I HAD left Clementina and the little ones behind me, and had moved
further up among the Apennines to a village which, perched on a low
hill, overlooks the river and the winding valley. The summits of the
mountains all around rise bare and scarped from dark pine and ash
woods, while their bases are clothed with chestnuts. Many a long line
of soldiers have the villagers seen marching up the valley on the
other side of the river which flows at their feet: for the pass is an
important one, being the high road from Tuscany into the Modenese.
Napoleon III. and Victor Emmanuel rode through it side by side, and old
men still relate how the village turned out to salute Emperor and King
as they went by. The great Napoleon lives too, in the recollection of
the country people, for he drew many soldiers from all the districts
round for his “Summer Excursion to Moscow.” One cannot vouch, however,
for the historical exactitude of some of the stories concerning him.
One old woman, for instance, whose husband had saved himself on the
ill-fated expedition by cutting open a horse and getting inside it,
firmly believed that _le petit Caporal_ had perished miserably at
Moscow, pickled in a barrel of salt!
Nor are more ancient historical associations wanting. At a very
little distance lies the village of Gavinana where the lion-hearted
Francesco Ferruccio, trying to burst through the mountains from Pisa
to the relief of Florence, was betrayed in 1530 to the Prince of
Orange. Captured in the battle which ensued, and carried, covered with
wounds which must have been fatal, into the market-place before the
Imperialist leader, he was there stabbed to death in cold blood, and
expired with the exclamation:—“It is a noble thing to kill a dead man!”
In still more ancient times Catiline passed up the valley when trying
to force the Apennines; and the public square bears the name of Piazza
Catilina in honour of the monster whom Sallust took so much pains to
delineate.
Legends of classical Italian literature, too, still linger here. An inn
in the village is called the “Cappel d’Orlando”—(Orlando’s Hat)—after
Ariosto’s famous hero; and a conical-shaped hill on the other side of
the valley bears the same name. I asked one of my peasant acquaintances
why it was so called, and who Orlando was. The answer was amusing as
showing the country conception of the temper and achievements of a
knight-errant:—
“Orlando,” said the woman, “was a warrior, who rode about looking for
someone to fight with. When he came to the top of that hill, he reined
in his horse so violently to avoid falling over the precipice that
the animal’s hoof sank deep into the rock, and the print can still be
seen. He took a tremendous leap from the top of the hill down into the
village below, but he left his hat behind him. It was afterwards found,
and the place was then called Cappel d’Orlando.”
Another informant evidently attributed to Orlando the time-annihilating
hat for which Carlyle sighs so vainly; for she added to the original
story a rider, saying that Orlando, after his marvellous leap, went to
Gavinana and was killed fighting against Ferruccio.
Remembrances of an older classical literature than Ariosto abound
also. The Muses, Helicon, Troy, are common words among these peasants,
whether in speech or in song.
As is mostly the case in Tuscany, the country people are devout; that
is to say, they go to mass on Sundays, firmly believe in miracles, and
miracle-working images, and are fond of walking in procession. The
church of Cutigliano, the village in which I was staying, rejoices
in the possession of the entire skeletons of two saints, and of
two valuable palladiums—a Madonna which preserves the place from
epidemics, and a crucifix which regulates the supply of rain.
On the Feast of the Madonnina, the first of the palladiums is carried
in state through the village, the peasants flocking in from all the
hamlets near to join in the procession and chant their Ave Marias.
The figure is of wood, highly painted, dressed in light blue robes,
ornamented with tinsel, and with rings and rosaries on the outstretched
hands.
“Did you see my nosegay right in front?” said my landlady that evening.
“It was the best there. I love that Madonnina; she saved us from the
cholera and from diphtheria. They came right to the foot of the hill,
but did not touch us.”
“And it was the Madonnina that saved you?” I asked.
“Of course. We took her in procession through the village, and where
she passed there was no illness. It’s like the uncovering of the
crucifix.”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Oh, don’t you know? There’s a crucifix in the church; and when it
rains and rains, and the chestnuts are spoiling, we uncover it, and
then the rain stops at once.”
“Why does it stop when you uncover the crucifix?” I rejoined.
“Oh, Gesú likes it to be uncovered.”
“Then why don’t you keep it always uncovered?”
“Well, it’s not the uncovering, but the candles and prayers and incense
that Gesú likes.”
“Then Gesú must be vain,” remarked the woman’s husband, who is
something of a heretic, “and the Church says that vanity is a sin.”
Each village in the valley has its own special saint, whose feast is
the great event of the year, and is observed with more honour than any
other festival. Brass bands are borrowed from other villages which are
fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to possess them, and the peasants
flock in new dresses and bright kerchiefs to walk in procession, pray
to the saint, eat, drink, and dance. These feasts are sometimes the
occasion of amusing outcrops of the old pagan spirit. Last year, for
example, there was a quarrel between the inhabitants of this village,
and those of another, further down the valley. When Saint Celestina’s
day came round, therefore, our people determined to spite their
enemies, who honoured Saint Celestina as their special protector. Brass
bands were borrowed, fireworks bought, a huge balloon manufactured,
a ball arranged for the evening; no pains were spared, in fact, to
render the feast so attractive that even the protection of the saint
herself could not draw visitors to fill the purses of her legitimate
worshippers.
“But what must the saint have thought of all that?” I said, as my
informant was gloating over the clever revenge.
“The saint? Oh, she must have been delighted; she had such special
honour that year.”
Who can say that paganism is dead in this 19th century? Images, too,
and small cushion-like hearts blessed by the priest on that special
day, are supposed to be of peculiar efficacy against evil. Without the
latter, the so-called _benediction_, no mother will dress her child.
I once asked how the young women were chosen who carry the banner of
the Madonna in the procession.
“Oh, they’re chosen by lot,” was the answer.
“Then it’s no particular honour, no reward for specially good
character,” I remarked.
“But of course it is. God makes the lot fall on the one whom He
specially wishes; it’s the greatest honour a girl can have.”
On St. Nicholas’ Day, everyone flocks to a little village called Il
Melo (The Apple-tree), which worships the saint as its guardian. The
village is perched right on the ridge of a chain of hills, bowered in
apple-trees and surrounded by chestnut woods. It consists of eight
houses (including the _canonica_ or priest’s house), and a delightfully
clean whitewashed church. Outside the church is a large cross of black
wood, which the more rigorous kiss before entering; for it was left
them, long years back, as the story goes, by a saint-like friar who
journeyed through the land preaching to the people.
The Feast of St. Nicholas occurring shortly before I left Tuscany, I
resolved to see what was to be seen, and passed the previous night
at a farm-house, which, lying higher than my village, was somewhat
nearer to the scene of action. A magnificent thunder-storm rendered
sleep impossible, and lit up the surrounding hills with wondrous
beauty. The next morning was bright and fresh with dripping leaves and
mist-wreathed hills, and I started early for the Melo with a peasant
friend and my landlord’s son. Our party was soon materially increased,
however, for we emerged from the chestnut woods on to the road just
as a band of men, with three horses, bound for the same village, were
passing the farm-house. They were charcoal burners, and the horses were
those poor thin beasts which make their way along impossible roads
up and down the mountains, loaded with two great sacks of charcoal.
Everything was changed to-day, however. The men were not “in black,” as
_Punch_ has it. They wore clean shirts, and bright ties, and carried
their best coats flung over their arms. The horses, also, no longer
carried charcoal: a single sack, knobbly with parcels for various
farm-houses, or with things to be sold at the fair, lay across the
pack-saddle, and was tied down with a rope.
“Get up, Signorina,” said my friends. “It’s a long way to the Melo, and
you’ll be tired.”
“This last horse is quite safe,” said the man, “and there’s nothing
that can hurt in the sack.”
It certainly did not look inviting, but I determined to try,
nevertheless. So the horse was made to stand by a stone wall, and up I
got; on the wrong side, of course—there was no help for that.
The road was like all hillside roads; now up, now down, now of large
slippery stones, now of loose rolling small ones; and when the horse
took to making glissades down the former and catching his feet in
the latter, I did not find a knobbly charcoal sack, without pommel,
stirrup, or bridle, the most pleasant of pleasant seats. However I held
on bravely by the wooden front of the pack-saddle, and saved my legs if
I exercised my arms and back. A curious procession we must have made,
winding through the woods to the music of a concertina with which one
of the men intended to provide for the dancing.
When we reached the Melo we found that we were among the first
arrivals. In the one street there were two stalls covered with
brightly-coloured cakes and sweets; a basket of villainous-looking
pears sold by a villainous-looking man; a couple of baskets of figs;
and a couple of men with steel-yards selling peculiar wafer-like cakes
known as _cialde_. Visitors had not arrived yet, however, and to pass
the time we sauntered into the church where mass was going on. Towards
the end, a man brought round the collection-box and a plate of bits of
round baked dough. My companion took two or three of these, putting his
penny into the bag at the same time, and handed me a couple.
“What are they?” I asked.
“St. Nicholas’ bread. They have been blessed by the priest. Put one of
them outside the window when it rains, and no hail will come. Keep them
in your bedroom and you’ll never be ill.”
The village was beginning to look more lively now, for it was getting
near eleven, the time for high mass. The peasant women were resplendent
in new dresses made for the occasion; some of them even indulged in
velvet trimming and dress-improvers, to the undisguised admiration of
the swains, and the envy of their less fortunate sisters. They all wore
their gayest kerchiefs, generally of fine silk, tied tightly over their
well-pomaded hair. Many of the younger women, too, had huge bows of
common ribbon, tinsel flowers, and paper lace, boldly displayed in the
very middle of the chest. It would have been impossible to wear them at
the neck, of course, for they would have been partly hidden by the chin
and the kerchief ends. The young men evidently considered grey the
correct thing to wear; but they enlivened it by sticking jauntily into
their hat-bands flowers and sprays of tinsel of the most amazing forms
and colours. Of course everybody talked to everybody, and I was closely
questioned by one old woman after another, as to my nationality,
family, occupation, etc., etc.
High mass over, the crowd was speedily sucked in by the various houses,
and the most important part of the day’s business, the feasting,
began. My landlord took us to the house of one of his friends, a keen
sportsman who had just returned from the low-lands of the Maremma to
settle again in his native place. The phrase “Nature’s gentleman,”
has grown too commonplace for use nowadays; but it is the only
expression which gives an exact description of our host. He was a
tall, finely-built man, small-flanked, broad-chested, with grey, bushy
hair, thinnish brown face, aquiline nose, bright intelligent brown
eyes, and a peculiar grace in every movement. One of his two daughters
(hard-working girls, both of them) had all his classical ease of
motion, and a winning suavity and urbanity of voice and manner, that
made one envy the clowns she was addressing. The blood of some superior
race seemed to reveal itself also in the fine figure, clean-cut
features, and wide intelligent grey eyes shaded by thick black hair, of
the youngest son.
Our host told us stories of the Maremma. He had once been a thriving
farmer there, so he said, but American competition was proving too much
for Italian agriculture, burdened as this last is with heavy taxes; and
in the last years of his stay there it had not paid him even to reap
the crops: he had let them lie rotting on the ground. He told us, too,
of the terrible fever, and the terrible remedies by which it used to be
combated. He had had as many as fifty leeches on the pit of his stomach
at once, in one bad attack. Then he and my landlord began to relate
tales of the experiences of their common shooting expeditions in past
times, and our host fell on an incident of quite mediæval colouring. He
was travelling once with a friend and his wife, he said, in the days
before railroads. His friend was taken ill on the road, and on their
arrival at the inn where they intended to pass the night, asked for
some broth.
“Certainly not,” was the answer; “no broth on Friday or Saturday at my
house, however ill you are.”
So the poor man said, Well, he would go to bed, and see what rest
would do for him. To his horror he found he was to be separated from
his wife, who was assigned a room on the opposite side of the inn. He
rebelled, saying he was ill and wanted her care; but mine host was
inexorable; to-day was Friday, he repeated, and on that day it was the
rule, in his house, that the men should sleep on one side and the
women on the other.
There were about a dozen people at table with us. The men ate with
their hats on, and began by asking for a “very little” of everything.
Then the hostesses (the two pretty daughters) would press them, would
push meat on their plates by force, would fill their glasses with
a struggle, and beg them not to make _complimenti_. They finished
by doing full justice to the fare. It was indeed such as to invite
justice, being well-cooked, well-served, and with all the appointments
of the table clean if very rough. The profusion was truly barbaric.
There were seven courses, with fruit and excellent coffee, served after
the fashion of the place in glasses, to finish off with. I entertain to
this day an astonished admiration for those simple peasant women, who
cooked all that dinner without help, who yet found time to go to mass
and take a short walk in the village in their best clothes, and who did
the honours of their table with such inborn grace, without haste, or
flurry, or bustle.
We had scarcely finished dinner when a little girl came to ask me if I
would care to hear some improvisation. My companion and I went into a
house close by and found a small party assembled round a bright-eyed,
good-looking woman. She was said to have “raised the glass a little”—a
Tuscan euphemism for having been somewhat assiduous at the wine-flask.
She had not drunk enough to make her foolish, but just sufficient
to make her sing. And sing she did; _stornello_ after _stornello_,
composing words and music as she went on; singing with that curious
monotonous drawl at the end of the verses, which all visitors to
Tuscany know so well. She had a fine voice, and could become quite
dramatic on occasion, as when she was describing the thunder-storm of
the night before, and how she had awaked to find her bed soaked by the
rain. She had to sing in church afterwards, however, and wanted to save
her voice; so we left her and wandered into the fields till it was time
for mass and procession.
After these were over I sat down at the door of one of the houses
to watch the crowd surging on the little open space which served as
piazza. Everybody was pushing, laughing, joking, and getting very
hot in the blazing sun and the dust. Near me a small acquaintance of
mine was shouting himself black over a basket of figs which he was
selling, if I remember rightly at ten a halfpenny; further on, the
villainous-looking pear-seller was alternately crying his ware and
devouring it before the eyes of the people, to prove how good it was;
“lying pears” (_pere bugiarde_) the kind is called in Italian, but it
was not the pears but the man that lied. The dominant voice, however,
was that of one of the “_cialde_” sellers. Upright against the corner
of the last house, steelyard in hand, this man had adopted a kind of
recitative which pierced the shouts of the others by its more musical
intonation:—
“_An’iamo Giovinotti! An’iamo Giovinotti! da quelle buone cialde, O——
h._”[4]
Many of the people went off to a meadow near, to dance to the music of
the concertina, and we, tired, hot and dusty, set out on our walk home
through the cool, fresh chestnut woods.