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Dementia,
Narrative and
Performance
Staging Reality, Reimagining Identities

Janet Gibson
Dementia, Narrative and Performance
 Janet Gibson

Dementia, Narrative
and Performance
Staging Reality, Reimagining Identities
Janet Gibson
UTS Insearch
University of Technology
Sydney, NSW, Australia

ISBN 978-3-030-46546-9    ISBN 978-3-030-46547-6 (eBook)

https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-46547-6

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s) 2020

This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the
Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of
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The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this
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The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information
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institutional affiliations.

Cover illustration: FAIRY FLOSS. Photo of Phillip Mills and Katia Molino from Theatre
Kantanka’s production of Missing the Bus to David Jones. Photo by Heidrun Löhr. Used
with permission of Carlos Gomes.

This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature
Switzerland AG.
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
To Julia, Mary-Jane, and Sandy, with love
 Acknowledgements

The arguments on which this book turns were germinated in the

Alzheimer’s diagnosis, institutionalisation, and death of my mother
Barbara Gibson, a woman committed to social justice and fervent about
the theatre and its role in awakening peoples’ minds to inequity and big-
otry. The arguments in this book were also fostered by my interest in the
verbatim work of Moisés Kaufman (The Laramie Project) with whom I
had worked as an actor in Women in Beckett at Theater for the New City
(his first Tectonic project) in New York in 1991. The book’s genesis was a
strange mix indeed but going off the beaten track often produces thought-­
provoking products, one of which I hope this book to be.
So many people nurtured this project. The book had its first life as a
PhD thesis undertaken at Macquarie University, Sydney, Australia, under
the keen eyes of Yuji Sone, my principal supervisor, with additional insight
contributed by Nicole Matthews in the role of associate supervisor. I have
the greatest respect for their intelligence, integrity, and humanity.
Although dementia is not their focus, two very important scholarly
works inspired my writing: James Thompson’s Performance Affects (2009)
and Deirdre Heddon’s Autobiography and Performance (2008). I was
thrilled when they agreed to be on my PhD examination panel. I really
appreciated the enthusiasm with which they greeted my work and their
encouragement to find a wider platform for my ideas. Likewise,
many thanks to Michael Balfour, another of my PhD examiners, for gener-
ous help and advice when I needed it during the writing of this book.
Anne Basting’s commitment to people living with dementia and their
performances in everyday life and on various stages sustains much of my

vii
viii ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

thinking. From first reading her article “God is a Talking Horse” to shar-
ing ideas over breakfast in Milwaukee, Anne continues to both impress
and surprise me with the depth of her intellect and her unwavering com-
mitment to creativity.
Carlos Gomes, the artistic director of Theatre Kantanka, was the soul of
generosity, answering questions and sending me DVDs and other material
which helped me dig deeper into Missing the Bus to David Jones. This the-
atre piece deserves an unquestionable place in the canon of great (demen-
tia) theatre. Thank you, Kate Denborough, for filling me in so promptly
on certain details to do with Sundowner.
Thanks, Vicki Sanchez, for all the information about The Bucket List.
Vicki is one of those very important dementia care workers who love what
they do and do it so well, despite the appalling pay. I hope this situation
changes for all aged care workers in the not too distant future. My grati-
tude also extends to all the people I worked with in TimeSlips sessions at
Uniting Locke Haven : your creativity and imagination refreshed and
inspired me when I was developing many of the ideas which form the
backbone of this book.
The delightful Maureen Matthews and I have been emailing each other
for quite a few years now. I was very lucky to see a performance of her
community readers’ theatre for people living in the early stages of a
dementia diagnosis—To Whom I May Concern®—when I was in New York
in June 2018, an experience which deepened my enthusiasm for this
modality. Thanks also to performers Therese, Julie, and David for wel-
coming me so warmly to the rehearsal before the performance.
My deliberations on To Whom I May Concern® were recently published
in RiDE, adapted for the special issue ‘On Access’. I would like to thank
the anonymous reviewers for input to that article which also helped me in
fashioning the corresponding book chapter. Collette Conroy, RiDE’s edi-
tor, has been very helpful and encouraging about my work since I first met
her at the Performance and Disability working group at the IFTR/FIRT
Stockholm conference 2016. A lot of other people in that group have
heard out my ideas at various stages and I thank you all but in particular
Yvonne Schmidt and Arseli Dokumaci. Arseli—thanks for your input on
some of the chapters, your willingness to do so, and your extremely per-
ceptive feedback. I am indebted to you for the comment in Chap. 8 on the
proliferation of diseases in this day and age in which there are not many
disease-free bodies left to discipline, in Foucault’s dispensation. Likewise,
thanks to Kate Maguire-Rosier and Catherine Maitland, my ad hoc
 ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ix

Australian disability discussion group members, for inspiring and chal-

lenging conversations that have helped me no end in fashioning my think-
ing. Caroline Wake: thank you for giving me your valuable time on several
occasions to help me fine-tune some ideas about verbatim theatre.
I have been lucky enough in the last few years to be able to attend two
conferences held by the Dementia and Cultural Narrative Network,
steered by Sarah Falcus and Katsura Sako. I have had such stimulating
discussions with many people in that network, especially Mao Hui Deng,
Cristina Douglas, and Bridie Moore.
UTS colleagues too have cheered me on—David Wheeler, Craig
Johnson, Susan Sherringham, Kevin Alexander Su, Adrian Kelly, Deb
Nixon, Bhuva Narayan, and Gail Kenning, among many others. Aurora
Murphy helped me clarify my arguments in my PhD drafts, and moti-
vated me to extend my ideas to a broader audience. Thanks especially to
Tim Laurence, my Dean of Studies, for giving me time off to write and
taking joyful excitement and pride in my authoring of this book. I am very
appreciative of having had Palgrave editor Vicky Bates cheerfully answer
many of my questions and queries, and more recently, Jack Heeney.
Thanks also to Janet Hutchinson for a perceptive editorial eye on one of
the drafts. And to the anonymous reviewer of the final draft of the book:
thanks so much for helping me think more rigorously about theatre of the
real, and for the morale- boosting comments.
Friends and family—thank you all, but especially Taylor, Margaret,
Penny, and Benjamin. I would like to specifically thank my sister MaryJane
for reading and commenting on several chapters as we sat staring at the
beautiful Yamba Ocean on our one-week writing and laughing holiday on
the north coast of New South Wales, Australia. Miss you Roddy, my dar-
ling brother, and wish you were still alive to see this book published.
Thanks also to Sandy who helped birth this baby and to my partner in life
Julia who is, well, everything to me.
 Contents

1 My Mother’s Story, My Story  1

Part I Dementia, Identity and Narrative  33

2 Recasting Senility: The Genesis of the ‘Right Kind’ of

Dementia Story 35

3 Narrative Regimes 59

Part II Dementia in Performance  91

4 Staging the ‘Reality’ of Dementia 93

5 Staging Dementia Voices in Australia: Missing the Bus to

David Jones, Theatre Kantanka, and Sundowner, KAGE133

6 Mapping Applied Performance in Dementia Cultures177

7 “I Don’t Want to Disappear”: Dementia and Public

Autobiographical Performance215

xi
xii Contents

Part III Dementia as Performance 245

8 Rehearsing a Theory of Dementia as Performance247

9 Revisiting My Mother’s Story, My Story269

Index 279
 Abbreviations

ABC Australian Broadcasting Commission

ACT Australian Capital Territory
AD Alzheimer’s disease
AIHW Australian Institute of Health and Welfare
BPSD Behavioural and Psychological Symptoms of Dementia
CCTV Closed circuit television
CD Compact disc
CDS Center for Digital Storytelling
DAI Dementia Alliance International
DASNI Dementia Advocacy and Support Network
DS Digital storytelling
EDIE Educational Dementia Immersive Experience
GPS Global Positioning System
LR Life Review
LSW Life story work
MBDJ Missing the Bus to David Jones
MCM Meeting of Cultural Ministers
MMSE Mini-Mental State Examination
NGOs Non-government organisations
NHPF National Health Performance Framework
NIDA National Institute of Dramatic Art, Sydney
PTSD Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder
RT Reminiscence Therapy
SDWG Scottish Dementia Working Group

xiii
xiv Abbreviations

TfD Theatre for Development

TWIMC To Whom I May Concern®
VaD Vascular dementia
WHO World Health Organization
 List of Figures

Fig. 5.1 ‘Fairy Floss’. Katia Molino and Phillip Mills. Missing the Bus to
David Jones. Theatre Kantanka. Photo by Heidrun Löhr. Used
with permission of Carlos Gomes. (The photo shows a man in
a blue, grey and red cardigan wearing a green party hat and a
woman dressed in a black and white houndstooth jacket and
white hat. They are up very close to each other’s faces and are
eating and feeding each other white fairy floss 143
Fig. 5.2 ‘The Bus Stop’. Katia Molino waiting for the bus. Missing the
Bus to David Jones. Theatre Kantanka. Photo by Joanne Saad.
Used with permission of Carlos Gomes. (The photo shows a
woman dressed in a black and white houndstooth jacket, a white
hat, and white gloves, sitting on a seat clutching a black and
white handbag. She is looking off into the distance as if
expecting a bus to arrive any moment. A Filipino nurse or
care attendant wearing black pants and a white t-shirt is
approaching her) 151
Fig. 6.1 Marcia Bannister, Bucket List Sales Manager, and Jessie
Anderson, Bucket List Assistant Sales Manager. Video still from
Finding the Why. Enabling Active Participation in Life in Aged
Care (Fire Films). Still used with permission of Corrine
Maunder. (The photo shows two old women with short hair
sitting on an orange, red, and yellow striped couch with a very
high back. Marcia is on the left. She is taller than Jessie and has
short white hair. She is wearing a blouse with red, yellow, pink,
and green leaf patterns on it. Jessie is on the right with short
brown hair. She is wearing a white top with white beads. They
both have white mugs in their hands) 199

xv
xvi List of Figures

Fig. 6.2 ‘Elmer Anderson’s dream’. Photo by Skydiving Photos. Used

with permission of Vicki Sanchez. (The photo shows an old man
with short white hair wearing black glasses over which is a clear
face mask with blue plastic arms. He has a bright blue t-shirt on.
He is skydiving. A man accompanies him on the dive. This man
is on his back. The blue plane out of which they have both
just jumped is above their heads, to the left of the picture) 201
Fig. 7.1 To Whom I May Concern® Hill House production. Photo by
Janet Gibson. Copyright Janet Gibson. (The photo shows two
women and one man sitting (in front of an audience) on high
stools with their scripts on stands and microphones in front of
them. Behind them are two large windows, which are open,
some paintings on the wall, a clock, and a vase of pink flowers) 230
 CHAPTER 1

My Mother’s Story, My Story

My mother, Barbara Gibson, was diagnosed with ‘probable’ Alzheimer’s

disease (AD) in 2008. A diagnosis of AD is usually traumatic, both for the
person and for their family; it was so for my mother, my siblings, and
myself. My mother entered the dementia wing of an aged care facility a
year later. Decisions around institutionalisation are not easy either. We
were told by the nursing staff that, at the end of her first day in the facility,
Mum put on yellow washing up gloves and, with a hammer in hand (where
had she found that?), proceeded to the door of the wing, which could only
be unlocked by entering a number code on a key pad, and tried to smash
her way out in what appeared to be a (dramatic) bid for freedom. It didn’t
succeed. She stayed in the dementia wing for over a year, moving to the
palliative care wing for the last three weeks of her life. With a bolus of
morphine dripping pain relief into her belly, unable to get out of bed or
recognise anyone, and struggling for breath, she finally died on 4 May
2010. She was eighty-one years old.
This experience turned my life around. While not evident at the time, I
now see that, as one of my mother’s care partners,1 I entered a new ‘real-
ity’ where affect was the grammar of the communication space, not cogni-
tion. Fact merged with fantasy: I found it was not useful to insist on
distinctions between them. For instance, when my mother talked as if her
Aunt Enid was still alive, which she was not, I learned to accept this fic-
tion. Insisting that Enid was not alive only distressed my mother. She was
alive for my mother so that was ‘the truth’. Many ‘liminal’ spaces like these

© The Author(s) 2020 1

J. Gibson, Dementia, Narrative and Performance,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-46547-6_1
2 J. GIBSON

emerged in our time together: some between imagination and memory;

some between the present and the past (but not quite past); and some
between the woman who I began to see as ‘not my mother’ and also ‘not
not my mother’ (after Schechner 1985, 110–113).
The woman who was ‘not my mother’ showed infrequent exhibitionist
tendencies and occasional murderous inclinations. When we were out
shopping once, she grabbed my breasts, then hers, and asserted that hers
were bigger than mine. Another time, Mum was found by the nursing
staff trying to strangle Mavis, another woman with dementia, who only
had one phrase, repeated ad nauseam, day in and day out: “la di da, la di
di”. But the woman who was ‘not not my mother’ still exhibited many
familiar behaviours. She loved performing—as she had done for all her
children as we were growing up—joyously dancing and singing along to
any of the songs on her Nat King Cole CD. She was still generous and
compassionate. She spent a week in the facility, on and off, by the bedside
of a dying woman, comforting her by stroking her hands and face.
Over time then, I began to comprehend the ‘performativity’ of demen-
tia, finding fledgling connections between my mother’s behaviours and
performance theorist Richard Schechner’s notion of performativity.
Schechner argues this “occurs in places and situations not traditionally
marked as ‘performing arts’ … mak[ing] it increasingly difficult to sustain
a distinction between appearance and reality, facts and make-believe, sur-
faces and depths” (2013, 24). Furthermore, in living through this experi-
ence, I noticed that ‘our’ story2 did not match those popularly available,
which intrigued me. Gradually, I came to prefer many aspects of my rela-
tionship with the ‘new’ mother to whom Alzheimer’s introduced me,
which is not to say that I saw AD as a gift. Dementia has always been, and
probably always will be, a frightening experience with immense physical
and psychological challenges for the person diagnosed and for that per-
son’s friend, partner, spouse, or family member (Basting 2009, 2).3 From
a biomedical perspective, dementia is a clinical ‘umbrella’ term for a pro-
gressive neurodegenerative syndrome containing a constellation of symp-
toms that may be caused by a number of underlying diseases such as AD
(Bitenc 2020, 8). I examine this perspective, the pre-eminent way we
understand the condition today, in more detail in Chap. 2, along with
other cultural meanings usually yoked to the biomedical viewpoint—
essentially those of tragedy, loss, and deficit. But viewing dementia as an
unqualified tragedy, along with notions of ‘losing’ the mother we once
knew, which was how my siblings and I greeted the diagnosis when we
 1 MY MOTHER’S STORY, MY STORY 3

first heard it, is not the whole story either. In sum, I found myself part of
a story for which no template could be found, at that time, in the existing
repertoire.
Narrative sociologist Arthur Frank (2010) contends that, although
people tell their own stories about their lives, they do not make these sto-
ries up by themselves. There is a limited repertoire of stories to be told
from which we then tell ‘our’ stories, as is very evident in the case of
dementia. I now label this restricted arsenal of narratives the ‘right kind’
of dementia story, in Lyotard’s terms (1984), a ‘grand narrative’\, circu-
lating accounts of loss, despair, failure, and tragedy. This story does not
tell of the extant or emergent abilities of people affected by dementia,
particularly those sixty-five years and older. Instead, it focuses on their
pasts or on futures made grim for us all by the probability of a ‘silver tsu-
nami’ coming to destroy lives and push societies towards catastrophe. It
may also tell of long-suffering carers coping with the demands of aggres-
sive, forgetful, dependent, loved ones who are draining personal or famil-
ial emotional, physical, and financial resources. These dependent humans
are framed as ‘burdens’ to the economy, to society, to us all.
In the twenty-first century, in most Western cultures, these types of
stories fit into an overarching performance ‘framework’, which perfor-
mance scholar Jon McKenzie has labelled a “mode of power” (2001, 25).
This mode determines the ways in which, and the contexts where, people
with dementia ‘perform’ their stories and selves, mainly due to the ascen-
dancy of neoliberal capitalism. Neoliberalism can be defined as:

a theory of political economic practices that proposes that human well-being

can best be advanced by liberating individual entrepreneurial freedoms and
skills within an institutional framework characterised by strong private prop-
erty rights, free markets, and free trade … [I]f markets do not exist (in areas
such as land, water, education, health care…) then they must be created, by
state action if necessary. (Harvey 2007, 2)

Neoliberalism is a pervasive global ideology, referring to the privileged

position governments have given to markets in determining global eco-
nomic, political, and social policies. It has also been “incorporated into the
common-sense way many of us interpret, live in, and understand the
world” (ibid., 3). Since the 1970s, there has been an emphatic turn to
neoliberalism. Under its flag, performance as a “mode of power”
(McKenzie 2001, 25) propagates a type of ‘imperative to perform’ in
4 J. GIBSON

certain ways for people with dementia and their care partners. I contend
that this mode currently predominates among others, regulating both the
manners in which, and the situations where, people with dementia ‘per-
form’ their stories and selves. In the domain of human care, performance
as a “mode of power” (ibid.) insists on task efficiency over quality time,
results over relationships, and measurement over magnanimity, especially
in care homes and in interpersonal relationships.
My encounter with dementia and the subsequent institutionalisation of
my mother in a care home opened new insights into both performance as
a “mode of power” (ibid.) and the relationship between stories and ethics.
Constantly revolving in my mind at the time of my mother’s diagnosis and
beyond were the words of virtue ethicist Alasdair MacIntyre: “I can only
answer the question ‘What am I to do?’ if I can answer the prior question
‘Of what story or stories do I find myself a part?” (2011, 250)—words
which deepened and complicated the research I was undertaking at the
time into verbatim theatre and ethics. I began to wonder if theatre pieces
that worked verbatim—using the words and stories of people with demen-
tia—existed, and if so, what ethical provocations they would offer.
Verbatim theatre normally relies on the life stories of ‘reliable’ narrators
and, in oral history projects anyway, the assumption of the cognitive
“competency” of the primary teller (Pollock 2005, 3). But people with
dementia are often ‘unreliable narrators’4 who frequently struggle to
remember their life stories or segments of them and who regularly resort
to fabrication in the telling. In part because of this, and because of the
(often gradual) decline in many of their cognitive and physical capabilities,
they are repeatedly stereotyped as the “living dead” (Behuniak 2011) and
not seen as ‘real’ people.5

Focal Points, Challenges, and Contributions

This book then is the result of my own encounter with dementia and its
stories, along with my interest, as a theatre and performance studies
scholar, in how these stories are used on professional stages and in
applied theatre interventions and socially engaged performance prac-
tices. Of note is that I favour the term applied theatre and/or perfor-
mance throughout this book over newer terms which are constantly
emerging in this dynamic field, such as “socially engaged performance”
(Stuart Fisher and Thompson 2020) because the ideas which I either
contest or support in the analysis of the particular community-based
 1 MY MOTHER’S STORY, MY STORY 5

theatre and performance practices I investigate here have emerged from

applied theatre and performance scholarship. Also of importance to note
is that I use ‘story’ and ‘narrative’ interchangeably. Certain literary stud-
ies scholars define these terms discretely, with ‘story’ as the events that
happen and ‘narrative’ as the showing or telling of those events involving
sequence (movement from beginning to finish), space (detours from the
sequence), and time (Cobley 2001, 5–17). For philosopher Paul Ricoeur
(1988), ‘narrative’ is time; it is about expectation and memory, and not
just paying attention to events on a timeline. However, I am guided here
by Arthur Frank’s contention that the words ‘narrative’ and ‘story’ over-
lap so frequently, that sustaining divisions between them in consistent
usage is impossible (2010, 200). Frank also refuses a formal definition of
stories, contending that stories, in their very ontology, constantly evade
classification.
Most importantly, I do not aim to provide a comprehensive analysis of
the ways in which dementia is represented in theatre per se, nor do I seek
to catalogue all the various kinds of art interventions and practices cur-
rently used in care homes or community initiatives. What I do aim to do
in this book, overall, is seek to challenge the hegemony of the ‘right kind’
of dementia story in both art and applied theatre domains, in Western
contexts specifically, and in “theatre of the real” (Martin 2013) offerings
primarily, in order to reimagine other stories. In short, this kind of theatre
“recycle(s) reality” whether personal or communal, historical or political
(ibid., 5). By ‘hegemony, I mean the process by which the ‘right kind’ of
dementia story maintains its power, through the establishment, construc-
tion, and regulation of norms and material processes via the media, eco-
nomics, social roles, and other such means. Certain literary studies scholars
define these terms discretely, with ‘story’ as the events that happen and
‘narrative’ as the showing or telling of those events involving sequence
(movement from beginning to finish), space (detours from the sequence),
and time (Cobley 2001, 5–17). For philosopher Paul Ricoeur (1988),
‘narrative’ is time; it is about expectation and memory, and not just paying
attention to events on a timeline. However, I am guided here by Arthur
Frank’s contention that the words ‘narrative’ and ‘story’ overlap so fre-
quently, that sustaining divisions between them in consistent usage is
impossible (2010, 200). Frank also refuses a formal definition of stories,
contending that stories, in their very ontology, constantly evade
classification.
6 J. GIBSON

What I do aim to do in this book, overall, is to challenge the hegemony

of the ‘right kind’ of dementia story in both art and applied theatre
domains, in Western contexts specifically, and in “theatre of the real”
(Martin 2013) offerings primarily, in order to reimagine other stories. In
short, this kind of theatre “recycle(s) reality” whether personal or com-
munal, historical or political (ibid., 5). By ‘hegemony’, I mean the process
by which the ‘right kind’ of dementia story maintains its power, through
the establishment, construction, and regulation of norms and material
processes via the media, economics, social roles, and other such means.
Accordingly, to challenge the ‘right kind’ of dementia story and rei-
magine other kinds, I situate and explore the contributions that theatre
and performance can and do make in responding to and representing peo-
ple with dementia. But this is no easy enterprise. If, in part, the figure of
the person living with dementia is produced in and through cultural per-
formances, how then can theatrical performances, as cultural artefacts,
best act to represent and/or respond to that figure? ‘Cultural perfor-
mance’ as used here refers to the ways a culture articulates and presents
itself, encompassing not only cultural and artistic performances but also
religious, ritual, ceremonial, and political practices, as well as stories and so
on, as first defined by anthropologist Milton Singer (1972, 7) and later
taken up by various theatre studies scholars, including Erika Fischer-Lichte
(2008) and Jan Cohen-Cruz (2010).
The ‘right kind’ of dementia story is one of these cultural performances.
The issues I have with this type of story underpin my pursuit of the follow-
ing questions throughout the book: To what extent does this production/
intervention tell the ‘right kind’ of dementia story or disrupt it? Why? And
how is this achieved? However, within the overarching charters of the
above questions, my paramount enterprise is to drill down to a specific
interrogation of the troubling and productive nexus between words, sto-
ries, identity, and dementia using verbatim theatre productions, autobio-
graphical performance practices, and other “theatre of the real” offerings
(Martin 2013) as laboratories.
Given the complexity of the above enterprise, my analysis is limited to
case studies from a few Western industrialised societies (mostly Australia
and the USA). Any cross-cultural comparisons further afield (say with
India, Africa, or Asia) would have meant trying to incorporate into this
very pointed study too wide a range of dissimilar cultural and economic
differences, sociocultural practices, and conceptions of identity, selves, and
so on. Though very much a worthwhile endeavour, this focus would have
 1 MY MOTHER’S STORY, MY STORY 7

been overwhelming and unmanageable. My attention to the West is driven

by a desire to investigate the problem of cognitive disability within “hyper-
cognitive” (Post, 1995) societies where selfhood and identity are under-
stood to depend on cognition and memory and where narrative and
performance play an important role in this arrangement.
Through a primary focus on “theatre of the real” offerings (ibid.), the
book makes a key contribution to “theatre of the real” (ibid.) literature
and to forms of the latter which foreground the words of real-life agents.
Some of these forms may be further distinguished as “Theatre of Real
People”, which scholars Ulrike Garde and Meg Mumford (2016, 24–25)
declare to be a subcategory of Martin’s uber category “theatre of the real”
(ibid.). “Theatre of Real People” is:

a prevalent performance mode that exists across diverse and emergent

genres, including autobiographical theatre … community-based theatre,
delegated performance, documentary theatre, ethnographic performance,
participatory performance, refugee theatre, reality theatre, re-enactments,
testimonial theatre, theatre of everyday experts and verbatim theatre. (Garde
and Mumford 2016, 6)

Over the last twenty years or so, and across the globe, there has been an
‘explosion’ of people’s stories and words deployed in theatre productions
across the above-mentioned performance genres. Performed narratives
have included tales of trauma, victimhood, and crisis giving voice to the
socially, economically, or culturally marginalised. These narratives usually
aim to facilitate sociopolitical change for the participants, and/or the spec-
tators, as well as change at a broader social level. Some of these produc-
tions feature the people themselves; in others, actors perform. The
performances may take place in theatres, community centres, or similar
venues. They raise numerous issues and challenges for the theatre makers
creating them, and to their viewing audiences, which theatre and perfor-
mance studies scholars have been keen to interrogate.6
Apart from the emergence of a growing number of professional and
semi-professional art theatre productions dealing with dementia across
Western stages, “theatre of the real” (Martin 2013) productions about
dementia have also started to surface. Certain productions have been cre-
ated using the textual input of people with dementia (and their families, in
some instances). So, what are the challenges to theatre makers working
with these practices when people can no longer say who they are or tell
8 J. GIBSON

their stories in ways acceptable to the normalising regimes in which they

are situated? As a likely consequence of immense exactions in this regard,
little verbatim theatre or other types of “theatre of the real” (ibid.) have
emerged from the stories and words of people with dementia. Moreover,
in a ‘Catch 22’ situation, this shortage of theatre productions has impacted
scholarship. Despite strong scholarly attention to the performance of life
stories from a range of identities—one such example being refugee theatre
scholarship (see Jeffers 2006, 2008, 2009, 2012; Gilbert and Lo 2007;
Burvill 2008; Hazou 2009; Schaefer 2009; Wake 2010b, 2013; Balfour
2013; Balfour and Woodrow 2013)—the links between narrative, demen-
tia, identity, and “theatre of the real” (Martin 2013) have received scant
notice to date in the literature. Anne Basting (2001, 2003, 2006, 2009)
remains a leading voice in this area of academic pursuit.7 When the scarcely
explored relationship between narrative and the construction of ‘reality’ as
‘normalcy’ is uncovered, it becomes apparent just how deeply this rela-
tionship regulates “theatre of the real” (ibid.) practice. So too, many ethi-
cal, political, and aesthetic issues arise from the paradox of theatres that
rely on narratives from ‘real’ people being coupled with people commonly
deemed not to be ‘real’ (or even people).
In part because of this negative stereotyping, people with dementia
rarely take to the stage to perform their own stories in professional theatre
settings, as have some refugees or people with disability, but they do fre-
quently ‘perform’ them in the closed worlds of institutions in applied the-
atre interventions and, occasionally, on the more exposed stages the
internet provides and/or in community settings. In applied theatre schol-
arship, the regnant function of the autobiographical story in dementia
‘cultures’, that is, the imperative to tell and remember as memory and
cognition fades, has been generally, and paradoxically, overlooked, while
being closely examined in reference to other cultures and trauma (see
Thompson 2004, 2009; Bharucha 2011; Stuart Fisher 2011; Jeffers
2012). When it has been studied, Erving Goffman’s theory of the rela-
tional self has been used as the principal theoretical lens with which to
positively re-frame the person with dementia as a communal storyteller
(Basting 2001).8
In this book, I hope to rectify the above-mentioned oversights and, in
so doing, make three distinct contributions to the literature. As mentioned
earlier, the first is my investigation into the relationship between stories
and the materialisation of ‘reality’ as ‘normalcy’ in relation to how stories
constitute selves. ‘Normalcy’ is a word used frequently in this book,
 1 MY MOTHER’S STORY, MY STORY 9

especially in reference to conceptions of the ‘real’ and ‘reality’. My under-

standing of ‘normalcy’ is that it is not an unchanging property of human
beings. As many disability studies theorists have argued (see Davis 1995;
Wendell 1996; Garland Thomson 1997, 2002; McRuer 2006), various
discursive regimes, such as those of religion, politics, law, education, and
medicine, have designated certain bodies to be ‘normal’ and others not,
with the assignment of ‘normalcy’ fluctuating according to history and
culture.
The second contribution is my use of dementia as a filter through which
certain matters in “theatre of the real” (Martin 2013) and applied theatre
and performance literatures can be passed and, as a result, be catalysed,
advancing current debates and problematising certain areas that have been
taken for granted or overlooked. In this way, yet another cultural product
about dementia—this book—is constrained from acting out a story of
deficit and lack; instead, within its academic margins, dementia is allowed
some agency. For example, verbatim theatre practices, often demarcated in
facile ways, are unsettled by encounters with dementia. The third distinc-
tive offering I make is the application of Richard Schechner’s theories of
“restored behaviour” (1985, 37), “double negativity” (ibid., 110), and
“performance consciousness” (ibid., 6) to people with dementia: his theo-
ries are principally used to rehearse a theory of dementia as performance.
Here, ‘performance’ is understood in terms of its utopian potential rather
than as a “mode of power” (McKenzie 2001, 25).
However, I propose that “performance consciousness” (Schechner
1985, 6) can be a vital way of recasting people with dementia in terms of
possibility, not just in terms of tragedy and loss, by reframing certain
behaviours and actions as creative adaptations rather than as deficit exem-
plars of insidious diseases.

Theoretical Contexts, Disciplinary Locations,

and Approach

This book is situated at the intersection of theatre and performance stud-

ies with reticulation to dementia, age, and disability studies, as well as
selected references to refugee theatre studies. Individual chapters are posi-
tioned at various points on this grid depending on the problem being
investigated. In Chaps. 3 and 8 I ask: How might theatre and performance
studies shift or add to both popular and theoretical conceptions of
10 J. GIBSON

dementia and the people who live with it? In the other chapters, in some
to a greater extent than others, I reverse this question to ask: How might
dementia shift or add to questions, debates, and issues in theatre and per-
formance studies? The case studies analysed relate to ideas drawn from all
the above-mentioned literatures, where pertinent, including reminiscence
and the care home. I will now briefly introduce each of these literatures
and their key theorists.
Dementia studies can be delineated into five main, somewhat diverse
approaches: medical and biomedical, personhood, embodiment, relational
care, and social citizenship. Firstly, medical and biomedical approaches
dominate the existing research into, and treatment of, Alzheimer’s disease
and other dementias.9 They are “situated within a discourse of loss” (Beard
2004, 417) and typically prioritise drug treatments or molecular testing
over attention to the social and ethical complexities that dementia also
entails. They advance the separation of the physical, mental, and cultural
dimensions of illness and ageing, reducing the ageing body (and many
others) to a potential diagnosis, while the sociocultural, emotional, and
phenomenological aspects of illness and ageing for individuals and their
families are quite often ignored (ibid., 416).10 Factors like race, class, gen-
der, religion, sexual orientation, disability, family of origin, and cohort
effects will all contribute to differences in the experiences of both ageing
and dementia, but these factors are beyond what medicine and biomedi-
cine generally offer patients.
Secondly, the ‘personhood’ approach, a challenge to the biomedical
episteme, emanated as a reaction to the single-minded focus on cognition
and neurological changes in the brain that had dominated the dementia
industry until the 1980s (Gilleard 2000). This approach opposes the
mainly negative ideas about the person diagnosed with dementia that
arguably dominate studies in biomedicine (Leibing 2006, 254), recognis-
ing the person, not just the disease. It continues to gather numerous new
practices under its mantle. A person-centred focus in dementia care was
initiated principally through the work of social psychologist Tom Kitwood,
largely through the influence of his groundbreaking text Dementia recon-
sidered: The person comes first (1997), and is steadily becoming a seminal
paradigm. Personhood is conceptualised from the standpoint of interac-
tionist social theory, the belief that selfhood is socially acquired and sus-
tained (Kontos 2012, 330).
 1 MY MOTHER’S STORY, MY STORY 11

As important as ‘personhood’ is in providing a critique of the dominant

biomedical paradigm, it minimises the importance of the body as a source
of agency, and the ways in which people with dementia may convey their
humanity through gestures, body habits, and nonverbal body language.
These missing elements are well captured in the embodiment approach
which also focuses on “the social construction of surveillance, cultural
priorities and discursive conventions [and]… the potentialities of the body
for creativity and self-expression” (Martin et al. 2013, 283). Pioneers of
this approach include Pia Kontos (2005, 2012) and Annette Leibing (2008).
Relational care principles are also surfacing in many care homes: for
example, see the film It takes a community (2014) based on work in Arcare
Care Home, Helensvale, Queensland, Australia. Arguably, these principles
are related to the impact of feminist care ethics, including the work of Nel
Noddings (1986, 2013), Joan Tronto (1993, 2013), and Eva Feder Kittay
(1999, 2014), among others.11 At the core of this approach is the idea of
our essential connectedness to others, an idea sidelined in the prevailing
biomedical models. Finally, there is the emergence of scholarship around
social citizenship which builds on Kitwood’s ideas but sees the person as
an “active social agent in the broad context of their lifestyle, lifecourse,
social networks and community activities”, not just a “passive care recipi-
ent” (Bartlett and O’Connor 2010, 4). Ruth Bartlett and Deborah
O’Connor (2010) are key proponents of this approach.
Contemporary age studies scholars12 generally see ageing as constructed
not only biologically and chronologically, but also socially (Basting 1998).
Four main approaches to the study of age have been identified: cultural
age; age as narrative; the performativity of age; and the materiality of age
(Swinnen and Port 2012, 12). In part encouraged by leading age studies
scholar Margaret Morganroth Gullette’s call, “[a]bout age as a perfor-
mance, we need to start the arguments” (2004, 159), I track the idea of
the performance of age and its performativity in tandem with certain other
scholars who have theorised in this direction. (I also draw on some of the
other approaches, including the materiality of age and cultural age.) The
notion of performativity defines age “not only as a state of being but
through acts of doing” (Swinnen and Port 2012, 12; original emphasis).
In general, this approach enlists the theories of feminist post-structuralist
scholar Judith Butler in Gender trouble (1990) and Bodies that matter
(1993) where identity is an effect of “cultural apparatus[es]” (1990, 199)
and not nature. In age and performance scholarship, various iterations of
Butler’s theories of performativity have been worked with, expanded
12 J. GIBSON

upon, and, in some cases, challenged, under such monikers as “age-­

effects” (Moore 2014, n.p.); “temporal depth” (Basting 1998, 22); “sig-
nificant form” (Cristofovici 1999, 275); and “absence” (Woodward 1991,
53–71).13
One significant area of dispute in contemporary age studies is the
agreed starting point as to when old age begins. “To put it bluntly: what
counts as old in one society … may not count as old in another” (Mangan
2013, 23), and this applies to non-contemporary as well as non-Western
societies. Across time and cultures, definitions of old age change showing
that as soon as one moves away from the purely biological or the socio-­
legal (e.g. at present in Australia one is entitled to get an age pension at
sixty-five), definitions are as much about meaning as anything (ibid., 25).
But most scholars in age studies would agree that a chronological defini-
tion of what constitutes old age is not sufficient. There are at least biologi-
cal, medical, moral, social, legal, civic, and economic factors to be
considered in any definition. Of concern also is the fact that old age does
not form a single category. It covers a broad range of years as well as levels
of fitness in terms of physical and mental conditions. Infirmity can occur
for people in their sixties, while those in their nineties may remain fit.
Furthermore, disputes have arisen over terminology. Barbara Macdonald
argues that ‘older’ is both euphemistic and “the clearest sign of our shame
around ageing” (in Macdonald and Rich 2001, x). Bridie Moore argues
that the comparative descriptor ‘older’ can be seen to construct the “old
person in relation to a projected age-normative citizen” (2018, 42) who is
usually young. In this book, I generally refer to people with dementia
without either descriptor as people may be diagnosed with dementia at
any age. However, given that the majority of people diagnosed with
dementia are over the age of sixty-five and that most of the case studies
examined in this book are connected to age-related dementia, I deploy the
word ‘old’ when it is appropriate. I also sporadically use ‘elder’ and its
offshoots (e.g. ‘elderly’) as the term expresses respect for the aged, seen
clearly in its use in Indigenous (Australian) communities.
Unlike age studies, disability studies is a well-established academic dis-
cipline, fraught with complexities and arguments about issues such as dis-
ability definitions, the role of impairment and the body, and the origins of
disability. There are two main models: the medical model, which defines
disability as biological impairment (Depoy et al. 2003, 177), and the social
model, in which disability is seen as a consequence of social oppression
(Hughes and Paterson 1997). However, most contemporary disability
 1 MY MOTHER’S STORY, MY STORY 13

studies scholars (see Davis 1995, 2002, 2013; McRuer 2006; Siebers
2006, 2008) recognise the category of disability to be intensely problem-
atic and unstable. This is for many reasons, including that it swells and
contracts to encompass so-called normal people as well (Davis 1995, xv);
that is, all people chance stepping on and off the disability continuum,
especially as they get sick, age, or are diagnosed with diseases like demen-
tia. Mike Oliver and Len Barton are exceptions here, arguing that the
current interests pursued by many contemporary disability studies scholars
(postmodernism, representation, and embodiment) are hard to justify in
terms of their “immediate relevance to the struggles of disabled people to
lead a decent life” (2002, 8). Basically, disability studies is useful to the
pursuit of my arguments as it helps to clarify how the notion of ‘normalcy’
has been constructed and its intrinsic relationship to what is commonly
regarded as not ‘normal’, across many cultures, that is, to disability. In this
endeavour, I am principally aided by the work of Lennard Davis (1995)
and Tobin Siebers (2006, 2008, 2010). I also work with research in per-
formance and disability studies.14
As with age studies scholars, some post-structuralist disability scholars
have also drawn on Judith Butler’s theories of performativity to theorise
the discursive construction of disability identity. Both Petra Kuppers
(2003, 2011) and Robert McRuer (2006) argue, following Butler, that as
with gender, cultural scripts about disability can and should be resisted
and disrupted along with the discursive practices that produce both the
disabled and the able body. As old age may be experienced as disabling by
some, and as dementia is ordinarily seen as both a cognitive impairment
and a cognitive disability, representations of (old) people with dementia
must be theorised on a spectrum stretching between the disciplinary loca-
tions of age and those of disability studies.
However, the relationship between age studies and disability studies
holds many tensions. Age studies scholarship tends to undermine assump-
tions that ageing disables; it challenges commonly held generalisations
that all old people are “warm but incompetent” (Basting 2009, 26).15
Margaret Morganroth Gullette (2004, 13) proposes that the “[d]ecline
narrative” runs popular discourses on ageing. On the other hand, some
disability scholarship critiques assumptions that the able, fit, and ‘normal’
body is always free from disability, using old age as the point towards
which all able bodies are heading, a kind of ‘disabling normalcy’. Feminist
disability scholar Susan Wendell maintains that unless we die early “we are
all disabled eventually” (1996, 18).
14 J. GIBSON

In this book, I engage disability studies with age studies to show how
the abilities of people living with age-related dementia are greater than
imagined, while at the same time acknowledging the actuality of their
limits. To further complicate matters, the relationship between dementia
and disability resembles “planets spinning on different axes” (Shakespeare
et al. 2017, 1). In disability sectors, dementia is typically perceived as a
health issue; in dementia sectors, people with dementia do not usually
think of themselves as disabled (ibid.). In this book, I mine both dementia
and disability studies where necessary to support my arguments.
I also take some direction from particular theatre and performance
studies scholars working on refugee theatre, primarily Alison Jeffers (2006,
2008, 2009, 2012) and Caroline Wake (2010a, 2010b, 2011, 2013,
2018). I do this because refugee theatre productions across the globe have
tended to rely on the verbatim genre or other “theatre of the real” (Martin
2013) techniques. Given that there is very little work in theatre and per-
formance studies on “theatre of the real” (ibid.) and dementia, the aca-
demic work that has emanated from scholars working on refugee theatre
provides a useful parallel to concerns that match mine—a point I consis-
tently make in Chap. 2, where I attempt to forge this parallel in more
detail concerning the links between the crisis of dementia and the crisis of
asylum. Consequently, in Chap. 2, I also cite the occasional refugee stud-
ies scholar (e.g. Peter Nyers 2006).
But the primary disciplinary location of this book is in theatre and per-
formance studies. I conflate the two disciplines, as they are “merging and
intermingling in various ways” (Balme 2008, 12), which makes it increas-
ingly difficult to separate theorists into camps. However, disciplinary dif-
ferentiations, which can be tracked historically, do still exist (see Balme
2008.). Today, theatre studies has many fields, with a strong focus on live
art performances, and the study of texts (ibid., 11). Work within perfor-
mance studies has inclined towards Richard Schechner’s “is” or “as” of
performance (2013, 38). The former centres on that which is historically,
socially, culturally, and traditionally accepted to be performance; the latter
refers to the way in which events or practices can be seen to be perfor-
mances, including gender, sexuality, and ethnicity, among many other cat-
egories. In this way, “performance studies grants itself a wider range of
‘objects’ or case studies than theatre studies might” (Wake 2010a, 26).16
In essence, my examination of both “theatre of the real” (Martin 2013)
and applied theatre and performance falls under the broad moniker of
 1 MY MOTHER’S STORY, MY STORY 15

theatre and performance. The works discussed in this book dialogue with
the notion that we perform ourselves on a continuum that ranges from
daily acts of the self to systemised stage performances and rituals both
sacred and secular (ibid.).
This book also references theories of narrativity, including the work of
Arthur Frank (2010) and Paul John Eakin (1999, 2001, 2006, 2008), as
well as that of narrative philosopher Galen Strawson (2004). Additionally,
input comes from medical anthropology (Leibing and Cohen 2006; Lock
2013) and medical history (Ballenger 2006; Beach 1987; Whitehouse and
George 2008). Other material is drawn on at various stages: for example,
the work of philosophers Jacques Rancière (2004, 2007) and Ian Hacking
(1995, 1999).
My methodological approach is varied. Adopting “performance analy-
sis” (Pavis 2003) for my examination of both art theatre and applied the-
atre productions, I draw on notes taken visiting live performances,
watching videos of the performances (Balme 2008, 136), and referencing
“supplementary documents” (Pavis 2003, 40), including theatre reviews,
photographs, programmes, and other outreach materials like education
packs and websites. As well, I opt for (post-structuralist) discourse analysis
due to my sustained interest in how discourses shape reality and power-
fully influence what gets ‘storied’. ‘Discourse’ is used here in the
Foucauldian sense, to do with how knowledge is composed alongside the
social practices, subjectivities, and power relations built into such knowl-
edges, as well as into the relations between them. More than just ways of
thinking and producing meaning, discourses constitute the body, mind,
and emotional lives of the subjects they seek to govern (Weedon 1987,
108). I temper my acknowledgement of the power of discourses to consti-
tute bodies and minds by recognising that biological, material, and
embodied elements also play a role in the construction of dementia sub-
jectivities. Both post-structuralist and phenomenological insights are use-
ful for theorising dementia personhood. For people diagnosed with
dementia, the body speaks, conveying meaning, even if the world in which
they live is created, in large part, linguistically (Vasterling 2003, 212).
Given the material force of discourses in forming and reforming the
normal, the natural, and the true, I am primarily concerned with excavat-
ing the values and politics underlying these discourses in twenty-first-­
century Western cultures, both to make them visible and to disturb their
facile endorsement. In view of my interest in the discourses circulating
about age-related dementia in the mass media and on the internet, I
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
Tutto ciò che acquistava lo schiavo, l’acquistava per il padrone; ma
come già narrai nel capitolo delle Tabernæ, essendo la gran parte
della popolazione industriale schiava, i padroni trovavano di loro
convenienza di interessare i loro schiavi nei profitti delle loro
industrie e di lasciar loro la libera disposizione d’un peculio, il qual
valeva ad alimentare il lavoro loro. Se lo schiavo agiva in suo proprio
nome, in caso di frode veniva perseguitato coll’actio tributoria; ma se
agiva come mandatario del suo padrone, era obbligato come
qualunque altro mandatario.
Gli schiavi si compravano sul mercato, ivi portati dagli speculatori e
dai pirati e, se provenienti da nazione indipendente, godevano di
miglior favore. Gli schiavi spagnuoli e côrsi costavano poco, perchè
facili al suicidio per sottrarsi alla schiavitù; ma i Frigi lascivi e le
gentili Milesie erano in comparazione carissimi. Fu stabilita in
seguito una tariffa secondo l’età e la professione; sessanta soldi
d’oro per un medico, cinquanta per un notaio, trenta per un eunuco
minore de’ dieci anni, cinquanta se maggiore.
Ho detto più sopra che anche speculatori recavano gli schiavi al
mercato; ne recherò due esempj di reputati uomini: Catone li
comperava gracili ed ignoranti e fatti gagliardi ed abili, li rivendeva;
Pomponio Attico, l’amico di Cicerone, faceva altrettanto, per
rivenderli letterati.
Nella casa gli schiavi compivano tutti gli uffizii dai più elevati agli
umili; sed tamen servi, come diceva ne’ paradossi Cicerone,
parlando di quelli che erano applicati a’ più nobili servigi; epperò ve
n’erano varie classi. Vernæ chiamavansi gli schiavi nati nella casa
del padrone; ascrittitii quelli che per lo spazio di 30 anni stavano in
un campo e non potevano vendersi che col fondo; consuales quelli
che servivano al Senato; ordinarii quei dell’alta servitù, e avevan
sotto di essi altri schiavi; vicarii, mediastini, quelli che esercitavano
opere vili nella casa. Ciascun uffizio dava il nome allo schiavo:
nomenclator era quello che ricordava ed annunziava i nomi di coloro
che giungevano, ed alla cena il nome e i pregi delle vivande;
ostiarius e janitor il portinajo, atriensis quello che stava a cura
dell’atrio ed aveva la sorveglianza degli altri schiavi; tricliniarchas il
servo principale a cui spettava la cura di ordinare le mense e la
stanza da pranzo, archimagirus il maestro de’ cuochi o
sovrintendente alla cucina, dispensator il credenziere, pronus il
cantiniere, viridarius e topiarius lo schiavo il cui officio particolare
consisteva nell’occuparsi dell’opus topiarium, che comprendeva la
coltura e conservazione delle piante e degli arboscelli, la
decorazione dei pergolati e de’ boschetti, anagnostæ erano i lettori,
notarii o librarii gli schiavi segretari del padrone, silentiarius quel che
manteneva il silenzio e impediva i rumori: per servigio poi delle
dame, la jatromæa era la schiava levatrice; le cosmetæ e le psecæ
le schiave il cui ufficio era attendere alla toaletta delle signore ed
ajutarle a vestirsi ed ornarsi, come sarebbero le nostre cameriere;
sandaligerulæ quelle che portavano le pantofole delle loro padrone,
seguendole quando uscivan di casa; vestispicæ quelle che curavano
e rimendavano gli abiti della padrona; vestisplicæ quelle che le
custodivano, o come diremmo noi, guardarobiere; ornatrices le
schiave che attendevano all’acconciatura del capo della padrona,
focaria la guattera, ecc.
V’erano poi i pædagogiari, giovani schiavi scelti per la bellezza della
persona ed allevati nella casa dei grandi signori a’ tempi dell’impero
per servir da compagni e pedissequi dei figliuoli de’ loro padroni,
come anteriormente v’erano i pædagogi, che vegliavan alla cura ed
agli studj de’ medesimi, i flabelliferi, giovinetti d’ambo i sessi, che
portavano il ventaglio della padrona, i salutigeruli che recavano i
saluti e i complimenti agli amici e famigliari del padrone; i nani e
nanæ, pigmei cui si insegnavano musica ed altre arti per diletto de’
padroni; fatui, fatuæ e moriones erano quelli idioti deformi che si
tenevano per ispasso, i quali

acuto capite et auribus longis

Quæ sic moventur, ut solent asellorum

come li descrisse Marziale [100]; il coprea, o giullare per movere a

riso; perfino gli ermafroditi, che talora erano artificiali.
Nè son qui tutti, perchè il Gori nella sua Descriptio columbarii, il
Pignario De Servis e il Popma, De servorum operibus, enunciassero
con particolari nomi almeno ventitre specie di ancelle e più di
trecento di schiavi.
Quale poi gli schiavi ricevessero trattamento, può essere
immaginato, ricordando solo che Antonio e Cleopatra
sperimentassero sui loro schiavi i veleni, che Pollione ne facesse
gittare uno alle murene per avergli rotto un vaso murrino, e che
Augusto, che di ciò lo ebbe a rimproverare, non ristasse tuttavia di
farne appiccare uno che gli aveva mangiata una quaglia. Negli
ergastuli poi si accatastavan la notte schiavi e schiave a rifascio, i
più cattivi destinati alla fatica de’ campi e incatenati, epperò detti
compediti; e Seneca rammenta i molti ragazzi schiavi, che dovevano
aspettare da’ loro padroni, usciti alterati dalle orgie, infami oltraggi.
Vecchi poi, od impotenti, si abbandonavano barbaramente a morire
d’inedia.
Ho già detto altrove in questa opera il numero strabocchevole di
essi; ma a persuaderci della quantità, giovi il citare quel detto di
Seneca che avrebbesi dovuto paventar gran pericolo se gli schiavi
avessero preso a contare i liberi: quantum periculi immineret si servi
nostri nos numerare cœpissent [101]; ed era per avventura ad ovviare
un tale pericolo, che non venne adottato che gli schiavi avessero
abito particolare e distinto dai liberi. Infatti sa già il lettore, per quanto
n’ebbi già a dire, delle diverse insurrezioni di schiavi e delle guerre
servili che diedero grande travaglio ed a moltissimo temere di
propria sicurezza e libertà a Roma.
Ma la condizione miserrima di schiavo poteva in più modi cessare.
La legge rendeva libero lo schiavo che indicava l’assassino del suo
padrone, un rapitore, un monetario falso, od un disertore. Claudio
imperatore dichiarò libero lo schiavo che era stato vecchio ed
infermo abbandonato dal proprio padrone. Così diveniva libera la
donna che il padrone avrebbe voluto prostituire. Anche la
prescrizione era un modo di vindicarsi in libertà. Ma il modo più
comune era l’affrancamento, ed anche questo operavasi in tre guise:
vindicta, censu, testamento. La prima era una rivendicazione
simulata dello schiavo che il pretore abbandonava all’assertor in
libertatem, rinunziando il padrone a sostenere il suo diritto; le altre
due consistevano a dichiarare come affrancato lo schiavo, quando si
compiva l’operazion del censimento, od a legargli la libertà per
testamento. Quattro anni dopo l’era volgare, la legge Ælia Sentia e
quindici anni dopo di questa, la legge Junia Norbana crearono una
mezza libertà per gli schiavi fatti liberti senza aver esaurite le
pratiche legali.
In quanto alla formula dell’affrancamento per vindicta, consisteva nel
condurre il padrone avanti il pretore od altro magistrato competente
lo schiavo che voleva affrancare e ponendogli la mano sulla testa
che aveva fatto prima radere, o sovr’altra parte del corpo e
pronunciare le parole sacramentali: «Io voglio che quest’uomo sia
libero e goda dei diritti di cittadinanza romana» e così dicendo lo
faceva girar su di sè stesso come per scioglierlo colle sue mani, e il
magistrato, o per lui il pretore, lo toccava tre o quattro volte colla
bacchetta, vindicta, segno del potere, alla testa e con ciò restava
ratificato l’atto del padrone e lo schiavo era libero. Questa che
dicevasi manumissio gli conferiva i diritti di cittadino in modo
irrevocabile, ma aveva vincoli indistruttibili verso il suo antico
padrone. Se questi doveva difenderlo in giustizia e proteggerlo
contro ogni abuso del potere; il liberto doveva personalmente a lui
deferenza ed assistenza, non intentargli azione diffamatoria; venirgli
in ajuto di denaro, e se lo avesse ingiuriato, veniva multato d’esiglio,
e di condanna alle miniere, se avesse contro lui commesso atto di
violenza, e di ricaduta in ischiavitù, se colpevole di atti più gravi.
Finalmente partecipavano alla famiglia i Clienti. Ho già altrove in
quest’opera detto qualcosa di loro istituzione facendola rimontare ai
tempi di Romolo: ma forse a chi considera che la clientela sussisteva
dapprima in Grecia e nel restante d’Italia, parrà che essa fosse una
istituzione ancora più antica. Uopo è peraltro non si confondano i
clienti del primo tempo con quelli dell’epoca di Orazio. Quelli erano
piuttosto una specie di servi attaccati al padrone e quindi associati
alla religione ed al culto della famiglia. Avevano però le stesse cose
sacre del patrono, del quale anzi dividevano il nome, quello
aggiungendo della famiglia di lui. Nascevano per tal modo cotali
relazioni di reciprocanza e doveri, che il patrono non poteva persino
testimoniar in giudizio contro il cliente, mentre non lo fosse conteso
contro il cognato, perchè costui essendo legato da vincoli solo di
donna, non ha parte alla religione della famiglia, giusta il concetto di
Platone che la vera parentela consiste nello adorare gli stessi dei
domestici. Il patrono aveva pertanto l’obbligo di proteggere in tutti i
modi il cliente, colla sua preghiera come sacerdote, colla sua lancia
come guerriero, colla sua legge come giudice, e l’antico
comandamento diceva: se il patrono ha fatto torto al suo cliente,
sacer esto, ch’ei muoja.
I clienti del tempo d’Orazio erano invece gente che si legava alla
fortuna del patrono, non propriamente servi, ma persone che
speravano protezione da lui, che gli porgevano offerte e sportule e
che ne assediavano la casa dai primi albori del giorno e gli facevano
codazzo d’onore quando appariva in publico: ma a vero dire, per
quel che ne ho detto più sopra, non c’entravano punto colla vera
famiglia.
Abbiamo così passato in rassegna gli individui tutti, ed abbiamo
menzionate le discipline che regolavano la famiglia; abbiamo sentito
un riflesso di quanto era quel calore di vita morale che animava la
casa; or vediamone gli usi e le consuetudini della vita materiale.
Già il lettore conosce come si impiegasse la giornata e la sua
ripartizione generalmente accettata: conosce come il facoltoso e il
patrono avessero i proprj clienti e ricevesseli fin dalle prime ore del
mattino, questo comprendendo gli offici antelucani: sa del tempo
degli affari, di quello del pranzo, della pratica al foro e alla basilica,
del bagno, degli esercizi corporali, della cena e del passeggio, per
quanto ne ho già detto in addietro; resta a completarsi il quadro
domestico, col far assistere il lettore al triclinio, additandogli, come si
costituisse, che cosa vi si mangiasse, cosa il rallegrasse; col dirgli
degli abiti degli uomini e poscia co’ sollevare la cortina del gineceo,
per farlo spettatore della toletta d’una dama pompejana, e quando
dico pompejana, dico anche romana, perocchè si sappia — e l’ho
già più volte ripetuto — che uomini e donne delle provincia e delle
colonie si fossero perfettamente conformati ai costumi ed abitudini
dell’urbe, della città, cioè, per eccellenza, Roma.
Vi sarebbe tutto un trattato a comporre per dire convenientemente
dei pasti e banchetti de’ Romani, sì publici che privati, e infatti la
nostra letteratura vanta fra i testi di lingua le lezioni di Giuseppe
Averani Del vitto e delle cene degli antichi [102], delle quali mi varrò
alquanto pur io in queste pagine, e malgrado la molta erudizione di
lui e il sapere, non fu tutto da lui scritto nell’argomento. Io vedrò
modo di riassumere in breve quello che meglio importi di sapere.
Anzi tutto non posso passarla dallo accennare come il pasto si
ritenesse l’atto religioso per eccellenza. Opinione eguale o di poco
difforme è quella di parecchi padri della Chiesa Cristiana, che
dissero che mangiare è pregare e che pur il soddisfare a queste
necessarie pratiche abbiasi a fare alla maggior gloria di Dio. Era
inteso che a’ domestici prandj intervenisse sempre il genio tutelare
della casa, i lari o penati che si voglian dire. Era il focolare che aveva
cotto il pane e preparati gli alimenti; così a lui si doveva una
preghiera tanto al principio che alla fine del pasto. Prima di esso si
deponevano sull’altare le primizie del cibo, prima di bere si spargeva
la libazione del vino. Era la parte dovuta al dio. Erano antichissimi
riti: Orazio, Ovidio, Petronio cenavano ancora davanti al loro focolare
e facevano la libazione e la preghiera [103].
Come in tutti i popoli primitivi, anche i primi Romani eran sobrii e
frugali, paghi della sola polenta, ciò che in seguito si tenne per
indizio di barbarie:

Non enim hæc pultiphagus opifex opera fecit barbarus [104]

e dopo, la questione del mangiare venne poco a poco così

crescendo, da costituire una preoccupazione continua della loro
esistenza, ed anzi da considerare i varii pasti come altrettanti atti di
pietà. È inutile osservare come in questo punto di religione fossero
esatti e scrupolosi osservatori. Ebbero quindi il pasto del benvenuto
pel viaggiatore che arrivava; quello d’addio pel viaggiatore che
partiva; banchetto di condoglianza nove giorni dopo i funerali,
banchetto dopo i sacrificj, banchetto anniversario della nascita,
banchetto d’amici, di famiglia, di cortigiani, insomma banchetti per
tutte le occasioni. Persino la gioventù, la procace gioventù romana,
tanto dedita alle lascivie, al dir di Orazio, era tuttavia ancor più
ghiottona:

Donandi parca juventus

Nec tantum Veneris, quantum studiosa culinæ [105].

Tanto, in una parola, si trasmodò, che si dovette dal governo imporre

de’ freni alla gola. Già ho detto più sopra che fosse obbligatorio il
cenare a porte aperte sotto gli occhi di tutti; poi le leggi Orchia,
Fannia e Didia e Licinia, Anzia e Giulia prescrissero il numero di
convitati e la spesa dei banchetti privati, e il genere delle vivande,
esclusa l’uccellagione. Tiberio allargò meglio la mano e lasciò che le
spese fossero alquanto maggiori; ma con tutti questi freni, ognun sa
quanto lusso e quanta spesa si facesse da’ facoltosi romani. Basti
per tutti rammentare L. Lucullo. Egli aveva diversi cenacoli, e
ognuno di essi importava una determinata spesa quando vi si
doveva cenare. Quando ciò seguiva e. g. nella sala d’Apollo, era
prefisso che la cena costar dovesse trentaduemila lire della moneta
di oggi. Che si dirà poi de’ pazzi imperatori che, morta la republica,
ressero le sorti romane? Caligola in una cena gittò un milione e
cinquecentosessantaduemila lire delle nostre, il tributo cioè di tre
provincie; Nerone e Vitellio intimavano cene a’ loro cortigiani che
costavano circa settecentomila lire, e quel più pazzo imperatore che
fu Eliogabalo non ispendeva meno di lire sedici mila nella cena di
ciascun giorno.
L’asciolvere chiamavanlo essi jentaculum e facevanlo al mattino; il
pranzo, prandium, che sarebbe piuttosto la nostra seconda
colazione, seguiva all’ora sesta del giorno, cioè sul meriggio; per
taluni ghiottoni e per gli operai eravi più tardi la merenda, specie di
colazione che di poco precedeva la cœna, che era il pasto più
abbondante della giornata, il nostro pranzo odierno, verso l’ora nona
o la decima, cioè tra le tre e le quattro pomeridiane; ciò che non
toglieva che molti vi facessero succedere anche la commissatio,
colazione notturna, quella che noi chiamiamo la cena.
Poichè siam sull’argomento del mangiare, credo dir qualcosa
dapprima de’ conviti publici de’ Romani, quantunque, a vero dire,
non si contenga ciò nell’argomento delle case, di cui principalmente
trattiamo.
Si facevano essi da’ sacerdoti, da’ magistrati e poi si fecero talvolta
dagli imperatori.
I primi si chiamavano adiciali, perchè s’aggiungevano a’ banchetti
consueti molte vivande e avvenivano allora che i sacerdoti
imprendevano l’ufficio. Le più sontuose eran quelle de’ Pontefici,
come è detto in Orazio:

Absumet heres cœcuba dignior

Servata centum clavibus, et mero
Tinget pavimentum superbo
Pontificum potiore cœnis [106].

Nè minori eran quelle de’ Salii, testimonio lo stesso Orazio:

. . . nunc Saliaribus
Ornare pulvinar Deorum
Tempus erat dapibus, sodales [107].

Imbandivano le cene i magistrati al popolo quando conseguivan la

carica, come ho già fatto conoscere ne’ capitoli del teatro, e come
nota Cicerone nella quarta Tusculana in quelle parole: Deorum
pulvinaribus, et epulis magistratuum fides præcinunt [108]. Averani
ricorda che Marco Crasso sublimato al consolato, sacrificando ad
Ercole, apparecchiasse diecimila tavole, onde i convitati non
dovessero essere meno di cencinquantamila.
Più superbi e costosi erano i banchetti offerti al popolo da’ trionfanti.
Prima però si convitavano i soli amici, come nel libro Delle Guerre
Cartaginesi scrisse Appiano, parlando di Scipione, che arrivato in
Campidoglio, terminò la pompa del trionfo, ed egli, secondo il
costume, banchettò quivi gli amici nel tempio. Lucio Lucullo distribuì
al popolo oltre a diecimila barili di vino greco, allora in gran pregio,
che si beveva parcamente, e ne’ più lauti conviti una volta sola.
Giulio Cesare, che menò cinque magnificentissimi trionfi, banchettò
sempre il popolo, e in quelli che furono dopo il ritorno d’Oriente e di
Spagna imbandì ventidue mila tavole o triclini, come riferisce
Plutarco, con isquisite vivande e preziosi vini, sedendovi, cioè, non
meno di trecentotrentamila persone. Plinio, in aggiunta di questo
trionfo e di quello di Spagna e nel terzo consolato afferma che
Cæsar dictator triumphi sui cœna, vini Falerni amphoras, Chii cados
in convivia distribuit. Idem Hispaniensi triumpho Chium, et Falernum
dedit. Epulo vero in tertio consulatu suo Falernum, Chium, Lesbium,
Mamertinum [109].
Svetonio poi ricorda di lui che banchettasse il popolo anche in
onoranza della morte della propria figliuola.
In quanto agli imperatori, si sa di Tiberio che mandando a Roma gli
ornamenti trionfali, banchettò il popolo, e Livia e Giulia
banchettarono le donne: si sa degli altri che convitavano i senatori,
cavalieri e magistrati nella loro esaltazione, come Caligola e
Domiziano, secondo cantò Stazio:

Hic cum Romuleos proceres, trabeataque Cæsar

Agmina mille simul jussit discumbere mensis [110].

V’erano anche, oltre i surriferiti, de’ banchetti di cerimonia, detti

epulæ, ma erano, a vero dire, banchetti sacri, dati in onore di numi in
certe feste religiose. Dicevansi triumviri æpulones i sacerdoti
incaricati di tali banchetti. Silla e Cesare istituirono poi, il primo de’
settemviri, il secondo dei decemviri, onde ammanire siffatti banchetti
sul Campidoglio in onore di Giove. Dapes appellavansi più
propriamente gli alimenti che durante la festa s’offrivano agli dei.
Veniamo ora alle cene private.
Triclinium chiamavasi, come già sa il lettore, la sala da pranzo, e le
mense costituivansi di tre letti, lecti tricliniares, riuniti insieme in
guisa da formare tre lati di un quadrato, lasciando uno spazio vuoto
nel mezzo per la tavola e il quarto lato aperto, perchè potessero
passare i servi a porre su quella i vassoi. V’erano anche i biclinii o
lettucci da adagiarvisi due persone a’ lor desinari, e Plauto menziona
il biclinium nella commedia Bacchides, atto IV, sc. 3, vv. 84-117.
Diverse stanze tricliniari si scoprirono, come vedemmo, in Pompei,
quasi tutte piccole ed offriron la particolarità che, invece di letti
mobili, avessero stabili basamenti per adagiarvisi i convitati.
Questi triclinii ammettevano raramente molte persone: sette il più
spesso, nove talvolta; onde il vecchio proverbio Septem convivæ,
convivium; novem, convicium; ossia: sette, banchetto; nove,
baccano.
Ecco, ad esempio, la forma del triclinium, o tavola, e la distribuzione
del banchetto di Nasidieno, secondo la descrizione che ne è fatta
nella satira VIII del libro II d’Orazio:

2 3
V. Turinio Porcio
1 2
Fundanio Nasidieno
3 1
Vario Nomentano
Lec. Lectus
3 1 2
summus imus
S.
Mecenate Vibidio
Batatrone
Medius Lectus.
Da ciò si vede, come non sedessero, ma giacessero a tavola, e per
istare alquanto sollevati si appoggiavano col gomito sinistro al
guanciale. Solo le donne stavano prima assise, ma poi imitarono
presto gli uomini: i figli e le figlie pigliavano posto a piè del letto; ma
sino all’epoca in cui ricevevano la toga virile restavano assisi.
Queste mense erano spesso di preziosa materia e di ingente lavoro.
Così le descrive Filone nel Trattato della vita contemplativa, citato
dall’Averani: «Hanno i letti di tartaruga o di avorio, o d’altra più
preziosa materia, ingemmati per lo più, coperti con ricchi cuscini
broccati d’oro e mescolati di porpora o tramezzati con altri vaghi e
diversi colori per allettamento dell’occhio.» — Che ve ne fossero
anche d’oro lo attesta Marziale nel libro III de’ suoi Epigrammi, epigr.
31:

Sustentatque tuas aurea mensa dapes [111].

Eguale era la ricchezza nelle altre suppellettili e nei vasi: usavano

bicchieri e coppe di cristallo egizii e di murra, — che molti dotti e
gravi scrittori reputano possa essere stata la porcellana, ciò
potendosi confermare coi versi di Properzio:

Seu quæ palmiferæ mittunt venalia Thebæ

Murrheaque in Parthis pocula cocta focis [112], —

tazze d’argento e d’oro, cesellate o sculte mirabilmente e tempestate

di gioje e il vasellame tutto di non dissimil lavoro.
Nè bastavano queste preziosità, perocchè si giungesse anche a
disporre le soffitte de’ triclini in modo che si rivolgessero e
rinnovassero, come si adoprerebbe da noi degli scenari in teatro, e
l’una appresso all’altra si succedesse ad ogni mutar di vivanda. Ce
lo dice Seneca: Versatilia cœnationum laquearia ita coagmentat, ut
subinde alia facies, atque alia succedat et toties tecta quoties fercula
mutentur [113]. Come reggessero a tutte queste infinite portate,
ciascuna ricca di molte vivande, lo spiega l’invereconda costumanza,
pur menzionata da Cicerone ad Attico, di provocarsi con una piuma il
vomito.
Poichè sono a dire de’ Fercula, o portate, uopo è sapere fossero
essi come barelle piene di piatti di diverse vivande. Petronio, nel
Satyricon, alla cena di Trimalcione, ne descrive una che conteneva
dodici statue, da’ nostri scalchi addimandate trionfi, ciascuna delle
quali portava varii piatti. Ma Eliogabalo, scrive Averani, siccome
uomo per golosità e prodigalità sovr’ogn’altro mostruoso, in un
convito mutò ventidue volte la mensa di vivande: e vuolsi osservare
che ciascheduna muta di vivande era per poco una splendida cena;
e però ogni volta si lavavano, come se fosse terminata la cena.
Questi ventidue serviti rispondevano alle lettere dell’alfabeto,
venendo in tavola prima tutte le vivande, delle quali i nomi
cominciano per A, e poscia quelle i cui nomi principiano per B e
simigliantemente le susseguenti fino a ventidue. Si legge una simile
bizzarria nelle cene di Geta; e pare che Giovenale per avventura
accennasse che l’usassero i golosi del suo tempo, scrivendo nella
satira undecima:

Interea gustus elementa per omnia quærunt

Numquam Animo pretiis obstantibus [114].

Tornando alle soffitte, Nerone immaginò di far iscendere dalle

medesime una pioggia d’unguento e di fiori, per diletto de’ convitati.
Svetonio lo ricorda nella vita di questo Cesare, e il costume fu
adottato, e come nei teatri, pioggia di croco e d’altre profumate
essenze tolsero alle nari de’ voluttuosi conviva i graveolenti odori dei
diversi cibi.
Per mettersi a tavola non si tenevano tampoco gli abiti ordinarj:
ognuno vestiva una toga leggiera, detta synthesis, o cœnatoria, che
veniva fornita o dal padrone di casa, o che il convitato si faceva
recare dal proprio schiavo. I bassorilievi e i dipinti di banchetti, che si
trovarono o giunsero sino a noi, spiegano com’essa lasciasse o la
parte superiore del corpo nuda, o più abitualmente non avesse
cintura, talvolta avesse e talvolta non avesse maniche. Ne’ pasti
dimettevansi persino gli abiti di lutto, acciò la mestizia non
producesse indigestione. Si levavano i calzari, calcei, per mettere
dei sandali, soleæ, che poi si abbandonavano, a miglior pulitezza de’
preziosi tappeti, atteso che nel cavare i calzari, che Petronio dice
alessandrini, giovani schiavi versassero sì alle mani che ai piedi
acqua fresca ed anche gelata, sovente profumata. E profumi, come
essenze di nardo e di croco, spargevansi su’ capegli, che poi
incoronavan di rose, fiori ed erbe odorose che serbavano durante
tutta la cena. Anche il pavimento era tutto sparso di fiori e credevasi
che questi fossero altrettanti preservativi contro l’ebrietà. Dopo
spiegavansi le tovaglie, mantilia, portavasi i tovagliolini, mappæ, che
troviam ricordati da Marziale nel seguente epigramma:

Attulerat mappam nemo, dum furta timentur:

Mantile e mensa surripit Hermogenes [115].

Le tovaglie erano talvolta bianche come le nostre, molti nondimeno

le avevano di porpora o di broccato d’oro.
Fatti questi preparativi, ne’ banchetti più solenni, costumavasi
eleggere il re del festino: si portavano i dadi od astragali, tali, e si
gettavano le sorti per la scelta. Non avevano i dadi che quattro
faccie piane; 1 e 6 su due faccie opposte; 3 e 4 sulle due altre; 2 e 3
non erano segnati; ma quattro tali si gettavano insieme. Il miglior tiro,
chiamato venus, avveniva quando ciascuna faccia presentava un
numero differente, come, 1, 3, 4, 6 e chi l’otteneva veniva dichiarato
re. Era il tiro peggiore detto canis, quando tutti e quattro i numeri
riuscivano gli stessi. Fritillus dicevasi il bossolo, entro cui agitavansi
gli astragali e da cui si gittavano sulla tavola.
Eletto il re, tutti gli altri convitati dovevano, sotto pena d’ammenda,
eseguire gli ordini suoi. Egli fisserà il numero delle coppe che si
dovranno bevere, comanderà ad uno di cantare, all’altro, se poeta, di
improvvisar versi, designerà la persona, in onor della quale si dovrà
brindare. Se taluno infrangeva gli ordini, veniva dal re multato nel
bere un nappo di più e dicevasi cuppa potare magistra. Non si
confonda il re del convito col Tricliniarcha, che era quegli che aveva
su tutti gli altri servi addetti al banchetto la maggioranza e
l’amministrazione della mensa.
La cena regolare, cœna recta, componevasi, oltre del pane che
portavansi ne’ canestri, come c’insegna Virgilio

. . . . Cereremque, canistris
Expediunt, tonsisque ferunt mantilia villis [116],

il più spesso di tre serviti, talvolta fin di sei. Valeva il primo a

solleticar l’appetito e cominciavasi per consueto colle ova, onde
venne l’espressione d’Orazio cantare ab ovo usque ad mala, cantar
dalle ova alle frutta, e la attuale nostra cominciare ab ovo, per
significare che si pigliavan le mosse del dire dal principio più lontano;
ma poi si capovolse e le ova si recarono in fine. Poi seguivan
lattuche, fichi, olive, radici, ortaggi e salse acri e stimolanti la fame,
secondo avverte Orazio:

Acria circum
Rapula, lactucæ, radices, qualia lassum
Pervellunt stomachum, siser, alec, fæcula coa [117].

Cicerone conta in questo primo servito, ch’ei chiama promulsidem,

dal vin melato, mulsum, che si beveva, Petronio gustationem,
Apuleio antecœnia, Varrone principia convivii e Marziale gustum,
come noi appelleremmo antipasto e i francesi hors-d’œuvre; conta,
dicevo, anche la salsiccia, nell’epistola 16 del libro IX: I [118].
Il secondo servito, o anche secunda mensa, costituiva il pasto sodo,
e componevasi d’arrosti di vitella, di lepre, di oche, tordi, pesci,
gigotti e cosiffatte leccornie, delle quali parla distesamente Ateneo
nel libro XIV delle Cene dei Savi. E contavansi in esse le pasticcerie,
i latticinj, e mille cose dolci, che comprendevano sotto il nome di
bellaria. Non essendo ancor conosciuta la manipolazione dello
zuccaro, sebbene se ne avesse notizia come esistente presso gli
Indiani, servivansi in quella vece del miele, che sapevano impiegare
maravigliosamente [119]. — Noto qui che se aveansi coltelli e
cucchiai, non consta che conoscessero la forchetta; onde avendo a
prender tutto colle mani, Ovidio raccomanda agli amanti, che il
faccian con grazia affine di non lordarsi il viso.
Qui potrebbesi tutto distendere un trattato di gastronomia romana e
pompejana, ricordando i piatti più succulenti e peregrini di carni, di
selvaggina e di pesci, rammentando gli eroi della cucina, gli
Apicii [120], (i Carême e i Vatel di allora), onde anzi fu detta l’arte
culinaria arte d’Apicio, da quello principalmente vissuto sotto
Augusto e Tiberio, che consumò per la gola un ingente patrimonio, e
giunto alle ultime duecentocinquantamila lire, preferì uccidersi di
veleno, anzi che non potervi più soddisfare e lasciando dietro di sè
un partito fra i cuochi; ma cadrei troppo in lunghezze. Oltre di che già
sa il lettore dei cinghiali che Antonio faceva ad ogni ora cucinare per
averne uno pronto ad ogni istante; sa del garo pompejano, di cui già
gli tenni parola; delle murene che si ingrassavano ne’ vivai ed alle
quali Pollione gittò uno schiavo; e persino della grossa perla che il
figliuol del comico Esopo, strappata dall’orecchio della sua amica
Metella e stemprata nell’aceto, e che Orazio tramandò ricordata a’
posteri ne’ versi che piacemi rammentare:

Filius Æsopi detractam ex aure Metelli

(Scilicet ut decies solidum exsorberet), aceto
Diluit insignem baccam [121].

Gusto del resto pur diviso da Cleopatra e da Caligola, di cui narra

Svetonio: Pretiosissimas margaritas aceto liquefactas serbabat [122].
Egualmente dovrei dire de’ vini; ma già il lettore non ha dimenticato
che ne’ capitoli della Storia io l’avessi ad erudire dei tanti e celebrati
vini che produceva la Magna Grecia, del Falerno, del Sorrentino, del
Massico, del Celene, del Cecubo, del Pompejano, che bevean in
coppe coronate di fiori, sicchè allora aveva ragione di chiamarsi
questa nostra Italia Ænotria, quasi regione dei vini; ma non pareva
bastassero alla gola di que’ ghiottoni che furono i Romani, se ne
tirassero da Grecia, se dalla Rezia che comprendeva i vini del
Benaco e bresciani, i quali oggidì, se meglio conosciuti,
rivaleggerebbero co’ meglio rinomati di Germania e di Francia, dalla
Spagna, dalle Baleari, dalla Linguadoca e dalle Gallie, e tutti
ambissero di vecchia data, sì che si contassero per consolati e ne
tracannassero all’ubbriachezza uomini e donne, come lasciò Seneca
scritto: Non minus potant et oleo et mero vires provocant, atque
invitis ingesta visceribus per os reddunt et vinum omne vomita
remediuntur [123]. Nè priverò di commemorazione a questo punto
quel mio concittadino Novellio Torquato milanese [124], ricordato da
Plinio, ammesso a que’ tempi in Roma a’ primi onori della città, il
quale fu cognominato Tricongio [125], dal bere che faceva tre cogni di
vino tutto d’un fiato, senza nè riposarsi, nè respirare, nè lasciarne
pur una gocciola nel boccale da gittare in terra per far quel rumore
che addimandavano cottabo.
E a tutte queste sontuose mense private servivano molti schiavi, al
cenno del tricliniarca.
Prima era il coquus, che nella cucina confezionava le vivande e il cui
valore, al dir di Plinio, fu tempo che s’agguagliò alla spesa d’un
trionfo; poi il lectisterniator, che sprimacciava i letti su cui giacevano i
commensali; il nomenclator che annunziava le vivande e i loro pregi,
il prægustator, cui era commesso di gustare i piatti a tavola, onde
conoscere se fatti a dovere ed a tutela che non ascondessero
veleno, lo structor che disponeva le vivande su’ vassoi nei diversi
serviti e collocavali sul portavivande, che Petronio chiama
repositorium, e fungeva altresì da scalco, lo scissor che trinciava le
vivande, il carptor che le tagliava in parti; il pincerna o coppiere che
mesceva a’ convitati il vino ed erano per lo più eletti a tale ufficio i
meglio avvenenti e lindi giovinetti schiavi, e il vocillator che compiva
suppergiù la stessa cosa.
I banchetti poi rallegravansi con musicali istrumenti, come alla cena,
già ricordata, di Trimalcione descritta nel Satyricon; con danze di
leggiadre e lascive fanciulle, saltatrices, celebri in questo le ballerine
gaditane, ossia venute da Cadice, come le più avvenenti e procaci.
Donne simili veggonsi rappresentate nelle pitture pompejane, e per
lo più apparivano vestite d’un ampio e trasparente pezzo di drappo,
che sapevano avvolgere talora attorno alla persona in pieghe
graziose, talora lasciavano spandersi a modo d’un velo su parte del
corpo, e tal altra affatto rimovendo dalle membra e facendo
svolazzare per aria così da mostrarle tutte all’occhio degli spettatori.
Costume codesto pur in Grecia vigente allora ed esercitato dalle
auletridi, o suonatrici di flauto, che pria durante il banchetto facevano
intendere i suoni delle loro tibie e quindi, allorchè le vivande e i vini
avevano mandati i fumi alla testa e convertito in orgia il banchetto, si
mescolavano a’ lubrici conviva.
Quando poi, per dirla col Parini,

Vigor dalla libidine

La crudeltà raccolse,

si spinse il pervertimento fino a darsi a mensa spettacolo di lotte

gladiatorie, non ischifando avanti il pericolo che il sangue avesse
zampillato fin sulla sintesi e sul mantile o sovra il piatto medesimo.
A tutte queste distrazioni che allietavano le mense, Plinio il Vecchio,
secondo ne scrisse il nipote nelle sue Epistole, sappiamo com’egli
preferisse udir buone letture d’alcun autore greco o latino. Ma pochi
erano allora del gusto e dell’onestà dell’insubre magistrato e
letterato.
Finita la cena, se ne dividevano gli avanzi dell’ultimo servito fra i
convitati; ciascuno era libero d’inviar quanto gli fosse piaciuto a’
parenti od agli amici. Qualche parasita, che fornì materia alle arguzie
di Marziale, li serbava per goderseli l’indomani.
V’erano poi di quelli che non avevan portato seco il tovagliolo alla
cena, e che poi si intascavano quello che aveva loro fornito il
padrone di casa: e il medesimo Marziale li ha personificati in
Ermogene, quello stesso che già ricordai, il quale non avendo potuto
involare i tovaglioli, perchè nel timore di vederseli rubati, nessuno gli
aveva portati, pur d’esercitare l’industria sua, aveva pensato di rubar
la tovaglia:
Ad cœnam Hermogenes mappam non attulit umquam
A cœna semper retulit Hermogenes [126].

Ciò fatto, si recavano dagli schiavi i calzari, si accendevano le torcie

per rischiarare i convitati che toglievan congedo dall’anfitrione e,
quand’erano in senno, salutavansi fra loro augurandosi la salute del
corpo e dello spirito.
Sovente erano alla porta attesi da’ loro schiavi con le lanterne di
Cartagine, non tanto per illuminare le tenebre, giacchè allora per le
vie non fosse illuminazione, o per proteggerli dai ladri, quanto per
respingere gli attacchi de’ giovinastri, perocchè a que’ tempi anche
figli di buone famiglie si recassero a piacere di assalire i viandanti in
ritardo, di applicar loro una buona bastonatura, o far loro qualche
cattivo scherzo, come nel primo quarto del nostro secolo vedemmo
praticarsi egualmente in Milano dalla Compagnia della Teppa. Si sa
che Nerone imperatore aveva pure di simili gusti, e si camuffava
perfin da schiavo, affine d’abbandonarvisi le notti, e di brutti pericoli
egli corse per ciò, e la sua vita stessa fu posta a repentaglio più
d’una volta.
Rivelati i misteri della mensa antica, cerchiamo adesso di indagare
quelli della toaletta, nè forse riusciranno meno interessanti. Dovendo
ricordare anche le vesti femminili, farò pur un cenno di poi delle
maschili e di quelle particolari agli schiavi e così imporrò fine a
questo capitolo, nel quale la sovrabbondante materia mi affaticò a
contenermi nei limiti proporzionati dell’opera.
Ho già superiormente accennate le diverse schiave od ancelle
addette al servizio delle matrone: ora veggiamole in movimento
intorno a queste. — Sono tutte silenziose e nude fino alla cintura ad
attendere il cenno della padrona che si risvegli sul suo letto d’avorio
incrostato d’oro e di gemme nel cubiculo vicino. Si risveglia
finalmente, e, vinta l’inerzia lasciatale dal sonno, facendo crepitare le
dita, le chiama, e senza far rumore entrano le più favorite cubiculari
e l’aiutano a scendere dalle sofici piume. La sua faccia è ancora
tutta impiastricciata della mollica di pane inzuppata nel latte di
giumenta, che nel coricarsi si è applicata onde serbar morbida e
liscia la pelle, suppergiù come le moderne signore, pel medesimo
scopo, si ungono della inglese pomata, il cold cream. Gli adoratori
del giorno non la ravviserebbero in quel punto. Oltre quella
maschera screpolata di disseccata mollica, invano le cerchereste il
volume di sua superba capellatura, nè le ben arcuate sopracciglia,
nè le perle della bocca. A ricostruire la sua bellezza, ella entra nel
gabinetto attiguo. Una schiava ne custodisce l’ingresso, perocchè
occhio profano non debba sorprendere i misteri della sua artifiziata
toaletta, giusta il precetto d’Ovidio, erudito maestro nell’arte d’amare:

Hinc quoque præsidium læsæ petitote figuræ:

Non est pro vestris ars mea rebus iners.
Non tamen expositas mensa deprendat amator
Pyxidas: ars faciem dissimulata juvet.
Quem non offendat toto fex illita vultu
Cum fluit in tepidos pondere lapsa sinus? [127]
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Multa viros nescire decet; pars maxima rerum
Offendat, si non interiora tegas [128].

Anzi, aggiunge il Poeta:

Tu quoque dum coleris, nos te dormire putemus [129].

E le cosmete si pongono all’opera. Con tepido latte di giumenta

appena emunto l’una rammollisce le arse molliche della faccia e la
lava; l’altra mastica le pastiglie greche che debbonsi applicare, dopo
avere sullo specchio di metallo fiatato e provato aver ella sano e
profumato l’alito; una terza l’imbelletta col rossetto, fucus; una
quarta, sciolto in una conchiglia il nero, le tinge le sopracciglia; poi
v’ha chi pulisce col dentifricium i denti e colloca i posticci nelle
gengive, assicurandoli con un filo d’oro. Il medesimo Ovidio
dell’artificio del liscio ne dettò un poema: De Medicamine faciei, che
non ci giunse per altro completo.
Succedono alle cosmete le parrucchiere, Calamistræ, ajutate dai
ciniflones, dai cinerarii e dalle psecas [130]. L’opera loro è tutto un
faticoso lavorio. Scelgono esse il colore ai capelli che richiede la
moda, e però usavan del sapo, pallottole di sego e semi di faggio,
per colorirli di un color bruno chiaro; o si facevano giungere
capellature sicambre, quando il color favorito era il rosso e vi
spendevano di grosse somme; oppur si tingevano a celare la
canizie. È sempre lo stesso Ovidio che di tutto ciò ne ammonisce:

Femina canitiem Germanis inficit herbis;

Et melior vero queritur arte color.
Femina proceda densissima crinibus emptis;
Proque suis alios efficit ære suos [131].

Talvolta disponevano i capelli a ricevere la tintura, lavandoli con

acqua di calce, estirpando prima i canuti colla volsella, che noi
diremmo pinzetta. Pettinati, poscia calamistrati, unti e profumati, il
pettine o quello più precisamente detto il discerniculum [132] e la
mano industre acconciano in mille fantasie le chiome ed i ricci,
spesso raccolti in reticelle o nastri di seta o di porpora. Vi raffigurano
elmi, galeri, grappoli od eriche, corymbia, mitre orientali; vi infiggono
spilloni aurei ed effigiati, acus domatorio, e topazj e rubini e ametiste
e perle e, dopo tutto, la dama si specchia nel lucidissimo disco