The same operas are repeated night after night, without intermission, for weeks. In the course of a season lasting nearly two months, seldom more than two operas are given, the expense of getting up a greater variety being of course one reason; while the taste of the Italians themselves leads also to their preferring the frequent repetition of their favourite composers, rather than a constant change, which, in music, they declare is a drawback to enjoyment.
The price of admission during the Carnival appears ridiculously low, the ticket being only fifteen bajocchi—equal to 7-½_d._; and a subscription for the season can be taken out for fifteen pauls—6_s._ 9_d._, which insures admission for every night, excepting benefits. In the spring, as there is a ballet besides the opera, the price is doubled; in the autumn, when the _commedia_—the national term for dramatic representations—is given, it is only a paul—5_d._
The boxes, as I said before, are all private property; each is partitioned off from the other as at the Italian Opera in London. They are fitted up on either side with narrow sofas, on which the società lounge and gossip at their ease. Amongst their fair owners, the respective number of visitors is a great subject of heart-burning, it being an enviable distinction to have one's box constantly filled. As regards the toilet of the ladies, there is but little display: in winter, they are scarcely more dressed than for a walking out, many of them even retaining their bonnets; and on account of the extreme cold, it is often customary to send _chauffepieds_ to keep their feet warm during the performance. The house is dimly lighted to English eyes, accustomed to the flaring gas of our own theatres, for there is only a large chandelier from the centre, and the foot-lights; but Italians are not fond of a strong glare, and resorting thither so constantly as they do, a greater degree of brilliancy would prove fatiguing to the sight. The existing arrangement permits them to see and to be seen, and with this they are perfectly satisfied; and thus they go on, every night of the week while the season lasts—excepting Mondays, when an inferior singer takes the prima donna's place, and Fridays, when the theatre is closed—gossiping, trifling, complaining, but still led there by an irresistible impulse, a void in domestic life which, so long as English hearths and homes maintain their proud supremacy, will happily remain an unsolved mystery to us.