grow turbulent, hurling themselves in foam from the hills around, and
rivers that, in the long drought, have grown meagre, swell rapidly to
great size, fed by rains amid the mountains and by the hundred little
streamlets and torrents that cast themselves noisily down ravines.
The river-beds are wide—so wide that in summer their barren expanse
of shingle looks ill amid the green land—yet now there is often no
room within them for the mass of moving water. It overflows the banks
and swamps the near-lying cultivation, till the maize plantations lie
dashed and the meadows are soft, like bogs. It carries away the little
temporary bridges which, spring after spring, are newly set across the
streams; scarcely can it flow, sometimes, beneath the arches of more
stable bridges that, here and there, are built for greater security; it
damages the weirs, and brooks no obstacle in its way, flowing swiftly—a
great muddy, turbid stream, that bears upon its breast the trunks or
the branches of trees and many other spoils from off the banks. And
year after year the people know that this may all happen, yet year
after year they take no precautions to shield themselves from evil;
they build up no embankments, turn aside the course of no injurious
waters, only, laughing they say, or sighing, ‘It is time that the great
waters descend.’
And during the present month they are almost sure to descend, once,
at least, with all their power of devastation, for the best of the
sunshine has taken its leave of the land by the end of October. Down
in the more level parts of the valleys, where the meadows lie, little
cottages look out ruefully from amid the dripping walnuts, their
thatched roofs damp and glistening in the wet; and higher up, among the
chestnut woods, sad leaves lie damp upon the ground, where the mossy
turf is so moist, that mushrooms are spoiled ere they be grown. The
country looks tenderly forlorn, that was so gay with its vintage in
September. Trees shed their foliage early in chestnut-wooded districts,
and already tints have little left that is freshly green, but leaves
are yellow upon boughs, and scattered day by day more thickly to earth.
There is no hot sunshine, no blue light that is misty with heat; yet
the valleys can still smile in their soberer mood when chance and
glorious sunbeams strike across the land, or when the rain ceases and
bright days come back, here and there, with warmer breezes. Swollen
rivers abate if the deluge cease only for a day, and as you walk upon
their banks the waters are limpid again, yet green from their depth
with an intenser colour.
And wandering beneath the chestnuts, no sense of damp or dreariness
oppresses now that sunshine is abroad once more, for yellow-tinted
leaves wave brightly overhead, and yellower leaves, that are scattered,
rustle pleasantly beneath your feet, while now and again a quick sound
breaks the stillness, and that is the fall of the fruit. Since the
middle of October you might have heard it when you were in the woods,
for the chestnuts began to ripen at that time and the brown-burnished
fruit to peep from out its prickly shell. But scarcely before the
end of the month does the chestnut harvest begin in earnest in the
Apennines. There are divers kinds of chestnuts, and the gathering
of each dates properly from a different day: the so-called ‘timely
chestnuts,’ that ripen before the commoner sorts—but this variety is
rarer and the fruit finer than that of others—the late chestnuts, such
as, of their own accord, do not fall sometimes till November—though
these trees are often thrashed during the general harvest for the
greater convenience of the gatherers.
Companies of women and girls greet you now upon your walks. They have
little bags of sackcloth slung around their waists, and rough wooden
tweezers in their hands, with which they open the spiked husks, where
the fruit lies yet in its green case. They are merry; they laugh and
talk, their shrill Italian voices sounding shriller to English ears
in the harsh Genoese dialect. It is a season of festivity. The festa
of the ‘_Santi_’ has but lately passed, and there is much interchange
of colloquial news and much surmising on parish matters, with a little
gossip and neighbourly scandal mixed therewith.
The ‘_Santi_’ is the last great feast of the year until Christmas be
come, and it is treated with much solemnity throughout the whole of
Italy. The ‘_Giorno dei Morti_’ is likewise a great day among the
people, but then the pageant is one of mourning and of woe. Black
garments are donned by those who have lost friends during the year,
and little charms and candles are sold throughout the streets of the
towns, with black and yellow garlands of everlastings, with which
people are wont to adorn the graves. Yet there always seems to be as
much excitement around this day as any other. Southern feelings love so
dearly to be moved, that apparently it matters little whether it be to
joy or to grief.
However, this great homage to the day of the dead seems to be confined
more to the cities, and beneath the chestnuts, where our people are
gathering up the harvest, there is little talk of sadness. Here a man
has come to the aid of the girls, and has climbed to the top of a huge
tree, that he may the better thrash down the fruit. It falls in prickly
showers upon the crackling dead leaves below, but the women seem little
to fear any hurt from thorns, for they tread boldly amid the heap,
often with bare feet, and take the harsh shells within their hands to
open them. All day the people are at work. They are almost all women
at this task, for the men are labouring in the fields. Some few of them
return home at midday to cook and to carry the dinner for brothers and
husbands without, but most of them remain in the woods till dusk, and
eat their cold ‘_polenta_’ at midday, resting upon the banks. Towards
dark the great baskets are piled up that have been filled all day from
each woman’s sack, and then the girls lift them upon their heads or
their shoulders, and pick their way deftly along the stony paths with
the burthens. Sometimes the loads are too heavy and must be left for
the men, but this does not often happen, for these peasant women are
strong, with a beautiful ease of strength, and proud of their power.
[Illustration: GATHERING THE CHESTNUTS.]
So, whether the day has been dark and cheerless, or whether the kind
autumn sunshine has been there to brighten up all anew into a beauty
more beautiful than summer-time, the women have been at work in the
woods, and now the recreation hour has come. Within cottages great
fires are lit upon hearths that are in the chamber’s midst, and the
pot is put on to boil; rough wooden benches are drawn around, and men
and women meet after their labour to commemorate, with fun and jollity,
the first of the chestnuts. Upon each successive evening they meet in
different cottages according to the help they have lent to one another
during the day; land is not rented in the Apennines, neither do the
people labour for pay, but each has his small homestead according to
his wealth, and cultivates the ground himself, men and women helping
their neighbours during every pressing season, as they themselves
expect to be helped in turn.
When the ‘_minestra_’ has been eaten, or the ‘_polenta_’ then the
pot is taken off, with the great chain from whence it hung, and the
‘_padella_’ is brought forth, upon which chestnuts are to be roasted.
The red wood fire flares and flickers upon the hearth amid its heap
of embers, throwing fitful dashes of light upon faces around—copper
vessels and platters make sudden gleam upon dingy walls. Again the bold
flames die away, and there is only a lurid mass of cinders, and then
the women toss chestnuts in the pan and the men slit the brown hide
of other chestnuts that are yet unroasted, and they all chatter and
gesticulate the while in a fashion so quick and eager and with voices
so high and thrilling, that foreign ears, to whom the shrill dialect is
unknown, might fairly hear therein the words of an angry quarrel.
And sometimes there are quarrels even at these scenes of merriment.
Italian natures are hot, and Italian women are jealous, besides
being coquettes too, in their way, with often prudent or mercenary
considerations, so that wrangles come and altercations; but they make
it up again most times, and do not seem to break their hearts.
The women are not, as a rule, beautiful hereabouts. They are superbly
built and powerful, with graceful movements, but their faces belong to
a heavy-featured type that lacks much in delicacy of form, even though
the ruddy pallor of colouring might atone for many deficiencies. The
splendour of dark eyes can sometimes scarcely kindle them into real
brilliancy, nevertheless these women have their lives to live and their
wars to wage, and they bear the tokens, in themselves beautiful, of
toil and the labour of living.
The chestnut harvest lasts some three weeks or more, and, when the
fruit is all gathered in, it is spread above the open rafters that form
the roof of every kitchen in these Italian cottages—there to be dried
during winter by the fire’s heat from below. And when the chestnuts are
dried, and the outer skin has been cracked off by the heat, then they
are ground in a mill, so that the flour goes to make bread and cakes
and porridge during the barren season, when there is little fresh food
to be got by the poor. The dried chestnuts are boiled whole likewise,
and in one form or another the common production of the woods provides
nourishment, during this time, for all the peasants throughout the
land.
Under the Cherry Trees.
The Bridal.
Summer sunshine lies gladly upon the green hill-sides of _la Valle
Calda_. It moves in broken light over the warm green of broad-leaved
chestnut trees that daintily sweep the turf with their branches, it
quivers across the stream’s passing wave, or rests in a sheet of silver
upon the still pools of the slowly flowing river. Flowers bloom gayer
and breathe forth a stronger scent for its goodly radiance, summer
fruits ripen the sooner. For these are June days, that I call to mind,
as I think of _la Valle Calda_, that fairest of North Apennine valleys,
and the wild cherries are ripe upon the land, the lads and the maidens
are merry, for to-morrow is the Feast of St. John and the bridal day of
Caterina Ponte.
In the hamlets around, excitement has waxed high these many days
past. St. John is the patron saint of this little church that stands
so simply beside the green background of the richly-wooded mountain,
with belfry tower whose top seems almost to lie against the far
horizon clouds. St. John is the saint to whom most honour is due from
the dwellers in this particular parish. There will be a procession
to-morrow, and that would be grave enough matter, even without the
wedding of the prettiest girl in our village.
Down by the river’s brink, where the tall cherry trees grow whose
large black fruit will not be ripe yet awhile, the morrow’s bride has
had her home these twenty years long. Her cottage roof is thatched
and moss-grown, as the roofs of all the other cottages that are here
gathered together into a hamlet—one of the many hamlets that go to make
up the parish.
The father’s homestead, where Caterina has lived away her life till
to-day, is nothing but a low, one-storeyed house, that has no chimney
to its roof and no glass to its windows, blackened around where the
smoke has made its way; there are rough wooden shutters to keep out
the night air and the coldest of winter blasts, but, in these happy
dog-days, is no need to fear the fresh breath of the outside breezes,
and, upon the sills, carnations bloom in pots, with marjoram and
rosemary for the soup-flavouring, and marsh-mallow for the healing
of hurts. The stone steps are uneven that lead to the threshold; the
kitchen is dark, above the loose rafters of which chestnuts lie all
winter time to dry with the heat of the fire below; a great black pot
is hanging now over the red embers on the square centre-hearth, and
Caterina knows every dint in those bright copper vessels that gladden
the gloomy walls—every sunken brick in the floor. No wonder she sorrows
a little to leave the hard bench where she has sat so often to fan the
flame or—one among many—to roast chestnuts of an autumn evening; no
wonder she drops a passing regret to the broken stone balcony without
the door, where ofttimes she has stood gossiping with neighbours
beneath the trellised vine or has listened to the ready vows of village
swains! Though she be going to a better cottage, where there are
windows and even a chimney, Caterina can still be sorry to leave the
yellow gourd flowers that trail across the ground in the garden of her
girlhood, will still perchance miss awhile the Michaelmas daisies, the
sunflowers, the tomatoes, and even her own pet fruit-orchard stretching
across green grass towards the river. But though she sigh a furtive
sigh for all this, the vows of the one particular swain have been heard
and registered now, so there must be a good-bye for ever to anything
the others might have had to say, and this must be the last day even
for the gossip of a maiden.
Where the land leaves the river-side and swells up into hills, wild
cherries grow better than in low-lying orchards, and it is the wild
cherries that are ripe for the feast of St. John; so that now, while
it is yet daytime, girls of the village are still plucking the fruit,
up among those further plantations, nor will be down till dark for the
last chat beneath the vine of Caterina’s maiden home.
The trees are small and slender trees whereon grow the _amarene_,
bitter wild cherries of our country, and it needs but the deftness of
a light-footed mountain girl quickly to climb them, while the strength
of some other tall Apennine maiden can boldly reach down branches with
long arm and lithe figure, cruelly to strip them of the glistening,
ruddy fruit.
Margaret and Virginia, Paula and Bianca are there at work, and they
are favourite friends of the bride, and will hold a good place in the
morrow’s ceremonies. ‘Yes, yes, he is rich, I tell you; she will be
married in no dress of homespun! The stuff is to be of real wool! You
will see!’ says one. ‘What luck, and she the poorest of us all,’ sighs
another damsel for reply, and breaks the full-laden bough of a low
little tree as she speaks. ‘But I grudge her no good fortune. Our turn
will come, girls, and meanwhile who can put the garlic so justly into
the pot, who can knead the maize so smoothly or the dough for household
bread, who can mend a man’s suit or iron his shirt better than Caterina
of the Walnut Cottage?’ The bride’s old home is thus named in the
parish because of the fine nut trees that grow beside and around it.
‘See the fine cherry bough,’ pursues this last speaker; ‘she shall have
it for gift in sign of prosperity.’ The luscious, bright fruit hangs
in richest clusters from this slender stem; such tender stalks seem
scarce able to uphold the heavy knots. Beside the crimson berries grow
tufts of pale leaves, the same leaves that a moment before have had the
soft blue sky behind their young green for background and the summer
sunlight shining through them. ‘Truly it is pretty!’ say the girls in
chorus, and then they all agree that Caterina has deserved so fortunate
a fate as that which will be hers to-morrow ere noon, and they slake
their thirst with the tart cherry-juice, the while they pile baskets
with the spoil, and weary their lungs with talk and laughter, if not
their limbs with toil.
So do evening shadows begin to creep over the soft slopes of those
tender-carven hills, begin to lie darkly in their ravines; and when
the ebbing sunlight is near to leaving the frail outlines alone upon
the sky, then the bells of St. John’s strike their gladsome chime,
for to-morrow is the day of the patron saint. It is the girls’ token
that the day is done, and each lifts a basket to the head of a comrade
ere, with firm step—the step that comes easy to women of such strong
and graceful figure—they descend the mountain path towards home and
a gossip with the bride. And all the while the bells are ringing so
noisily, so wildly hurrying in merriest triplets, so loudly pealing
with deep bass voice now and then, that even Virginia’s clear tones,
and the chatter of other three good lungs besides, can scarce make
themselves heard above the din.
If yesterday was a happy day when things were bright and hearts were
glad, to-day is better a thousand times, with sun that is hotter and
land that lies fairer before the eyes: so thinks the bride, and so
think those four girls who are the bride’s friends. Many a little
half-hour went by last night while these five told old tales and
fancied new wonders, as they sat on the old wall beneath the vine,
in the growing summer darkness. The wedding gown was handled and
criticised, so were the wedding garments and the bride’s little dowry
of household linen, that she and her mother and her mother’s sister had
been spinning and weaving on the rough handloom these many months past.
So was that fine young man criticised—the betrothed—who had been able
to furnish his house so suitably, and had given the bridal gold of such
massive weight and fine workmanship!
[Illustration: _Gossip._
These five told old tales and fancied new wonders, as they
sat on the old wall beneath the vine, in the growing summer
darkness.]
But past discussions, past surmises are all over now: the wedding
morning is here. Upon the hedgerows that hem the path all the way
from this river-side hamlet to the church, there has glossy homespun
linen been hung in long lengths for adornment, with red and yellow
church properties between, that have belonged to the vestry for
processions these twenty years. This is all for St. John’s Day, and
so are the flower-heads of gorse and poppy that strew the ground, the
fresh-plucked posies in the little shrine on the bridge. But Caterina
gets the benefit of it all notwithstanding.
The marriage is to be at eleven. It will not be in the church, but
when the ring has wedded bride and bridegroom, and the sacred words
that bind them have been spoken by the priest in the priest’s own
house, then Caterina and her husband will come before the great altar
for benediction, and that is the only part of a wedding which the
congregation may see in Italy. The villagers are nevertheless assembled
on the _piazza_ just in front of the church, that they may see the
bridal pass, because the priest’s house is just behind the church,
and even Caterina, in all her glory, must pass under the arch of the
belfry, and up between the two trimmed box-hedges to-day, just as
she has passed up many a time before with the tithes in kind or the
priest’s best linen from the wash.
All the village children cry aloud, for the bride is in sight. ‘See!
the dress is really of woollen stuff,’ whisper the women, and the men
make comment on her comely person, for truly Caterina is a pretty girl.
Her white stockings and clean bright shoes are neat (small are the
dainty feet they clothe, say the village swains); her dress is costly
for a peasant bride, the gold about her neck—gold that is no vanity
here, because it is the bride’s invariable marriage portion—the gold
in her ears and hair is of good quality, the muslin veil is fresh and
fine, that drapes head and figure, after her country’s costume; but
best of all is Caterina’s proud and merry face, best are her deep,
brown eyes, her strong, lithe frame, and the healthy blood that flows
beneath her olive skin. Caterina is a handsome girl, but, more precious
in the sight of her bridegroom, she is a sound woman, fit to be a
peasant’s wife.
Laughing—half with shyness, half with pleasure—the bride and the
bride’s mother pass first through the little archway: the wedding
party follows after. In the kitchen of the priest’s house—which is
the entrance to his oratory and to all the rest of his abode—more
admiration, more talk and wonderment from the old housekeeper, delay
the couple awhile on their road. Caterina must be examined from top
to toe while the men stand impatient at such female frivolity, and the
guests are gathered, waiting, beneath the wide-spreading vine-trellis
of the priest’s garden, or beside the trickling fountain in its midst.
Everybody is glad when the ring has been put on—(Caterina has already
twenty-three gold rings on different fingers, all part of her only
dowry)—everybody sighs a little sigh of relief when the last Latin
words have been spoken, of that ceremony which is about the same in all
lands and in all religions. Nothing of importance occurs—only once a
candle on the altar goes out unaccountably, and Caterina is frightened
at the evil omen—a woman and an Italian peasant, she must needs be
superstitious! But all the same, it serves for conversation at the
wedding feast. The priest has had his comfit-box with the gold coins
hidden within it; the old housekeeper has not been forgotten, since
this bridegroom is not of the poorest; the wedding party descend into
the church.
And, when the exhortations are said and the benediction has been
given, Caterina is quite a married woman. The neighbours may have
their fill of comment and admiration now, and the children their
portion of comfits which Caterina scatters among them. Good words and
bad words—ejaculations and laughter—fly to and fro, and resound under
the trees of the cherry orchard, where they eat the marriage feast.
Everybody is contented. Even the girls who have no husbands, and the
fathers who have more mouths to feed than money withal to feed them,
are glad to-day; for the sun shines and the harvests are all yet to
come, and the winter is a long way off, and the bells ring merrily,
for it is the Feast of St. John. And when they have done ringing for
morning ceremonies and the marriage, they begin again for afternoon
ceremonies and the procession. There, Caterina walks with her husband,
and sees Bianca in her own old place, carrying the great cross in
front. The pop-guns are fired, the procession has been round the
meadows by the well, and is near home again. And the bells’ ringing
dies away slowly, as banners and crosses are lowered beneath the porch.
The lads and lasses have their simple dance on the green by the river,
and the day of St. John sinks away into night.
Cherry trees still bloom and bear fruit in that North Apennine valley.
Walking in and out amid the little frail trees, brushing the quaker’s
grass and ragged robin, and treading down the buttercups and daisies,
you might look up to see the ripe and ruddy fruit overhead, and
listening, hear just such joyous voices as I have written of—voices
of laughing maidens stripping the orchards’ cherry-trees. But Caterina
would not be there, nor Virginia nor Bianca, nor any of the girls that
I know, even though upon the stillness of the waning day there might
come to you a sound of bells—joyful pealing bells—such as those that
ring in the Feast of St. John.
The Parish Priest.
It is the day of the Corpus Domini. As though to herald in the sun,
bells began to ring this morning from every church throughout the
valley. For this is a great feast. It does not belong more to San
Matteo than to San Luca, nor can even _la Madonna_ claim it for a
special honour: it is the property of every village, of every saint,
and of every parish. That little church niched in among the chestnuts
has, therefore, just as good a right to sound her peal in the grey
hours of the morning as has any other _campanile_ throughout this
valley of the Northern Apennines. We are among the mountains of the
Polcevera—in one of the numerous indentures of the land, scarcely large
enough to deserve a more important name, which serve to vary and make
more beautiful this already richly gifted portion of the country.