OF all my experiences among the Tuscan peasants of the Pistoiese,
none, perhaps, was more thoroughly characteristic than a three days’
visit at a farm-house just above the village I was staying in. I had
just returned from the woods with my hammock, and was feeling rather
listless in the absence of my peasant companion, when the farmer’s
wife, who happened to be in the village that day, said to me, half
joking, half in earnest:—
“Come home with me to the Cavi, Signorina; come and sleep there
to-night.”
I jumped at the proposal, borrowed a big kerchief from my landlady,
put a few things into it in the most approved peasant fashion, and we
started off together.
I had already been to this farm with some friends for a picnic. On
that day the people were threshing and treading the straw; and the
stone-paved _aia_ or threshing-floor before the house was bright
with the corn, and resonant with the sound of the flail. Then, when
the sun’s rays were less strong—for the peasants only thresh in the
bright sunlight—two cows and a donkey were produced, and led round
and round, knee-deep in the straw, to break it up for their winter
food. I had been much struck at the time by the extreme primitiveness
of the labour, though I could not help confessing that the swinging
flails, yellow corn, and lazily moving animals formed a very much more
picturesque contrast to the low grey stone house, and the blackness of
its three open doorways, than any threshing-machine could have done.
Nothing of the kind was going on, however, when my hostess and I
emerged from the chestnut woods on this cool September evening. The
farmer, just back from his digging in the fields,—there are no
ploughs,—was taking a meditative walk in front of the house.
He came forward to meet us, accompanied by his two dogs, and welcomed
us with much hospitable grace. One of his sons was near him, watching
the two cows graze, and at the same time lazily stripping chestnut
leaves for the creatures’ fodder off a heap of boughs he had cut.
While I was chatting to father and son, my hostess disappeared, and
presently came down again, dressed in an old petticoat, chemise, and
untidy slippers. She took up a basket of potatoes, and we both set to
work to scrape and slice some of them for supper—town people could not
possibly eat potatoes baked in their skins, she thought. As we chatted
she suddenly exclaimed:—
“See how nice it is to live in the country, Signorina!”
“Why?” I asked, curious to hear what poetical thought had been seething
in her brain.
“Well, in the village, you see, you have to wear a dress, and go all
clean and tidy, with boots on, too; but here one can go about so nice
and dirty.”
She had evidently expressed her inmost soul, for she repeated, looking
round at the blue hills, and inhaling the cool, fragrant air:—“So nice
and dirty one can be here.”
By this time it was getting towards twenty-four o’clock. Twenty-four
o’clock is a movable hour, and depends solely on the sun. In the height
of summer it is at eight o’clock, and then retrogrades by a quarter
of an hour at a time till it reaches five, when it begins to advance
again. At the end of September, when I left, _le venti quattro_ were
at half-past six. The peasants’ supper-time is regulated by this
sliding-scale, much to the disturbance of the appetite of those who are
accustomed to eat by the clock and not by the sun.
“Now come and help me cook the supper,” said my hostess, as we moved
towards the house. “See how many fine drawing-rooms I have,” she
continued, with a smile.
With that she threw open the first room, and we entered the _metato_.
This is the drying room and storehouse for the chestnuts. The floor is
of earth, stamped hard. Above one’s head, stretching from one side
of the room to the other, and forming a sort of ceiling, are narrow
strips of wood, laid loosely side by side. On these the chestnuts are
piled just as they come from the woods, and the heat and smoke of the
fires which are lighted on the floor beneath, penetrating through the
interstices, dry the chestnuts and split the shells. From the _metato_
we passed through a door on the right into the second “drawing-room,”
the kitchen. This, as usual, was a large, low, raftered room, with
a small window and a big hearth. This kitchen boasted a chimney,
however, which carried away, at any rate, part of the smoke; and, more
wonderful still, there was at the back a tiny scullery, with sink and
plate-racks. For my host was a rich man; not only actual possessor of
his farm, but owner of another _podere_ higher up on the mountain-side.
Passing to the right again, and crossing a small entrance-hall, now
full of sacks of grain, we entered the drawing-room _par excellence_,
the room in which the family have their meals. This room was nearly
filled up by the huge wooden table; but there was still room for a
large cupboard with glass doors, behind which the best crockery was
displayed, while on the walls hung bad portraits, offered for my
careful inspection, of various members of the family. A dozen low
wooden steps led from the sacks of grain to the upper regions. These
consisted of four bedrooms, the plank floors of which gaped so widely
that one could see and hear everything that went on below. Everywhere,
in _metato_, kitchen, hall, parlour, and bedrooms, were coloured
prints of the Madonna or of some saint; and each bedroom contained,
in addition, a little glass box, enclosing a wax baby, surrounded
by tinsel flowers. For this is a devout family, fond of processions
and tapers. The mother lights a lamp before an image of the Madonna
every Saturday; and she told me, with delight, how she had prayed to a
certain saint when her daughter’s baby was born, intimating that that
was why the child was such a fine one.
Our business lay now, however, in the kitchen. It was already
getting dark, but a fire was blazing brightly on the hearth, with a
copper-lined cauldron suspended over it from a chain in the chimney.
“We are going to have _maccheroni_ this evening,” said my hostess. “I
rolled them out before I left home this morning. But we must cut them
first,” she added, as she produced the long strips of home-made unbaked
paste.
We accordingly cut them into pieces about an inch square, and then,
taking a pile in our hands, threw them one by one into the boiling salt
and water of the cauldron. While they were cooking we made the tomato
sauce, and the farmer grated the cheese; and by the time these were
ready, and the table laid, the _maccheroni_ could be taken off the fire.
It was now quite dark, the only light came from the dancing flames;
and the whole family, including the broad-shouldered shepherdess,
assembled in the kitchen to watch the progress of events. By the
side of the fire sat the daughter-in-law, a beautiful, fair-haired,
refined-looking woman, unswaddling her baby; in the middle of the
floor, lighted from the right by the fire, my little grey-haired
hostess was kneeling in front of the cauldron and fishing up the
_maccheroni_, which she put in layers into a huge red earthern pipkin;
and on the other side of the cauldron was the farmer with the tomato
sauce, some of which he poured into the pipkin as each layer was
completed, adding cheese, pepper and salt. Then there were the two
sons, Beppe, low-built and square-cut, and Sandro, the baby’s father,
more slender, more courteous in manner, but also more lazy; and lastly,
two dogs and two cats who prowled on the outside of the group, in eager
expectation of their supper.
The _maccheroni_ being now all transferred to the pipkin, the water
was given to the dogs and cats, and we went into the parlour to eat.
Needless to say there was no dressing for dinner. The men came in
their hats and shirt-sleeves, the women in their bright kerchiefs.
Yet certain rules of etiquette were strictly observed. The system of
_complimenti_, for instance, was carried to an extent that seemed
ridiculous to English eyes. The mother would fill the son’s plate,
he would declare he could not eat so much, she would continue
to press him, he to refuse, until the voices grew quite loud and
excited. When it came to serving the shepherdess, things came almost
to a good-natured quarrel. She was a low-built, broad-shouldered,
broad-backed girl of about fifteen, of almost gigantic strength,
who strode along in her hob-nailed shoes as though she had the
seven-leagued boots on. I was evidently a great novelty to her, for
she could scarcely eat for looking at me, and presently set the table
in a roar of laughter by coming out with a:—“No, thank you,” instead
of the usual blank “No.” Opposite to me sat Sandro with his wife and
baby. Charming indeed was it to see the way in which the young fellow
fondled and nursed the little one. When he came home from the fields,
the first thing he did was to take it in his arms, and sit down on the
doorstep in the sunlight; at supper-time he neglected himself to play
with it and feed it. There is a great fund of kindness in the Italian
character, crossed, however, by a vein of strange hard cruelty, arising
perhaps from a remarkable want of dramatic imagination. Sandro and his
wife sat side by side according to old-established custom. When a son
marries, his housekeeping amounts to this: a double-bed and a large
cupboard are put into the biggest bedroom, and husband and wife sit
next each other at table. If there are several married sons, all the
families live together until the quarrels are so intolerable as to
drive them apart.
After supper, at about a quarter past eight, all the family went to
bed. Three of the four bedrooms opened out of each other, and in the
smallest of these three, the middle one, was a single bed in which
the shepherdess usually slept. This was now reserved for me. The bed,
the Madonna, and a rickety chest of drawers, were the only furniture
considered necessary. In the room on the right slept Beppe and Sandro;
in that on the left, which one entered through a doorway guiltless
of a door, were the shepherdess and Sandro’s wife, Maria. Everyone
was in bed in half a minute; for it was summer-time, and they “slept
like beasts,” as my hostess put it, without even saying their rosary.
“Good-night,” called out Beppe and Sandro. “Good-night,” answered
everyone else, and then there was silence till between four and five
next morning.
It was hardly dawn when Sandro’s voice was heard:—“Emilia, Emilia.”
The shepherdess gave a grunt, tumbled on to the floor, and a moment
later strode fully dressed across my room, clamped downstairs and went
out. Maria slept longer, for the baby had kept her awake. As a matter
of fact, the little thing could scarcely be expected to sleep, for it
had been kept under the bedclothes all day. Italian peasant-babies
have not a very pleasant life of it. In the morning they are tightly
swaddled, put into bed under a wooden frame, and entirely covered
with the clothes. There they lie in the dark, sleeping or screaming
till about midday when they are taken up, reswaddled, fed, and put to
bed again till the evening. Then the same process is repeated, and
they are expected to sleep all night. This particular baby was washed
about twice a week, if indeed the term “washing” can be applied to the
operation. The mother sits down by the fire, and puts a glass of wine
by her. She then fills her mouth with wine, puts it out into her hand,
and rubs the baby, which screams violently.
At about eight o’clock the men came in from the fields, the cauldron
was suspended from the chain, water was boiled, and my host set to
work to make the _polenta_. The maize flour is added gradually to the
boiling water until the mixture is so thick that none but a strong man
can stir it. Then it is turned out on to a board kept for the purpose,
cut into slices with a string, and eaten smoking hot with cheese. There
are no plates, of course; all stand round and help themselves. Maize
flour, chestnut flour, lentils, cheese, and beans, are the staple food
of the peasants, with now and then a fowl to celebrate some specially
great _festa_. Milk they never seem to drink, butter they rarely make;
they use their dairy produce exclusively for cheese.
These Tuscan peasants may be called an industrious race; that is to
say, they are never entirely idle. At the same time they do not work in
such a way as to make it tiring to watch them; they take things very
easily. A strong, well-built man, for instance, will be contentedly
stripping chestnut-leaves off the branches for the cows, or leaning
against a tree watching the animals feed. In another part of the field
a woman will be taking advantage of the gusts of wind to _folare_ her
grain, that is, to complete the winnowing of it. She spreads a sheet
on the ground, empties a sack of corn on to one corner of it, fills a
heavy wooden tray with the grain, puts it on her head, and turns to
catch the wind. As soon as she feels a gust—_folata_—she lets the
corn fall in a narrow trickling stream on to the sheet; the chaff is
blown away in the descent, and the winnowing is completed. The very
poor have a terribly hard time of it, however, for they do the work of
mules and donkeys, carrying great loads of wood on their backs for many
miles over the hills; and no one thinks of mending or making roads for
them. An old woman I was once talking to told me of the huge burdens
she used to carry in her youth.
“The roads were bad then,” she said, but added naïvely, “they are
better now; they were mended for the horses.”
But to return to my hosts. On Sunday morning, the day being a _festa_,
the house received its weekly apology for a sweep, the women put on
dresses and kerchiefs, and went so far as to comb their hair, and we
started for the village, to go to Mass. It was very picturesque to
watch the parties of rosy, healthy peasant women as they came along the
road, in their bright aprons and head-gear. In one party was Beppe’s
intended bride.
“Come to Rivoreta, and see me married, Signorina,” said she. “Do come.”
And with many promises that I would do so if possible, I took leave of
my kind friends.[9]