At five o’clock, therefore, on the eventful morning, a donkey, which
had been with some difficulty procured for the occasion, was led round
to our door by a boy who boasted the romantic name of Poeta, and off we
set: my landlord with his gun across his shoulder; his son, in all the
glory of black clothes, bright tie, and heavy watch-chain; a peasant
woman who had constituted herself my companion, and myself.
We wound higher and higher in the ever-freshening morning air, between
hedges gay with autumn berries, until, just below the Cavi, we halted
to await the arrival of the bridegroom and his family. First of all
they were not dressed—their new clothes tried them, it appeared—and
then the bridegroom had forgotten the ring, and must go back across the
fields to get it.
We waited for him by a little lonely shrine under a chestnut-tree.
The woods which clothed the slopes of the opposite mountains were
still hushed in the cold grey-blue of early dawn. Suddenly the scarped
precipices and lonely peaks above them were illuminated, as though from
within, by wondrous rose-coloured fire, and hung there like some great
glowing amethyst between the cold sky above and the cold woods below.
Then, as we continued to gaze, the glorious hope was transformed, and
merged into the common life of the new day.
Joined at last by the bridegroom, we had a long but most picturesque
expedition up a torrent bed, through rocks and woods of infinite
variety. The jokes that enlivened it were hearty, if not too refined.
They were the sort of jokes Shakespeare’s clowns might have made; and,
indeed, it often seemed as if the characters of some old play were come
to life, and were moving and talking around me.
The bride’s house was reached a few minutes after eight o’clock. It was
a small one-storied cottage at the farther end of a higgledy-piggledy
hamlet. At the foot of the steps which led up to the door stood a man
with a remarkably fine white beard, holding a thick stick in his hand.
This was the Guardian of the Bride, and he resolutely refused to let
anyone enter. A loud altercation arose; Beppe opened his big green
umbrella, and, spinning it round above his head, tried to push by;
my landlord tried to force his way with his gun; but it was not till
pantomime and dialogue had grown fast and furious that the guardian
gave the word, and the bride appeared framed in the dark doorway above
us. Her rosy face was shadowed by her white bridal kerchief, and in her
hands she carried bunches of flowers, which she smilingly distributed
by way of welcome.
The door opened straight into the kitchen, where the _rinfresco_ was
laid. When my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and my ears to
the sound of many voices, I found myself surrounded by a crowd of
women, who were questioning me, as usual, on my most intimate personal
affairs. “Are you married or single?” was the first and all-important
question. “Where do you come from?” “When are you going back to
England?” The questions followed each other fast and thick, as the
women looked at me with strange curiosity written in their eyes. I very
soon managed to turn the conversation on to their own family affairs,
however; and taking into my lap a delicate, fair-haired child, who
looked slight and flower-like indeed in that smoke-browned room and
among those sunburnt faces, set them talking with much gesticulation
and great volubility of feeling about the little thing’s illness. They
were afraid she would have been lame. “But she’s better now, and will
grow into a strong woman yet, _se Dio vuole_,” they ended, as, smiling
down upon her, they turned away to give their attention to the business
of the day.
The whole party, some forty in number, now proceeded to the
_rinfresco_. On the coarse, clean table-cloth lay great hunks of
excellent brown, home-made bread, each piece about the size of an
ordinary loaf. These were eaten with slices of raw ham about a
quarter of an inch thick. After the bread and ham appeared huge
pieces of _schiacciata_, a country cake made of the ordinary dark
flour, flavoured with anise, and put to rise like bread. After the
_schiacciata_, small cheeses were produced, and, lastly, piles of
wafer-like biscuits (_cialde_). Meanwhile drinking had been going
on freely. In the middle of the table stood two gigantic bottles of
country wine, while smaller flasks were passed merrily about. When full
justice had been done to the wine, a light liqueur called _rinfresco_
was drunk out of small glasses, as well as another liqueur, the reverse
of light, consisting, we are told, of rum and gin, or rum and brandy.
After everyone had thus turned this “slight refreshment” into a hearty
meal, the whole party set out for the church, which was at Rivoreta, a
village some little distance off. I was walking ahead with my peasant
companion and one of the men. This man had been carefully provided
with halfpennies, as to the use of which I was hazarding various
surmises. We had not gone many steps before we found the road barred by
a rope, over which were hung the brightest of coloured kerchiefs.
“What is that for?” I asked.
“They have made the barrier,” was the answer; “the bride must pay to go
through.”
So the man who was with us, the bride’s forerunner, paid a halfpenny,
the rope dropped and on we went. This was repeated several times, the
barriers forming charming streaks of colour under the overarching trees
and against the grey stone of the cottages, until the bride had finally
passed from the little hamlet where she had lived her maiden life.
In due time we reached the church, and the ecclesiastical ceremony was
performed. As for the civil marriage, the peasant mind still regards
that as a superfluity which can be gone through or not, according to
the convenience of the parties concerned.
I was much struck here by the good feeling shown by this ignorant,
illiterate bride. Beppe’s father and hers had had some hot words on
the subject of the dowry, and the former had sworn that he would not
be present at the wedding. Being an obstinate old man he stuck to his
word, though he could not resist the temptation of accompanying the
party. Near the bride’s hamlet he began to complain of a bad foot,
sat down by the roadside, and absolutely refused to go farther. At
the church door he placed himself on a stone under the trees, and no
amount of persuasion would induce him to enter the sacred building.
This incident cast a gloom over the whole proceedings, but the bride
was not to be daunted. When she and Beppe, now man and wife, came out
of the church, she went straight up to him, took his two hands in hers,
kissed him, and looking pleadingly up at him, called him by the pretty
Italian name “Babbo.” The old man was mollified, and walked back much
more cheerfully than he had come; though we have since heard that his
vindictive obstinacy (a strongly marked trait in the peasant character)
was by no means conquered, and that much ill-will exists between the
two families.
Rivoreta is a delightfully clean, breezy hamlet, consisting of about
half a dozen houses, a whitewashed church, and an airy _canonica_,
opening on to a small piazza, paved with white cobble stones. The snowy
whiteness of the buildings and the pavement, throwing up the bright
colours of the women’s kerchiefs and dresses, the whole shut in by
embowering chestnuts, formed a picture not likely to be soon forgotten.
The ceremony over, the guests repaired to the one wine-shop of the
place to consume more wine and rum; and as this and the priest’s
breakfast (for Don Tito was going with us) took some time, it was
getting late ere the long procession started for the Cavi. First went
two women with large round baskets on their heads; this was the bride’s
trousseau. The bride and bridegroom should have followed next; but as
the donkey resolutely refused to play second fiddle, and the way was
long, etiquette was thrown to the winds, and we moved on in a merry,
haphazard crowd. As soon as the meadow that lies between the woods and
the Cavi was reached, however, the bride and bridegroom headed the
procession, both with hanging heads; he sheepishly playing with the
cheap watch-chain he had bought at the fair, she trying to carry off
her embarrassment by smiles, making heroic efforts to be natural in her
words and movements.
Beppe’s mother was “discovered” watching at the door of the farm-house.
She now came running across the field with outstretched arms, according
to prescribed custom, welcomed her new daughter-in-law with a kiss on
both cheeks, and led her into her new home.
It was now midday. A man-cook and a woman-cook had been hired from
the village below and were already hard at work, but the tables had
been put before the house on the threshing-floor, and were in the sun;
besides, there was not enough room at them, for more guests had come
than were expected, and numbered altogether quite fifty. So everyone
set to work to help, the tables were carried behind the house on to the
grass in the fretwork of light and shade under the chestnut-trees;
planks were added to make them longer, and before long everything was
ready for dinner. I should not like to say of how many courses that
dinner consisted, nor how much the peasants ate and drank, but I know
that, of everything that was provided, there was not a crumb of bread
left.
The bride and bridegroom were of course placed at the head of the
table. She tried to assume an air of indifference; he to make up
for his want of appetite and to prime himself to face the assembled
company, by assiduity at the wine-flask. Signs, in fact, were not
wanting that, however much the marriage may have been originally one of
convenience, the passion which sleeps in blood warmed by Italian sun
and enriched by the odours of the forest, had been thoroughly roused by
the events of the day and the pungent jests of the guests.
I was placed next to the bridegroom, between him and the sharp-faced,
humorous-looking priest, and from this coign of vantage could survey
all the table. Our friend with the white beard distinguished himself
especially; continually interrupting himself, however, to cry “_Viva
gli Sposi!_” Then the whole company would clap their hands and cry
“_Evviva gli Sposi_” in their turn; only there were some who complained
that Il Rosso (the man had been red-haired originally) seemed to have a
spite against them, and always called the _Evvivas_ just when they had
their glasses in their hands.
But he was sly, this Rosso. He would call “_Viva gli Sposi_,” and set
the whole table clapping vigorously, and then add as an after-thought,
“and the one who married them,” or, “and the one next the _padre_”;
whereupon Don Tito or myself would have suddenly to leave off clapping,
drop our eyes with all due modesty, and thank the assembled company.
Towards the end of the dinner Il Rosso began to hum.
“Will he improvise?” I asked the priest.
“No doubt he will, both he and his father are noted for it; but not
yet, he has not raised the glass often enough.”
After a little while, however, Il Rosso, feeling himself sufficiently
well primed, came to the head of the table. Silence was proclaimed, and
he sung a _stornello_ in honour of the bride and bridegroom, wishing
them the usual good things of this life; children to help them with
their work, and plenty to eat and drink. He was followed by a little
excitable woman with a strident voice, much admired by her audience,
who had already sung once at the bride’s house during the _rinfresco_.
Her one form of dramatic action consisted in thumping the table with
her closed fist.
Dinner being over, a few of the favoured guests were invited into
the parlour to take coffee—coffee with rum in it, that is; black
coffee alone is not approved of. The rest lounged about the fields
and chestnut woods for a time, but by about five most of them were on
their way home. They all came and shook hands most heartily as they
went away, with a:—“Do come and see me”; for they are most hospitable
people, and would beg you to share their last crust of bread with them.
“_Vuol favorire_” is the phrase you hear from child or grandmother, if
you happen to drop in on them while they are eating.
The guests, having cows and heifers to be seen to before nightfall,
set out home through the cool of the chestnut woods; and we, with our
donkey and its poetical driver, quietly dropped down the rock-paved
road, past the acacia hedges to the village below. The beauty of
rock, forest, and torrent had passed into our souls, and I thought
wonderingly of the strange mixture of the idyllic and the realistic in
the scenes of which this nature had been the setting; of the frankness
mingled with reserve, open-heartedness with shrewdness, hospitality
with a tendency to critical carping that form the characteristics of
this most attractive peasant population.[5]