this period. But how can this apply to young ladies who are doomed, by cruel fate or a cross papa, to sit in third, fourth, or even fifth story windows, and watch the passers-by? Roman genius has surmounted this difficulty by an astonishing invention. This consists of a, number of wooden bars, joined together in such a manner that when opened their united length is sufficient to reach the said window. But when closed and lying together parallel, they may be carried without difficulty under the arm. To open and shut these ingenious contrivances, requires skill. When a gentleman wishes to convey a flower or bon bon to a lady, he attaches it to the end of this machine and shoots it up to her window. She, detaching it, affixes another, which the machine, closing with a noise like the report of a pistol, bears to its master.

The war with the plaster plums rages to a terrible extent. English gentlemen and ladies are, however, the principal actors in this offensive warfare. These are the only persons who are so carried away by mad excitement and over-heated enthusiasm, as to literally pour the plaster by the peck upon passers-by, without distinction of age or sex. To protect yourself from such foes, it is necessary to wear a wire mask, a blouse, a broad-brimmed white sombrero, and a smiling face (for a Carnival mask doth hardly conceal the features). Thus armed and equipped, according to universal custom, you may bid defiance to a pelting world. The Carnival of each day begins at two o'clock, and closes just before the Angelus, with a horse-race. The steeds—according to the universal custom, which has given the street its name—run directly through the Corso, from the obelisk to Torlonia's palace. In this race, the horses are without riders; and, being goaded to the last pitch previous to the start, are urged on by the pricking and clattering of the sharp iron plates with which they are hung, as well as by the shouts of the spectators. So excited do the latter become at this spectacle, that it requires the utmost efforts, at the close of the race, for the soldiers to prevent them from rushing in and stopping the horses. Several times, during this present Carnival, men have been very seriously wounded by the bayonets of the guard.

And so it goes on, madder and madder, and wilder and wilder, like the witches' festival of a Walpurgis night. On the last day, the excitement is at its highest pitch. Flowers, bon bons, and plums are thrown. poured, and shot, with an unsparing hand. The number of carriages is doubled. Multitudes of maskers, hitherto unseen, make their appearance; while many of the old stairs vary their dresses in such a manner as to give a new interest to the scene. But the climax of this delirium appears in the hour succeeding the race of the last day. Then, indeed, the traveler will behold s spectacle, wilder, stranger, and more exciting than anything which he has ever before imagined.

I refer to the ceremony of " Extinguishing the Carnival," as it is termed—a ceremony in which every one bears a part. Let us imagine the masking and pelting of the day well over, and the revelers returning by the thousands from the race. Suddenly, a noise is heard in the direction of the Corso; and you, perceiving that all the maskers are bending their way thither, join them.

As you enter the Corso, a light like that of an immense conflagration appears. You press on, and, ac you enter, a sight meets your eyes, the like of which the world cannot furnish. The whole street, more than a mile in length, is crowded to suffocation with crowds of people, every individual bearing in his hands a torch or taper. Lights are flashing from roof and balcony, and their glare is reflected from the crimson and gold canopies which yet overhang the houses. The carriages still continue their course, but their occupants are holding tapers; and, at intervals, in the crowd, you see long poles to which lanterns are hung or torches tied. It would seem as if the entire population of Rome were bent on illuminating the Corso to the utmost extent. As you gaze, you perceive that these lights are continually being extinguished and relighted. Every individual appears bent on beating out his neighbor's light and preserving his own; and, against every luckless wight whose tapers are thus extinguished, or who appears taperless on the ground, the cry of "SENZA MOCCOLO" is raised by his more fortunate neighbors. These two words, signifying, literally, "without a candle," are the only ones which are heard. Formerly, the cry raised during the "Extinguishment," was "Sia ammazato chi non porta moccolo"—"Let him who is without a taper be assassinated." But in these days, assassination is becoming unpopular, even in Rome. And the roar of the voices – which is truly overpowering – the red flashing sheet, appearing in the distance like a gulf of fire, and the quaint devices which everywhere meet the eye, are enough, in truth, to make the spectator believe that all the wildest delusions, the maddest. magic fantasies of Domdaniel, or the "House of Wrath," are being realized in the city of Rome.

The lights which are used in the "Senza Moccolo" consist of slender wax tapers, with large wicks. Several of these are twisted together, and a large flame is thus produced, which it would be next to impossible to blow out with the breath. To effect the extinguishment of these, the Roman ties one end of a handkerchief to a switch, and, thus armed, flaps away right and left. It sometimes occurs that, while thus employed in "dousing the glim," the candle-holder catches hold of the handkerchief. In such a case, if the captor be a foreigner, it is at once applied to the flame and burnt; but if a "native," it is quietly pocketed.

One of the most astonishing points in these scenes is the perfect good-humor which prevails throughout. An angry word, or even look, is very rare. "Were this thing tried among us," quoth Von Schwarz, my companion, from under his sombrero, " there would be more than ten thousand fights, jusque a la mort, in less than three minutes."

Von Schwartz lost his temper once during the " Extinguishment." A very pretty young lady, in a carriage, having dropped her taper, Von Schwartz politely relighted it and returned it to her. And what did the fair Italian? She not only blew out his light, but actually snatched it from him.

"Oh, ye Roman ladies!" groaned Von Schwartz, " would that Juvenal were alive again, even for your sakes!"

And thus, in tumult and revel and wild uproar, ends the Carnival. But nothing strikes the observer more than the sudden transition to the gloom and silence of Lent. The sun which sets on the wildest gayety and confusion, rises on prayer, repentance, and fasting. The lord of misrule, who hath borne it bravely for a season in minivere and gold, now yields his crown to the friar and monk, who, in silent power, confess the sins of his followers – Comedia luget – Scena est deserta.

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