{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_49497/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_49497","id":"gutenberg_49497","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/49497","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Travel Writing","Folklore -- Italy","Italian literature -- Translations into English"],"text":"TUSCAN FOLK-LORE\n AND\n SKETCHES\n\n\n[Illustration: _See p. 172_\nFLORENCE FROM THE PIAZZALE MICHEL ANGELO]\n\n\n\n\n\u201c_A Land of Cypresses and Olives_\u201d\n\n\n TUSCAN FOLK-LORE\n\n AND SKETCHES\n\n\n TOGETHER WITH SOME\n\n OTHER PAPERS\n\n\n BY\n\n ISABELLA M. ANDERTON\n\n\n _Edited, with a BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE, by her brothers\n H. Orsmond Anderton and Basil Anderton_\n\n\n London\n ARNOLD FAIRBAIRNS\n 20 CHEAPSIDE, E.C.\n\n 1905\n\n\n\n\n THE CAMPFIELD PRESS\n\n ST. ALBANS\n\n\n\n\n CONTENTS\n\n\n PAGE\n\n\nTUSCAN FOLK-LORE\u2014\n\n INTRODUCTION 9\n\n A TUSCAN SNOW-WHITE AND THE DWARFS 11\n\n MONTE ROCHETTINO 17\n\n TERESINA, LUISA, AND THE BEAR 25\n\n A TUSCAN BLUEBEARD 30\n\n TASSA 37\n\n PADRE ULIVO 46\n\n THE SOUND AND SONG OF THE LOVELY SIBYL 55\n\n THE SNAKE\u2019S BOUDOIR 65\n\n POMO AND THE GOBLIN HORSE 67\n\n\nTUSCAN SKETCHES\u2014\n\n A TUSCAN COUNTRYSIDE AND THE FESTA AT IL MELO 73\n\n A WEDDING IN THE PISTOIESE 87\n\n OLIVE-OIL MAKING NEAR FLORENCE 98\n\n A TUSCAN FARMHOUSE 106\n\n THE FLORENTINE CALCIO: GAME OF KICK 117\n\n\nELBA\u2014\n\n A MONTH IN ELBA\u2014I. 127\n\n \u201d \u201d \u201d \u201d II. 137\n\n THE FIRST STEP OF A MIGHTY FALL 149\n\n\nFUGITIVE PIECES\u2014\n\n A TALE FROM THE BORDERLAND 167\n\n THE PHANTOM BRIDE 172\n\n CYPRESSES AND OLIVES 180\n\n LOVELORNNESS (AFTER THE MANNER OF THE EDDA) 184\n\n KOIT AND \u00c4MARIK (AN ESTHONIAN FOLK-TALE) 186\n\n\nTWO TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ITALIAN OF ADA NEGRI\u2014\n\n THE GREAT 191\n\n THE WORKMAN 193\n\n\nTHREE LITERARY STUDIES\u2014\n\n GIOSU\u00c9 CARDUCCI 199\n\n GIOVANNI PASCOLI 230\n\n LANG\u2019S \u201cMAKING OF RELIGION\u201d\u2014(ITALIAN) 257\n\n\nAPPENDIX\u2014\n\n BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 267\n\n\n\n\nTUSCAN FOLK-LORE\n\nTHE following stories were told to me by various peasants during a\nsummer stay amid the Tuscan Apennines above Pistoia. I had gone there\nwith a companion in search of quiet for the summer holidays. But I fell\nill, and, there being no nurses and no doctors, was tended by an old\npeasant woman, who, living alone (for her sons had married and left\nher), was only too glad to spend the warmth of her heart in \u201ckeeping\nme company\u201d and tending me to the best of her ability. Long were the\nhours which she spent by my bedside, or by my hammock in the woods,\nknitting and telling me stories. She would take no payment for her\ntime, for was she not born a twin-sister? and everyone knows that a\ntwin-sister, left alone, must needs attach herself to someone else in\nthe emptiness of her heart. So old Clementina attached herself to me as\nlong as I stopped in that village; and when I left it she would write\nme, by means of the _scrivano_, long letters full of village news, and\nexpressions of affection in the sweet poetical Tuscan tongue.\n\nIndelibly is the remembrance of the kind hospitality of those peasants\nimpressed on my mind. For Clementina, although my dearest, was by no\nmeans my only friend. I had to leave her as soon as I could be moved,\nfor a village which boasted at any rate a chemist\u2019s and a butcher\u2019s;\nand there, in the two months of my stay, wandering about among the\nlittle farms, either alone, or in the company of a woman whose\nhusband had sent her back for the summer to her native place, I had\ncontinual opportunities of chatting with the people and enjoying their\ndisinterested hospitality. Such records as I have preserved I give to\nthe public, thinking that others, too, might like to penetrate into\nthat quiet country world, see the workings of the peasant mind in one\nor two of their stories, and note the curiously altered versions of\nchildhood acquaintances or of old legends which have found their way\ninto those remote regions: note, too, the lack of imagination, and the\nshrewdness visible in the tales which are indigenous. As regards style,\nI have endeavoured to preserve as closely as possible the old woman\u2019s\ndiction.\n\n\n\n\nA TUSCAN SNOW-WHITE AND THE DWARFS\n\n\nIT was old Clementina\u2014a white-haired, delicate-featured peasant\nwoman, with a brightly-coloured handkerchief tied cornerwise on her\nhead, a big ball of coarse white wool stuck on a little stick in the\nright-hand side of the band of her big apron, and the sock she was\nknitting carried in the other hand. My companion had gone down to\nPistoia to do some shopping: I was alone in our rooms in the straggling\nprimitive little village that clings to the hill among the chestnut\nwoods above. Clementina thought I must be very lonely; besides,\nshe was anxious to know what sort of things these extraordinary\n\u201c_forestieri_\u201d\u2014foreigners\u2014did all by themselves. They wrote, she\nbelieved\u2014well, but how did they look when they were writing, and what\nsort of tools did they use? So she suddenly appeared in the doorway\nwith a bright smile, and:\u2014\u201c_Buon giorno a Lei._\u201d It was just lunch\ntime, so I pushed aside my work, glad enough, as it happened, to see\nher; begged her to sit down and tell me while I ate, one of those nice\nstories which she, as great-grandmother, must know so well.\n\nMy lunch was the \u201c_necci_\u201d of the country people\u2014a cake of sweet\nchestnut-flour cooked in leaves of the same tree and eaten with\ncheese\u2014mountain strawberries, brown bread and country wine. Through\nthe open window of the whitewashed room came the noises of the village\nstreet, the fresh mountain breeze and the bright sunlight which lighted\nup the old woman\u2019s well-cut features and kindling brown eyes, as,\nseating herself with the grace of any lady, she leaned forward and\nbegan:\u2014\n\n * * * * *\n\nOnce upon a time there lived a king who had one little girl called\nElisa. She was a dear little girl, and her father and mother loved\nher very much. But presently her mother died, and the step-mother got\nquite angry with jealousy of the poor little thing. She thought and she\nthought what she could do to her, and at last she called a witch and\nsaid:\u2014\n\n\u201cGet rid of Elisa for me.\u201d\n\nThe witch spirited her away into some meadows a long, long way off,\nin quite another country, and left her there all alone; so that poor\nlittle Elisa was very frightened. Presently there came by three fairies\nwho loved her because she was so pretty, and asked her who she was. She\nsaid she was a king\u2019s daughter, but she did not know where her home was\nor how she had come to be where she was now, and that she was very\nunhappy.\n\n\u201cCome with us,\u201d said the fairies, \u201cand we will take care of you.\u201d\n\nSo they led her into another field where was a big hole. They took her\ndown into the hole, and there was the most beautiful palace that Elisa\nhad ever seen in her life.\n\n\u201cThis palace is yours,\u201d said the fairies, \u201clive here, and do just as\nyou like.\u201d\n\nWell, time went by and Elisa forgot her home, and was very happy, when\none night her step-mother had a dream. She dreamt that Elisa was not\ndead, but alive and happy. She called the witch again, and said:\u2014\n\n\u201cElisa is not dead, she is alive and well. Take some _schiacciata_ (a\nkind of cake), put poison in it, and take it to her. She is very fond\nof _schiacciata_, and will be sure to eat it.\u201d\n\nSo the witch went to the hole and called \u201cElisa.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d said Elisa.\n\n\u201cHere\u2019s some _schiacciata_ for you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t want _schiacciata_,\u201d said Elisa; \u201cI have plenty.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, I\u2019ll put it here, and you can take it if you like\u201d: so she put\nit down and went away.\n\nPresently there came by a dog, who ate the _schiacciata_ and\nimmediately fell down dead. In the evening the fairies came home, took\nup the dog and showed him to Elisa.\n\n\u201cSee you never take anything that anyone brings you,\u201d said they, \u201cor\nthis will happen to you, too.\u201d\n\nThen they put the dog into their garden.\n\nAfter a time the queen dreamt again that Elisa was alive and happy, so\nshe called the witch and said:\u2014\n\n\u201cElisa is very fond of flowers; pick a bunch and cast a spell upon\nthem, so that whoever smells them shall be bewitched.\u201d\n\nThe witch did as she was told, and took the flowers to the hole.\n\n\u201cElisa,\u201d she called down.\n\n\u201cWhat is it?\u201d said Elisa.\n\n\u201cHere are some flowers for you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, you can put them down and go away. I don\u2019t want them.\u201d\n\nSo the witch put them down and went home. Soon some sheep and a\nshepherd came by; the sheep saw the flowers, smelt them and became\nspell-bound; the shepherd went to drive off the sheep, and became\nspell-bound too. When the fairies came home that night, they found the\nsheep and the shepherd, showed them to Elisa as a warning, and put them\ntoo into their garden.\n\nBut the queen dreamt a third time, and a third time she called the\nwitch, saying:\u2014\n\n\u201cElisa is well and happy. Take a pair of golden slippers this time,\n_pianelle_ (slippers with a covering for the toe only), bewitch them,\nand take them to Elisa: those she will certainly put on.\u201d\n\nAnd the queen was right. When the witch had gone away from the hole\nElisa came up to look at the pretty golden _pianelle_. First she took\nthem in her hands, and then she put one on, and afterwards the other.\nAs soon as she had done it she was quite spell-bound, and could not\nmove. When the fairies came home they were very sad. They took her up\nand put her into the garden, with the dog, the sheep, and the shepherd,\nbecause they did not know what else to do with her.\n\nThere she stayed a long time, till one day the king\u2019s son rode by as he\nwent out hunting. He looked through the garden gate, and saw Elisa.\n\n\u201cOh, look,\u201d said he to the hunters, \u201clook at that lovely girl who does\nnot move; I never saw anyone so beautiful. I must have her.\u201d\n\nSo he went into the garden, took Elisa, carried her home, and put her\ninto a glass case in his room. Now he spent all the time in his room;\nhe would never come out, and would not even let the servants in to make\nhis bed, for he loved Elisa more and more every day, and could not bear\nto leave her, or to let anyone else see her.\n\n\u201cWhat can be in there?\u201d said the servants; \u201cwe can\u2019t keep his room\nclean if we\u2019re not allowed to go into it.\u201d\n\nSo they watched their opportunity, and one day when the prince had\ngone to take the holy water, they made their way in to dust.\n\n\u201cOh! oh!\u201d said they, \u201cthe prince was quite wise to keep his room shut\nup. What a beautiful woman, and what lovely slippers!\u201d\n\nWith that one went up, and said, \u201cThis slipper\u2019s a little dusty; I\u2019ll\ndust it.\u201d\n\nWhile he was doing so, it moved; so he pushed it a little more, and it\ncame off altogether. Then he took off the other too, and immediately\nElisa came back to life. When the prince came home he wanted to marry\nher at once; but his father said:\u2014\n\n\u201cHow do you know who she is? She may be a beggar\u2019s daughter.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no,\u201d said Elisa, \u201cI\u2019m a princess,\u201d and she told them her father\u2019s\nname.\n\nThen a grand wedding feast was prepared, to which her father and\nstep-mother were invited; and they came, not knowing who the bride\nwas to be. When they saw Elisa, the father was very glad, but the\nstep-mother was so angry that she went and hanged herself. Nevertheless\nthe marriage feast went off merrily. Elisa and the prince were very\nhappy, and presently united the two kingdoms under their single rule.\nIf they\u2019re not alive now, they must be dead; and if they\u2019re not dead,\nthey must still be alive.\n\n\n\n\nMONTE ROCHETTINO\n\n\nWE were in the chestnut woods; I swinging lazily in my hammock,\nClementina with her knitting, sitting on the grass beside me, a pretty\nclear pool reflecting the trees at our feet.\n\n\u201cDo you know the story of Monte Rochettino?\u201d asked Clementina, taking a\npiece of dry bread to keep her mouth moist.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said I.\n\nSo she settled herself comfortably and began the following curious\ntale, in which ever and anon one seems to recognise a likeness to the\nold Greek legend of Cupid and Psyche; but a likeness all distorted in\ntransmission through ignorant, unimaginative minds:\u2014\n\n * * * * *\n\nOnce upon a time there was a widow with three daughters. (\u201cWomen\nalways have three daughters in fairy tales,\u201d she added, by way of\nparenthesis.) This widow was very poor, so that when a famine came over\nthe country she and her children were almost dying with hunger, and\nhad to go out into the fields and get grass to eat. Once as they were\nlooking for food they found a beautiful golden cabbage. The eldest\ngirl took a _zappa_ (a sort of pickaxe with only one arm to it) and\ntried to root up the cabbage. This she could not succeed in doing,\nbut she broke off a leaf which she took to the market, and sold for a\nhundred gold scudi.\n\nThe next day the second daughter went, worked all day at the cabbage,\nand broke off two leaves. Away she went with them to the market, and\ngot two hundred gold scudi.\n\nThe third morning the youngest daughter took the _zappa_, and went into\nthe field. At the very first stroke the whole cabbage came up, and a\nlittle man jumped out of the earth; a very tiny little man he was, but\nbeautifully dressed. He took the maiden by the hand, and led her down\na flight of stairs underground. There she found herself in a beautiful\npalace, such as she had never dreamt of, all golden and shining. The\nlittle man gave her a bunch of keys, and said:\u2014\n\n\u201cThis palace is yours, you may do what you like, and go where you like\nin it. You are the mistress of it. The master of it, your husband, you\nwill not see, he will only come to you at night. Be happy, and make\nno effort to look at him, or you will lose everything. If you want\nanything in the daytime call Monte Rochettino.\u201d\n\nWith that the little man vanished. The maiden wandered all over the\nnew dwelling, and when it was dark she laid herself down and waited\nfor her husband, the master of the palace. So time went on. She loved\nher husband, although she had never seen him, and felt that she would\nbe very happy if only she could know something about her mother and\nsisters.\n\nAt last she could bear the suspense no longer, and one morning she\ncalled \u201cMonte Rochettino!\u201d\n\nIn an instant the little man stood before her.\n\n\u201cOh, Monte Rochettino,\u201d said she, \u201clet me go home and see my mother and\nsisters. Poor things, they must be so sad at losing me; they\u2019ll think I\nam dead.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll betray me,\u201d said Monte Rochettino.\n\n\u201cNo, no, I won\u2019t: I promise you: only let me just go and see them.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, go, but be sure you don\u2019t betray me, and be back in three days.\u201d\n\nSo the girl went home, and her mother and sisters did all they could to\nprove their joy at seeing her, poor things. Then they asked her where\nshe lived, and she told them she lived with her husband in a beautiful\npalace underground; but that her husband came to her at night, and she\nhad never seen him. Then her mother said to her:\u2014\n\n\u201cI will give you these matches and this candle. When he is asleep,\nlight the candle, and see what he has round his neck.\u201d\n\nSo the girl took the matches and the candle and went back to the palace.\n\n\u201cWell, have you betrayed me?\u201d said Monte Rochettino.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said she.\n\n\u201cThe better for you,\u201d answered the little man.\n\nThat night while her husband was asleep, the girl got up softly,\nlighted the candle, and saw a box round her husband\u2019s neck. The key was\nin the lock, she turned it, and went in.[1] She found herself in a room\nwhere was a woman weaving.\n\n\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cI am weaving swaddling clothes for the king\u2019s son, who is about to be\nborn.\u201d\n\nThen she went into another room and found a woman sewing.\n\n\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d she asked.\n\n\u201cI am making robes for the king\u2019s son, who is about to be born.\u201d\n\nIn the next room she found a shoemaker.\n\n\u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d she asked again.\n\n\u201cMaking shoes for the king\u2019s son, who is about to be born.\u201d\n\nThen she went back, locked the box again, and held the candle low down\nto look at her husband. As she did so a drop of wax fell on his neck,\nand he woke.\n\n\u201cYou have betrayed me,\u201d said he, \u201cand must lose me.\u201d\n\nIn an instant she found herself standing above-ground, her _zappa_ over\nher shoulder, and clad only in her nightdress, poor thing. She went a\nlittle way, and found the king\u2019s washerwomen at work. They gave her\nsome clothes and said:\u2014\n\n\u201cYou see that hill yonder? Walk all day till you come to it, and there\nyou will find a shepherd, who will take you in for to-night.\u201d (But\nreally, they had been sent by her husband, and so had the shepherd.)\n\nThe poor girl walked all day, and in the evening came to the shepherd.\nHe received her kindly, gave her supper and a bed, and in the morning\nmade her some coffee and gave her breakfast. Then he said:\u2014\n\n\u201cYou see that other hill, over there? Walk all day till you come to it,\nthere you will find my brother\u201d (but really it was himself) \u201cwho will\nbe kind to you. And now take this chestnut, but be sure you don\u2019t open\nit unless you are in great need.\u201d\n\nSo the poor thing walked all day until she reached the second hill and\nfound the second shepherd. He gave her supper, a bed, and coffee in the\nmorning, and then said:\u2014\n\n\u201cGo on to the next hill, where you will find a third shepherd, my\nbrother; ask him to take you in. Now take this nut, but be sure you\ndon\u2019t crack it unless you are in great need.\u201d\n\nThat evening she reached the third shepherd, who treated her as the\nothers had done. In the morning he said to her:\u2014\n\n\u201cYou must pass this first hill, and then you will find another; go up\nthat, and you will come to a palace. In the palace lives a queen, who\nlost her little son, and who now receives poor women, and has them\ntaken care of for forty days; she will be kind to you.\u201d Then he gave\nher a walnut, saying:\u2014\u201cMind you don\u2019t crack it, unless you are in\ngreat need.\u201d\n\nSo the poor creature walked and walked and walked, and in the evening\nreached the palace.\n\nThe queen received her kindly, and had her taken care of for forty\ndays. Then she sent a servant, who said:\u2014\n\n\u201cThe queen says you must be off, she can\u2019t keep you any longer.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh dear, oh dear,\u201d said the poor woman, \u201cwhatever shall I do? I have\nnowhere to go. I\u2019ll crack the chestnut.\u201d\n\nShe did so, and out jumped a lovely little golden dog, which capered\nabout and caressed her and fawned on her. She sent it as a present to\nthe queen, who said:\u2014\n\n\u201cWhy, this woman is richer than I am; let her stay forty days more.\u201d\n\nSo the poor thing remained forty days longer, and then the servant\ncame again to send her away. This time she cracked the nut, and out\ncame two beautiful golden capons. These, too, she sent to the queen,\nwho said:\u2014\n\n\u201cThis is certainly a wonderful woman, let her stay another forty days.\u201d\n\nAt the end of the forty days the queen sent the servant again, saying:\u2014\n\n\u201cYou\u2019ll eat up all my kingdom. Be off with you.\u201d\n\nThen the woman cracked the walnut, and found a beautiful golden\nwool-winder, which she sent to the queen.\n\n\u201cI never had such things,\u201d said the queen, \u201cthis woman is richer than I\nam. Let her stop as long as she likes.\u201d\n\nThen the poor woman was glad indeed, and stayed there quietly until\nshe gave birth to a little daughter. The servant took the baby into\nthe kitchen to put on the swaddling-bands; while she was doing so a\nbeautiful white dove alighted on the window-sill, and said:\u2014\n\n \u201cIf the cocks no longer sang,\n If the bells no longer rang,\n If you knew this, oh mother mine,\n Lovely you\u2019d be, oh daughter mine.\u201d\n\nThen the servant went to the queen and told her what had happened.\n\n\u201cTo-morrow I\u2019ll come myself,\u201d said she, \u201cand see the dove, and hear\nwhat it says.\u201d\n\nAs soon as she had heard it, she had all the cocks in the town killed,\nand all the bells tied up: and the next morning she carried the babe\ninto the kitchen herself. No sooner had she sat down than the dove\nalighted on her shoulder. She unswaddled the baby, and the little thing\nstretched out its tiny arms in joy at feeling itself free. As it did\nso, it touched the dove, who was instantly changed into a handsome\nyoung man. The queen knew him for her son, the poor woman for her\nhusband, and there was great feasting and joy in all the palace. If\nthey\u2019re not alive, they must be dead: if they\u2019re not dead, they\u2019re\nstill living.\n\n\n\n\nTERESINA, LUISA, AND THE BEAR\n\n\nCLEMENTINA had been doing her shopping in the village and now the two\nchildren and I were walking home with her. It was near the time of\nsunset, and the Apennines, blue-purple as the sun gradually dropped\nbehind them, unrolled themselves before us, chain behind chain,\nas we advanced along the road with the valley on the left and the\nchestnut-covered hill on the right.\n\n\u201cA story, _nonna mia_,\u201d begged I, and \u201cA story,\u201d echoed the children:\n\u201ctell us the story about Teresina.\u201d So Clementina began:\u2014\n\n * * * * *\n\nOnce there was a woman who had two daughters: at least, one was a\ndaughter, and the other a step-daughter. Now the daughter, named Luisa,\nwas ugly and wicked: but the step-daughter, Teresina, was so good and\nbeautiful that everybody loved her. This made Luisa very jealous,\nand she began to think what she might do to get rid of Teresina. One\nevening she said to her mother:\u2014\n\n\u201cMother, send Teresina into the woodhouse to-night, so that the bear\nmay come and eat her while she\u2019s alone in the forest.\u201d\n\nSo the mother gave Teresina a piece of dry bread and said to her:\u2014\n\n\u201cTake your distaff and go and spin wool in the woodhouse to-night.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d said Teresina, and went out into the forest; and the dog\nand the cat went with her.\n\nWhen she got into the woodhouse she shut the door, pulled out her piece\nof bread, and began to eat her supper.\n\n\u201cMiaou, miaou,\u201d said pussy, and patted her arm.\n\n\u201cAh, poor little pussy, are you hungry too? Here\u2019s a piece of bread for\nyou.\u201d\n\n\u201cBow-wow,\u201d said the dog, and put his front paws on her knee.\n\n\u201cYes, little one, here\u2019s a piece for you too, you must be hungry, I\u2019m\nsure.\u201d\n\nWhen she had finished her bread she began to spin, but she had not been\nat work long when she heard a knock at the door.\n\n\u201cWho\u2019s there?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe bear,\u201d was the answer.\n\n\u201cOh dear, what shall I do?\u201d said Teresina.\n\n\u201cTell him you\u2019ll let him in when he brings you a dress like the sun,\u201d\nsaid the dog.\n\nSo Teresina did as she was advised; and the bear went in a very short\ntime to Paris, and came back with a dress as beautiful as the sun.\n\n\u201cTell him he must bring one like the moon,\u201d said the cat.\n\nThe bear brought that too.\n\n\u201cNow ask for one like the sky with the stars in it,\u201d said the dog: and\nthe bear soon came back with that as well.\n\n\u201cWhat shall I do now?\u201d asked Teresina.\n\n\u201cYou must ask for a nice silk handkerchief for your head.\u201d\n\nSo the bear brought the most beautiful that ever was seen.\n\n\u201cWhat can I say next?\u201d said Teresina, \u201cI shall have to let him in.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, ask for a fan.\u201d\n\nThe bear brought a fan such as Teresina had never imagined.\n\n\u201cOne thing more,\u201d said the dog; \u201cask for a chest of linen.\u201d\n\nAgain Teresina followed the animal\u2019s advice, and almost immediately\nthe bear appeared at the door with the chest of linen. But just as he\narrived the sun rose, and he was obliged to go away. Then Teresina put\nthe chest on her head, took up her dresses, her handkerchief and her\nfan, and went away home with the cat and the dog.\n\nWhen she appeared among the trees before the house, Luisa was first of\nall very much disappointed, for she thought that the bear had certainly\neaten her sister; but when Teresina showed all her beautiful things,\nthen Luisa fairly cried with spite.\n\n\u201cGive them to me, Teresina,\u201d she said; \u201cyou must and shall give them to\nme!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d said Teresina, \u201cthey\u2019re mine and I shall keep them.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen, mother,\u201d exclaimed Luisa, \u201clet me go to the woodhouse to-night.\nI will go to the woodhouse to-night and see the bear. I will, I will!\u201d\n\nSo the mother gave her a nice slice of polenta with plenty of cheese,\nand in the evening Luisa went off, followed by the cat and dog.\n\n\u201cMiaou, miaou,\u201d said the cat, when Luisa began to eat.\n\n\u201cBow-wow,\u201d said the dog.\n\n\u201cGet away, ugly beasts,\u201d said Luisa, and kicked at them with her heavy\nnailed boots. Then came a knock at the door.\n\n\u201cWhat shall I do?\u201d asked Luisa.\n\n\u201cOpen,\u201d said the cat and the dog, \u201cit\u2019s the bear with the dresses.\u201d\n\nSo Luisa opened the door, and the bear came and ate her all up.\n\nBut Teresina put on her beautiful dresses when she went out walking:\nand one day the king\u2019s son saw her, and loved her because she looked\nso good and beautiful. So Teresina married the prince, and afterwards\nbecame queen of the land.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\u201cAre there any bears about the mountains now, nonna?\u201d I asked, when the\nstory was finished.\n\n\u201cNo, there are none now. I saw one once, though. A man was leading it\nabout with a chain.\u201d\n\n\u201cI saw one once, too,\u201d said little Elisa. \u201cIt was at a fair at that\nvillage over there,\u201d pointing to a cluster of houses on the hillside.\n\n\u201cAnd what was it like?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cIt was covered with hair, had two legs, the head of a horse and the\nfeet of a Christian.\u201d\n\nAnd the child really believed she was describing what she had seen.\n\n\n\n\nA TUSCAN BLUEBEARD\n\n\nSOON after this we reached Clementina\u2019s house. The old woman gave\nthe beef-steak and the medicine to her neighbour (whose husband,\njust returned from Maremma, was down with fever), took up a large\nwicker-covered flask, and called us to go with her to the \u201c_fonte\nfresca_\u201d to get water. So we moved off through the chestnut woods,\nand soon found the spring, half-hidden by the ferns and long grass.\nIt fully deserved its name and reputation; the water was so cold\nand sparkling as to be almost exhilarating, and I felt a sudden new\nsympathy with the feeling which prompted the Greeks to such efforts to\nobtain the water of well-known springs.\n\nWhen we had emerged from the wood on our way back, Clementina put down\nher flask and seated herself on a bank with her back to the sunset. We\nthrew ourselves on the grass at her feet, and the old woman, beginning\nagain, told us the following version of our old friend Bluebeard:\u2014\n\n * * * * *\n\nOnce upon a time there was a woman who had three daughters. One day a\nsexton knocked at her door and said:\u2014\n\n\u201cGood wife, give me a piece of bread.\u201d\n\nThe woman said to the eldest daughter:\u2014\n\n\u201cTake the poor man a piece of bread: he looks very wretched.\u201d\n\nBut when the girl got outside the door with the bread, the sexton\nsaid:\u2014\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s you I want,\u201d and he caught her up and carried her away.\n\nAfter a while they reached a field where there was a hole in the\nground. In the hole the girl saw steps, and when they got to the bottom\nof these, she found herself in the most beautiful palace she had ever\nseen.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d said the man, \u201cthis palace shall belong to you. I shall be away\nall day, but shall come back every evening; so you need not be lonely.\nWhile I am away you may amuse yourself as you like. Here are the keys;\nyou can explore the whole palace except the room which this key opens;\nthere you are never to go.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d said the girl, \u201cI won\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cTake this ring,\u201d continued the man, putting one on her finger. \u201cSo\nlong as the gold remains bright, I shall know you have been obedient.\nWhen it is cloudy, I shall know you have opened the door.\u201d\n\nFor some days the girl was quite happy exploring the wonders of this\nunderground palace; but little by little she began to want to see what\nwas in the room which was forbidden her; and at last the desire to open\nthat door quite overcame her dread of punishment. She put in the key,\nturned it, pushed open the door, and went in.\n\nShe found herself in a marble courtyard opening on to a beautiful\ngarden. In the middle of the courtyard was a pond, in which was\nswimming a lovely gold-red fish.\n\n\u201cOh, I must catch you,\u201d said the girl, and plunged her hand into the\nwater. But the fish bit her so sharply that she withdrew her hand\nimmediately, and then she saw that the ring was covered with blood.\nShe rubbed and rubbed, but the blood would not come off; the ring was\nstained and cloudy, and sadly she went out, locking the door behind her.\n\nWhen the man came home that night he found her sad and dejected.\n\n\u201cAh,\u201d said he, \u201cyou have disobeyed me. Let me see the ring.\u201d\n\nShe tried to hide her hand, but it was no good. He looked at the ring,\nand then cut off her head, and put head and body against one of the\ncolumns in the marble courtyard.\n\nAfter that he went back to the girl\u2019s home, and again asked for bread.\n\n\u201cGo,\u201d said the mother to the second daughter, \u201ccarry the poor man\nsomething to eat.\u201d\n\nBut when the second daughter came to him he treated her as he had done\nthe first. He carried her off to the underground palace, gave her the\nkeys, and a ring, and told her, too, that she might do anything she\nliked, except open that door.\n\nIt happened to the second as it had done to the first. She got tired\nof wandering about the palace with nothing to do, opened the door, and\nwent into the marble courtyard. She, too, tried to catch the fish; she,\ntoo, was bitten; her ring became cloudy, and she was beheaded and put\nbeside her sister.\n\nThen the man returned, and carried away the youngest girl. Now the\nyoungest is always cleverer than her elder sisters; and so it happened\nin this case. After she had spent some time in the palace, she, too,\ndetermined to open the forbidden door. So she took off her ring, put\nit in her work-basket, and went in. She tried to catch the fish, as\nher sisters had done, and then began to wander about. She soon saw her\nsisters\u2019 heads and bodies, and that made her sad. When it was near\nevening she left the courtyard, put on her ring, and went to meet her\nhusband as brightly and cheerfully as ever.\n\n\u201cAh,\u201d said the man, \u201cI can see that you have not disobeyed me. You\u2019re a\ndear, good little wife.\u201d\n\nEvery day, as soon as her husband was gone, the girl took her work into\nthe garden and sat there, knitting or playing with the fish, but she\nwas unhappy because of her sisters.\n\nOne morning as she was at work she saw a little lizard without a tail;\nthe tail was lying on the ground beside it. She watched the creature\nand saw it bite a leaf off a certain plant, turn its head over its\nback, and touch its body and its tail with the leaf. Instantly tail and\nbody grew together, and the lizard ran off quite merrily.\n\n\u201cAha,\u201d thought the girl, \u201cnow I know what to do!\u201d So she picked the\nplant, went into the courtyard, put her sisters\u2019 heads on to their\nrespective bodies, touched the necks with the plants, and there were\nher sisters quite well again. Then she took them upstairs and hid them.\n\nThat evening she said to her husband, \u201cI am afraid my mother must be\nvery unhappy. She is old and poor, and now there is no one to work for\nher or take care of her. Let me go and see her.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said the man; \u201cI can\u2019t spare you.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then, let me fill a chest with clothes and money, and you shall\ncarry it to her.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d said the man; \u201chave it ready by to-morrow morning.\u201d\n\nSo the girl put linen and gold into a chest. Then she made her eldest\nsister get in, and shut down the lid.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d she said to her husband, \u201cyou must not set down the chest at\nall: remember, I can see you all the way. Go straight there and back\nagain, for I want you at home.\u201d\n\nThe man put the chest on his head and set off. After a time he began\nto want to put down his burden for a little, and said to himself:\u2014\n\n\u201cMy wife can\u2019t possibly see me; there\u2019s this hill between me and her\u201d:\nand he began to set down the chest.\n\n\u201cDo you think I can\u2019t see you?\u201d a voice said. \u201cSilly man, I can see you\neverywhere.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh dear, oh dear,\u201d said the man to himself, \u201cwhat a clever wife mine\nis! She can see me even through a hill. And how fond of me she is!\nShe knows what I am doing wherever I am.\u201d So he staggered on to his\nmother-in-law\u2019s, threw down the box, and went home again.\n\nA little while after the second sister was sent home in the same way,\nand now the girl began to think how she could get away herself. One\nevening she said to her husband:\u2014\n\n\u201cI want you to take some more things to my mother. I shall get\neverything ready to-night. Don\u2019t wake me in the morning before you go,\nas I shall come to bed very late. I have to make the bread.\u201d\n\nThe man went off to bed, and the girl set to work. She made a great\ndoll of dough and put it in her bed; then she put clothes and money\ninto the chest, crept in herself, and pulled down the lid.\n\nThe next morning the man got up early. \u201cWife, wife,\u201d he shouted,\n\u201cgood-bye!\u201d\n\nNo answer. \u201cAh, I forgot, she was up late making bread. She\u2019s a dear\nlittle wife, and works very hard.\u201d\n\nSo he crept on tiptoe to her bedside, saw the figure under the clothes,\nand went out as quietly as he had gone in.\n\nThen he took the chest and started. Again he wanted to set down his\nburden, again the warning voice stopped him, and at last he flung down\nthe box at his mother-in-law\u2019s door, declaring that this was the last\nhe would bring her.\n\nWhen he got home he called, \u201cWife! wife!\u201d\n\nStill no answer. \u201cWhat, is she still asleep? She must be tired\u201d; and he\nwent to shake her. Then he found that there was no wife there, but only\na figure of dough, and that he was alone once more in his underground\npalace.\n\n\n\n\nTASSA\n\n\nCLEMENTINA had enticed me to her cottage with the promise of country\nbeans cooked in country fashion, to be followed by a story under the\nchestnut woods. So at about four in the afternoon, when the heat of\nthe day was over in the breezy mountain village, I sauntered through\nthe street, past the swarming black-eyed children, and the cheerful,\nsmiling washerwomen busy at the tank under the pump, out on the white\nroad beyond; and, gazing now at the landscape on the left, now at the\never-varying forms of the Apennines before me\u2014\n\n \u201cEver some new head or breast of them,\n Thrusts into view,\u201d\n\nsays Browning\u2014now climbing the bank on the right for flowers or\nmountain-strawberries, I arrived, after half an hour\u2019s stroll, at the\nlittle hamlet of Ciecafumo.\n\nThere stood the cluster of smoke-blackened cottages, with the large\npatch of rye, beans, etc. (apparently common property), before them,\nagainst a background of magnificent chestnut trees. Passing under a\npicturesque archway, and crossing a cobbled space which did duty as a\nstreet, I pushed open the wooden door of Clementina\u2019s house. Before me\nwas a flight of stairs which might have been washed towards the end\nof the last century: on the right the kitchen; and, dim in the blue,\narching wood-smoke, Clementina, with eyes as bright as ever under her\nkerchief; and sprightly little Nella, barefooted, and, still more\nextraordinary, bareheaded.\n\nIt was a large, low room, with stone walls and a gaping plank ceiling,\nwhich formed also the floor of the room above, all encrusted with the\nblack lichen-like deposit, harder than the stone itself, produced by\nthe smoke of wood-fires. In one corner was a tiny window, and on the\nsame side with it the hearth, with a wooden roof over it in lieu of\nchimney. The wood-fire, the cat, the red pipkin with the old woman\nbending over it, formed a pretty interior against the dark shadows\nof the great stack of brushwood which, with a flight of very rickety\nstairs, occupied the further end of the room.\n\n\u201cWhere do the stairs lead, Nonna?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cOh, those lead into the cat\u2019s rooms. You can go up if you like, but\nI advise you not to. It\u2019s years since I have been there, and I expect\nthey\u2019re rather dirty.\u201d\n\nIt need hardly be said that I did _not_ go up. The beans being now\nready, a space was cleared on one of the two tables, which, loaded with\nmost heterogeneous material, were propped up against the wall opposite\nthe fire. Above the tables was the one patch of colour on the black\nwalls\u2014a coloured print or so of saints, a couple of rosaries, and a\ntiny hanging tin lamp. The old woman spread a coarse, newly-washed\ntable-napkin on the space she had cleared, and placed on it a hunch\nof bread (brought that morning from the village), one glass, a little\nbottle of oil, and some salt in a piece of paper. The wicker-covered\nwater-flask was put on the ground beside us; three chairs were\nproduced, and three soup-plates, with brass spoons. Then the beans were\ndivided and dressed with oil and salt, the bread was carved into three\nparts with a great clasp-knife from the old woman\u2019s pocket, and we\nmade a very excellent and nourishing meal. The one glass did duty for\nall three of us, being rinsed out with a peculiar jerk on to the stone\nfloor after each had drunk.\n\n\u201cNow the story, Nonna,\u201d said I.\n\nSo Clementina took up her knitting, and, locking the door behind us,\nwe went out into the fresh, sweet evening air. We sat down under a\nhuge chestnut tree. A number of little girls came clustering around\nus, busily engaged in making chestnut-leaf pockets for their wild\nstrawberries and whortle-berries, and the old woman began:\u2014\n\nOnce upon a time there was a poor woman who had one daughter. One day,\nas this daughter was out in the forest getting firewood she struck her\naxe into a hollow tree. As soon as she had done so, a beautiful lady\nappeared and said to her:\u2014\n\n\u201cWill you come with me, little girl? I will take care of you, and give\nyou everything you want.\u201d\n\nSo the little girl said yes, she would go, and the lady, who was really\na fairy, took her to a beautiful palace.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d said this fairy, \u201cwhen you\u2019re alone, and want me, you must call\nme Tassa, but when anyone else is with you, you must call me Aunt. You\nwon\u2019t always see me, but as soon as you call me I shall come to you.\nYou may do what you like and go where you like in this palace.\u201d\n\nSo the girl lived for some time in the palace in the forest, and grew\nmore and more beautiful every day. At last it happened that the king\u2019s\nson, out hunting in that forest, came to the palace and saw the girl at\nthe window. He rode round trying to find a door, but there was none.\n\n\u201cLet me come in and talk to you,\u201d he said to the girl. So she went into\nthe next room, and called out \u201cTassa.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you want, pretty maiden?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe king\u2019s son asks to come and talk to me.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet him come.\u201d\n\nAnd immediately the prince saw a door and went in. After a little while\nhe said:\u2014\n\n\u201cI should like to marry you; you are the most beautiful woman I have\nseen.\u201d\n\nSo the girl went into the next room and called \u201cTassa.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat is it, pretty maiden?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe prince wants to marry me.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet him come in a week with all his court and fetch you.\u201d\n\nThen the prince went away, and the fairy gave the girl a box, saying:\u2014\n\n\u201cIf you want to remain beautiful, take this box with you; and don\u2019t\nforget to say good-bye to me before you go.\u201d\n\nAt the end of the week the prince came with a great train of carriages\nand courtiers to fetch his bride, and the girl was so dazzled by the\nsplendour, and excited at the thought of marrying the prince, that she\nforgot to say good-bye to the fairy, and forgot her box till she was\nin the carriage. Then she suddenly remembered it, jumped out, and ran\nupstairs to the cupboard where she had put it. Now this was a cupboard\nin the wall, and the door pushed up as a shutter might do. The girl\nraised the door and put her head in to look for the box, when bang!\ndown came the shutter on her neck.\n\n\u201cTassa, Tassa,\u201d she shouted.\n\n\u201cWhat do you want, ugly wench?\u201d\n\n\u201cI forgot to say good-bye to you. And oh, please let me out.\u201d\n\nThen the cupboard door was raised, and the girl went downstairs. But\nwhen she appeared everyone began to laugh, for she had a sheep\u2019s head!\n\nThe prince made her get into the carriage, and then pulled down all the\nblinds, so that no one might see his ugly bride; and when he got home\nhe had her put into the sheep stable.\n\nNow there were three beautiful women at the king\u2019s palace who all\nwanted to marry the prince, and the prince did not know which to\nchoose. So he brought some wool and said:\u2014\n\n\u201cThe one who spins this best shall be my wife\u201d; and he gave some wool\nto the girl with the sheep\u2019s head as well.\n\nThe three women set to work immediately and span and span with all\ntheir might; but the poor girl in the stable threw hers into the gutter\nand sat down to cry, while the others came and mocked her. At last it\nwas the eve of the day on which they were to go before the prince, and\nthe girl sobbed and sobbed, and began to call out \u201cTassa, Tassa!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you want, ugly wench?\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve thrown my wool away, and I don\u2019t know what to do.\u201d\n\n\u201cTake this filbert, and when you come before the prince crack it. But\nyou don\u2019t deserve to be helped.\u201d\n\nThe next day the whole court was assembled and the three women gave\ntheir skeins of wool, and then the prince turned to the girl and said:\u2014\n\n\u201cWhat have you done?\u201d\n\n\u201cBaa, baa,\u201d said she, and cracked the filbert. There was a skein of the\nfinest wool that could be imagined, and all said that the sheep had\ndone best.\n\nThen the prince gave each one a puppy, and said:\u2014\n\n\u201cThe one whose puppy grows into the most beautiful dog shall be my\nbride.\u201d\n\nSo the three women took their puppies, and brushed them and combed them\nand washed them and fed them, till they were so fat they could hardly\nmove; but the poor girl let hers run away.\n\nThe women came and mocked her as before, but all she could say was\n\u201cBaa, baa!\u201d\n\nAgain it was the eve of the day when they were to appear before the\nprince, and again the girl sat sobbing in her stable and calling\n\u201cTassa, Tassa!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you want, ugly wench?\u201d\n\n\u201cMy dog has run away, and to-morrow we go before the king.\u201d\n\n\u201cTake this walnut, and crack it as you did the filbert. But you don\u2019t\ndeserve to be helped.\u201d\n\nThe next day the whole court was assembled again. The three women\npresented their dogs, which waddled about and behaved very dirtily and\nbadly.\n\n\u201cAnd what have you done?\u201d said the prince to the girl.\n\n\u201cBaa, baa,\u201d said she, and cracked the walnut. Out jumped the most\nlovely tiny dog, with a golden collar and golden tinkling bells; he\nfawned upon the king and the prince, and quite won their hearts by his\npretty manners.\n\n\u201cOne more trial,\u201d said the prince. \u201cAll appear before me again in a\nweek\u2019s time, and I will marry the most beautiful.\u201d\n\nAll that week the three women washed themselves, and scented\nthemselves, and rubbed themselves till they rubbed the skin off, and\npomaded their hair till it shone like a looking-glass; but the girl sat\namong the sheep and wept.\n\nOn the last day of the week the women began to put on their fine\ndresses and ornaments; and the unhappy girl sobbed more bitterly than\never, and called out, \u201cTassa, Tassa!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you want, pretty maiden?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo-morrow we go before the prince. What shall I do?\u201d\n\n\u201cGo with the others: and if he marries you don\u2019t forget to say good-bye\nto me.\u201d\n\nThe next morning the three women with their grand dresses, and their\npomade, and their scent, strutted boldly in before the court and the\nprince.\n\n\u201cGo to the stable and bring the fourth,\u201d commanded the prince: and one\nof the courtiers went down.\n\nSoon the door opened and the room was filled with a blaze of light, as\nthe beautiful maiden, sheep no longer, entered and knelt humbly before\nthe king.\n\n\u201cThat is my bride,\u201d said the prince, as he raised her and kissed her:\n\u201cYou others may go.\u201d\n\nSo a grand wedding-feast was prepared, and this time the girl did not\nforget to say good-bye to the fairy who had been so kind to her.\n\n\n\n\nPADRE ULIVO\n\n\n\u201cSTRANGE, lingering echoes of the old demon-worship might perhaps\nbe even now caught by the diligent listener among the grey-haired\npeasantry,\u201d says George Eliot, speaking of the Midland Counties of\nEngland. Stranger yet, perhaps, is the survival of the old pagan\nspirit, the haunting echo of old pagan legend, which any visitor to the\nhills of Tuscany may verify. Let him join the peasants as they meet now\nin one house, now in another, to spend the long winter evenings round\nthe fire; or let him stroll, in the early autumn, into some low, dark\nkitchen where neighbours sit among piles of chestnut twigs, busily\nstripping off the leaves and making them into bundles for winter use in\nthe baking of chestnut cakes (_necci_). There, among _stornelli_ and\n_rispetti_, he may well chance upon some such shrewd, quaint tale as\nthe following:\u2014\n\n * * * * *\n\nOnce upon a time there was a man called Padre Ulivo. He was always\ncheerful, always singing, and very fond of good company. He had a\nbarrel of wine in the cellar, and every evening his friends used to\ncome and see him, sit round the fire, eat, drink, sing, and lead a\nmerry life. But at last the barrel was empty, and all his provisions\nrun out, so that he had nothing more to offer to those who came, and\nall his pleasant evenings were at an end. Now everyone avoided him, and\nhis cottage grew dull and lonely. One night he had just enough flour\nleft for one small cake.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said he, \u201cI\u2019ll make a little _schiacciata_ this evening, bake\nit in the ashes, and to-morrow I must take what God sends.\u201d\n\nSo he made the _schiacciata_, ate half of it, and got into bed. He had\nnot been there long before he heard a knock at the door.\n\n\u201cWho\u2019s there?\u201d he called out.\n\n\u201cPadre Ulivo,\u201d said a voice from outside, \u201cwe want to come in and warm\nourselves at your fire; open the door to us.\u201d\n\nSo Padre Ulivo jumped out of bed, opened the door, and there were\ntwelve men outside.\n\n\u201cWait a minute while I put on my trousers,\u201d said he, for he was in his\nshirt.\n\n\u201cNow, Padre Ulivo,\u201d said one of the men, \u201cwe want something to eat.\u201d\n\n\u201cSomething to eat! How can I give you that when I have nothing in the\nhouse! I made a little _schiacciata_ of my last flour this evening.\nLook, here\u2019s the bit I\u2019ve not eaten.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no; you must give us something to eat\u2014we\u2019re hungry.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, indeed, I don\u2019t do it to deceive you. I have nothing; absolutely\nnothing.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo and look again in the cupboard.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what\u2019s the good? It\u2019s empty. Do you believe that I want to deceive\nyou?\u201d\n\n\u201cGo and look, at all events.\u201d\n\nSo Padre Ulivo opened the cupboard, and found it quite full of meat and\nbread, and everything nice. Quite full! and of such good things as he\nhad never hoped to have.\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d said he, \u201cdon\u2019t think I was deceiving you; there really was\nnothing there last time I went to it.\u201d\n\nSo he laid the table and they began to eat.\n\n\u201cBut we want wine,\u201d said the man; \u201cgo to the cellar and get some.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have none,\u201d said Padre Ulivo; \u201cI used up all mine some time ago.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo and see.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut it\u2019s no good; my barrel is quite empty. Indeed it is not because I\nam greedy. I have none left.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo and see. We\u2019ll come too.\u201d\n\nSo they all went down to the cellar.\n\n\u201cYou see,\u201d said Padre Ulivo, tapping the barrel. \u201cListen how hollow it\nsounds!\u201d\n\n\u201cDraw out the spigot.\u201d\n\nHe did so, and immediately there spurted out such a stream of wine as\nknocked him right against the opposite wall.\n\n\u201cOh, oh!\u201d said he. \u201cI swear it was empty last time I came here.\u201d\n\nThen he filled a big jug, and they all went upstairs and made a good\nsupper.\n\n\u201cNow we want to sleep here,\u201d said the men.\n\n\u201cBut I have only one bed,\u201d answered Padre Ulivo; \u201cand there are\nthirteen of us! I know what I\u2019ll do, though; I\u2019ll put the mattress on\nthe floor, and we must manage the best way we can.\u201d\n\nSo he put the mattress on the floor, spread sheets on it, and they\nslept comfortably, some on the mattress and some on the bed.\n\nThe next morning the men went away, and Padre Ulivo accompanied them\nfor some little distance on their journey, walking behind with one who\nwas especially friendly.\n\n\u201cThe one in front,\u201d said this man, \u201cthe most important of us all, is\nDominiddio[2] himself. Go and ask him a favour.\u201d\n\nSo Padre Ulivo ran on, and threw himself on his knees in the road.\n\n\u201cWhat do you want?\u201d said Dominiddio. \u201cI will grant you whatever you ask\nfor.\u201d\n\n\u201cI want that anyone who sits down on my chair may be unable to rise\nwithout my permission.\u201d\n\n\u201cBe it so.\u201d\n\nAnd Padre Ulivo returned to his companion.\n\n\u201cHave you asked a favour?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, and it\u2019s granted.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat did you ask?\u201d\n\nPadre Ulivo told him.\n\n\u201cOh, you stupid man! But go and ask another favour quickly. And mind\nit\u2019s something great, and something really for yourself. Remember you\nare speaking to Dominiddio.\u201d\n\nPadre Ulivo ran on again and knelt down.\n\n\u201cWhat do you want this time? You shall have it.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet anyone who gets up into my fig-tree be unable to come down without\nmy permission.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well; it shall be so.\u201d\n\nAnd Padre Ulivo came back leaping for joy.\n\n\u201cWell, and what did you ask for?\u201d\n\nPadre Ulivo told him.\n\n\u201cOh, you fool! Go again, you will get one more favour; but mind you ask\nfor something really good for yourself.\u201d\n\nHe wanted him to ask to go to Paradise.\n\n\u201cAgain!\u201d said Dominiddio, when he saw Padre Ulivo in the dust before\nhim. \u201cWell, this is the last time. What do you want?\u201d\n\n\u201cLet me always win at cards, no matter whom I may be playing with.\u201d\n\n\u201cBe it so. And now no more.\u201d\n\nPadre Ulivo came back to his companion singing for joy.\n\n\u201cWhat have you asked for this time? Something really great?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, yes,\u201d said Padre Ulivo, and told him.\n\n\u201cWell, you\u2019ve lost your chance now. Good-bye.\u201d\n\nWith that he left him and Padre Ulivo went home.\n\nNow his jolly times began again. His barrel of wine never ran dry, and\nhis cupboard never grew empty. Everybody came to see him. They ate,\ndrank, and led a merry life.\n\n * * * * *\n\nBut Padre Ulivo grew old; and one day Death came to him.\n\n\u201cOh, how do you do?\u201d said Padre Ulivo. \u201cYou want me, do you? Well, I\nwas just beginning to fear you had forgotten me, and to wonder where\nyou could be. Sit down and take a rest, and then I\u2019ll come with you.\u201d\n\nSo Death sat down on the chair in the chimney-corner, while Padre Ulivo\npiled on wood and made a splendid blaze.\n\n\u201cNow we must go,\u201d said Death, when he was warm. \u201cOh, oh! what\u2019s this?\u201d\nFor when he tried to get up the chair stuck to him and he could not\nmove. \u201cOh, oh!\u201d And he pulled at the chair that seemed glued firmly to\nhim. \u201cPadre Ulivo, let me go! I have to go for the carpenter\u2019s daughter\nbefore sundown. Oh, oh! I can\u2019t get up. You\u2019ve bewitched me.\u201d\n\n\u201cPromise not to come back for a hundred years, and you shall go free.\u201d\n\n\u201cA hundred! A hundred and one, if you like! Only take the spell off.\u201d\n\nSo Padre Ulivo gave him permission to rise, and Death went away.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThings went on as usual for the hundred years, with feasting and\nmerry-making. But at last, as Padre Ulivo was among his friends, Death\nappeared again.\n\n\u201cYes, yes, I\u2019m ready. But let us have a feast of figs first. See\nwhat splendid fruit there! I and my friends had as much as we wanted\nyesterday, it\u2019s your turn to-day. Go up and help yourself; I am too old\nto climb.\u201d\n\nSo Death went up the tree and picked and ate to his heart\u2019s content.\n\n\u201cNow we must go,\u201d said he. \u201cHullo! I can\u2019t get down. Oh, Padre Ulivo,\nyou\u2019ve bewitched me again!\u201d And he stretched out now an arm, now a leg,\nand twisted and turned; but it was all of no good, and the others stood\nbelow laughing at him.\n\n\u201cOh, Padre Ulivo! I\u2019ll leave you another hundred years, if you\u2019ll only\nlet me get down.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well; then you may come.\u201d\n\nSo Death climbed down and went away.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWhen the hundred years were passed, he came and stood outside the\ncottage.\n\n\u201cPadre Ulivo, Padre Ulivo, come out! I shan\u2019t come near your house\nthis time. I don\u2019t want to be tricked again.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh, no, I\u2019m coming. Wait till I get my jacket.\u201d\n\nSo he put on his coat and went with Death.\n\nOn the way they met the Devil.\n\n\u201cAh, good morning, Padre Ulivo\u201d (one can see they knew each other very\nwell), \u201cso you\u2019re coming my way, are you?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo be sure I am. But let\u2019s have a game at cards first.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy all means! What shall we play for?\u201d\n\n\u201cFor souls. A soul for every game.\u201d\n\n\u201cGood! I\u2019m not afraid. Nobody ever beat the Devil yet at cards.\u201d\n\nSo they began, and Padre Ulivo won game after game.\n\nThe Devil got very angry and spit flames of fire from sheer rage, as he\nsaw the crowd of souls collecting round Padre Ulivo.\n\n\u201cThis will never do,\u201d he said at last. \u201cI shall have no fire left to\nwarm myself at if I go on losing my fuel at this rate. Padre Ulivo,\ntake your souls and be off. I have had enough of you.\u201d\n\nThey left the Devil boiling over with fury, and went and knocked at the\ngate of Heaven.\n\n\u201cWho\u2019s there?\u201d\n\n\u201cPadre Ulivo.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll go and ask if you may come in.\u201d Then, after a little time:\n\u201cDominiddio says you may come in, if you\u2019re alone; but you must not\nbring anyone else.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo and tell Dominiddio that when he came to me I let him in with all\nhis friends. He ought to do the same by me.\u201d\n\nThe porter took the message, and then came and opened the gates.\n\n\u201cDominiddio says you may all come in together.\u201d\n\nSo they threw themselves down in the armchairs of Paradise, and enjoyed\nthemselves for ever.\n\n * * * * *\n\nSurely a tale of this kind is an eloquent commentary on the mind\nof the people who have preserved it. The shrewd cunning, the frank\nmaterialism, the lavish generosity, so long as there is anything to be\ngenerous with (\u201csince it\u2019s there,\u201d they will say as they offer or use\nthe last of their store), are all strongly marked features among these\npeasants.\n\nAt the same time, the story itself suggests a curious feeling that\nwe have to do with Jupiter and Mercury transformed in the crucible\nof Christian history and Catholic dogma. The transformation is an\ninstructive one in many ways, and it would be interesting to know\nwhether it has taken place in any other country besides Italy.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SOUND AND SONG OF THE LOVELY SIBYL\n\n\nIT was old \u2019Drea I was talking to, this time. Andrea was my peasant\nfriend\u2019s father, a small, infirm-looking man, about eighty years of\nage, of great shrewdness and penetration. We were sitting in the little\nkitchen garden beside the bean-vines, and as we chatted his eye roamed\ncontinually over the valley and the hills beyond, with the expression\nof one accustomed to render an account to himself of all he saw. He\ntold me of his life as foreman to the great landowner of that part of\nthe country; of his journeyings from one outlying farm to another, to\ncollect the half of the farm-produce which is the due of the owner\nof the soil; of his experiences as head forester down in Maremma; of\nthe power of the priests in his young days, the days of the Archduke\nPeter Leopold. \u201cWhy in those days,\u201d said he, \u201ctwo lines from the parish\npriest would send a man to the galleys for eight years without trial.\nThere were Giovanni and Sandro, lived opposite the post office, in that\nhouse with a railing\u2014you know it?\u2014well, they\u2019re old men now; but\nthey have each served their eight years as convicts, nobody ever knew\nwhy.\u201d\n\nAt last he asked me if I should like a story. \u2019Drea was a well-known\nstory-teller and improviser, so I said nothing would please me better,\nand he began[3]:\u2014\n\n * * * * *\n\nOnce upon a time there was a knight who had three beautiful daughters.\nNow this knight determined to go to the Holy Land to fight for the tomb\nof our Lord, but he did not know what to do with his three daughters.\nAt length a friend said:\u2014\u201cBuild a tower for them,\u201d and the idea was\nsuch a good one that he adopted it. He had a tall tower built, with\nthree bedrooms and a sitting-room at the top of it; he locked the door\nat the foot and provided his daughters with a basket and a long rope\nwith which to draw up their food. Then he gave each girl a diamond\nring, and said:\u2014\n\n\u201cSo long as you are good, the diamonds will be bright and victorious,\nbut if you do wrong I shall find them dull on my return.\u201d\n\nSo he went away to fight the Saracens.\n\nA little while after he had gone, the eldest daughter going to draw up\nthe basket one morning, saw a poor man down below shivering with cold.\n\n\u201cOh, sisters,\u201d she said, \u201clook at that poor man: shall we draw him up\nand feed him and warm him?\u201d\n\n\u201cDo as you like,\u201d said they; \u201cwe won\u2019t be answerable for the results.\u201d\n\nSo the girl bade the man get into the basket, drew him up, made a\nblazing fire, warmed him thoroughly, and gave him some dinner.\n\n\u201cNow you must go,\u201d she said after a time, \u201cyou are warm, you have been\nfed, you have rested; what more do you want?\u201d\n\n\u201cI must have supper with you.\u201d To that the girl agreed, and then again\ntold him to go away.\n\n\u201cI must sleep with you to-night,\u201d said he.\n\nWell, the girl did not know what to do, so she submitted.\n\nThe next morning after breakfast, the second daughter said to the man:\u2014\n\n\u201cNow be off, we\u2019ve had enough of you.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I am going to stay to dinner\u201d: and after dinner it was:\u2014\u201cNo, I am\ngoing to stay to supper,\u201d and after supper the same thing as before.\n\nThe next day it was the third sister\u2019s turn. Now the younger sisters\nare always more cunning than the elder ones, and this was no exception\nto the rule.\n\nAs before, the man stopped to breakfast, dinner and supper; but after\nsupper the girl went to her room, saying to him:\u2014\u201cWait till I call\nyou.\u201d\n\nNow the tower had been built in a hurry and the floors were of plank\nonly, not of brick or stone. Of this the maiden took advantage. She\nraised three or four planks just inside the door and then called:\u2014\u201cMy\nlight\u2019s out, come and light it.\u201d\n\nThe man ran to do so, but fell down the hole to the bottom of the\ntower; and as it was a high one he was killed by the fall.\n\nThe next morning the three sisters looked at their rings, but only that\nof the youngest was bright, the others were dull and clouded.\n\n\u201cWhat shall we do?\u201d said the girls.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell you,\u201d said the youngest; \u201cwe\u2019ll sit all in a row, and pass\nmy ring from one to another so cleverly that nobody shall notice.\u201d\n\nPresently their father came back. They did as their sister advised, and\nhe was quite satisfied. Then they all went home to live in their old\nhouse and had a merry time of it.\n\nOne day, as the eldest was looking out of the window she saw the king\u2019s\nbaker.\n\n\u201cAh, what a handsome man,\u201d said she. \u201cIf he were to marry me I would\nmake, in one day, enough bread to last the court for a year.\u201d\n\nThese words were repeated to the baker; he married her and she managed\nto keep her promise.\n\nA little while afterwards the second daughter was looking out of window\nwhen she spied the king\u2019s pastry-cook.\n\n\u201cHow I should like to marry that fine-looking man,\u201d said she. \u201cI would\nmake enough cakes in a day to last a year.\u201d\n\nAs before, the words were repeated; the girl had her wish, and managed\nto keep her promise.\n\nBut the third daughter saw the king\u2019s son, and said, \u201cIf the king\u2019s son\nwere to marry me I would bring him three children, two boys and a girl,\neach with the red cross of a knight on his chest.\u201d\n\nThis saying was repeated to the prince who married the girl and almost\nimmediately afterwards became king. But he had not been king long\nbefore a terrible war broke out, and he had to leave his bride and go\nfar away to fight. He put her under the charge of his mother, with\nstrict injunctions that he should receive information as to whether his\nwife had kept her promise or not. Now the queen-mother was a wicked\nwoman, who hated her daughter-in-law because she was not a princess\nby birth, but only the daughter of a poor knight; and the two elder\nsisters also hated the queen, being jealous of her, because they had\nto bow before her and do her homage. So these three women consulted\ntogether, and sent for a wicked witch to help them injure the poor\nqueen. The queen had three children as she had promised, two boys and\na girl, each with the red cross of a knight on his chest; but as soon\nas they were born, the witch let three black puppies run about the\nroom, and took away the children and put them on the river-bank in the\nforest hard by. Then she sent word to the king:\u2014\n\n\u201cYour wife has brought you three black dogs.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet her and them be well taken care of,\u201d wrote he. But the witch and\nthe queen-mother changed the letter into:\u2014\n\n\u201cLet her be walled in at the foot of the stairs, and let everyone who\ngoes by spit on her\u201d; and this was done. Now we will go back to the\nchildren.\n\nIn the forest there lived a hermit; he heard small voices crying, went\nand looked, and found the little ones. He took them to his hut, and\ntended them, and they grew up like flowers, fine and strong, with the\nred cross always in front.\n\nAfter a time the king returned from the wars; and, when he reached his\npalace, saw his wife at the foot of the stairs and heard all that had\nbeen done to her. At first he was angry, but they persuaded him that\nit was all as it should be, and he left his queen there, thin and ill.\nStill he was very unhappy, and to console himself he went out hunting.\nIn the forest there lived a fairy, a friend of the hermit\u2019s. She it was\nwho had led the hermit to the children, and now she guided the king to\nthe hermit\u2019s hut. There were the children, beautiful as flowers, each\nwith the red cross.\n\n\u201cThat reminds me of what my wife once said,\u201d said he. \u201cAll come and\nhave dinner with me to-morrow.\u201d\n\nWith that he went home and told what had happened. So the queen-mother\ncalled the witch, and said:\u2014\n\n\u201cWhat shall we do? We shall be found out.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no,\u201d said the witch; \u201cyou leave all to me; it will be all right.\u201d\n\nMeanwhile the hermit had gone to ask advice from the fairy.\n\n\u201cYou must all go,\u201d said she. \u201cWhen you come to the palace you will see\na beautiful pale woman walled in at the foot of the stairs, and you\nwill be told to spit on her; but you must refuse to do it. That is the\nchildren\u2019s mother.\u201d\n\nThe three children and the hermit went to the palace.\n\n\u201cSpit on that woman,\u201d commanded the guard.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said they all; \u201csuch a thing would be very improper.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen you can\u2019t go in,\u201d said the soldier. And so loud a dispute arose\nthat the king came himself; and when he heard what was the matter, he\nbrought them in gladly, and made them sit down at table. Then the witch\nwho was there told a wicked lie.\n\n\u201cThese children,\u201d said she, \u201chave said that they can bring the Sound\nand Song of the Lovely Sibyl.\u201d But they had not promised anything of\nthe kind.\n\n\u201cVery well,\u201d said the king, \u201clet them come back with it here.\u201d\n\nSo the hermit and the children went away, and the eldest boy set out.\n\n\u201cIf I am not back in seven days,\u201d said he, \u201cyou may know that something\nhas happened to me.\u201d\n\nHe rode on till he came to a hermit with a white beard sitting by the\nroadside.\n\n\u201cWhere are you going?\u201d asked this hermit.\n\n\u201cWell-bred people don\u2019t put questions of that sort,\u201d answered the\nprince and passed on.\n\nAfter the seven days were gone the second brother determined to try\nhis luck, as the first had not yet returned. He, too, met the hermit,\nreceived the same question, gave the same answer, and rode away.\n\nNow another seven days had elapsed, and the sister resolved to set out;\nbut first she asked the advice of the fairy.\n\n\u201cAfter some time you will find a white-bearded hermit,\u201d said the fairy;\n\u201cdon\u2019t answer him as your brothers have done: tell him where you are\ngoing, and he will help you.\u201d\n\nSo when she reached the old man she told him about the quest on which\nher brothers and herself had set out.\n\n\u201cJust look among my hair,\u201d said the hermit, \u201cand comb it. Will you?\u201d\nAnd when she had done so he gave her a small rod and a couple of cakes,\nsaying:\u2014\n\n\u201cRide on till you come to a palace with two lions in front of it.\nThrow the cakes to the lions and strike the door with the rod; it will\nopen and in the hall you will see a beautiful girl. She will tell you\nwhat you want to know.\u201d\n\nSo the maiden thanked the hermit and rode off. When she reached the\npalace she followed the hermit\u2019s directions and found the girl.\n\n\u201cTake this rod,\u201d said she, \u201cand go into yonder garden. There you will\nfind a bird which will come fluttering round your head and shoulders.\nDon\u2019t attempt to catch it, however, till it reaches your lap; then put\nboth hands over it quickly, hold it tightly, and it will tell you how\nto free your brothers. That bird is the Sound and Song of the Lovely\nSibyl.\u201d\n\nThe maiden went into the garden and sure enough the bird came\nfluttering round her as though asking to be caught. But she did not\nattempt to touch it till it had settled in her lap; then she held it\nfast with both hands, and the bird said:\u2014\n\n\u201cAll these statues you see round you were once men. Those two there are\nyour brothers. Go and touch them with the rod you hold in your hand.\u201d\n\nThe maiden did as she was bid; her brothers returned to life and they\nall went away together, carrying the bird with them. When they reached\nhome the fairy said:\u2014\n\n\u201cTo-morrow you must go to court. Put the bird in a box and carry it\nwith you; and when the king asks for it, put it on the table, that it\nmay declare the wickedness of the dowager-queen, and the innocence of\nyour mother.\u201d\n\nSo the next day the three went to the palace and were invited to dine\nwith the king. There were the queen-mother and the witch also present.\n\n\u201cAh,\u201d said the latter sneeringly, \u201cyou\u2019ve kept your promise finely,\nhaven\u2019t you?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly we have,\u201d they answered.\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d said the king, \u201cwhere is the bird?\u201d\n\nThey opened the box, and the Sound and Song of the Lovely Sibyl flew on\nto the table and told the whole black tale of deceit.\n\nThen the queen-mother was burnt in the great public square, and the\nwitch in a smaller square; but the children\u2019s mother was crowned queen\nagain amid the shouts of the people, and her husband and her children\nloved her dearly.\n\n * * * * *\n\n\u201cSo,\u201d concluded old \u2019Drea, \u201cinnocence triumphs over vice.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE SNAKE\u2019S BOUDOIR\n\n\nTHIS story was told me by a woman who lives here in Genoa during the\nwinter, but goes up into the mountains for the summer. She says she is\nquite sure it is true: \u201c_ma poi non lo so_.\u201d I wish I could tell it as\nwell as she did:\u2014\n\n * * * * *\n\nNot far from the villa where she goes in the summer, a stream makes a\npool where the women go to do their washing. The pool is surrounded by\nstones and rocks, and once when the women were washing they noticed a\nvery large snake (_biscia_) gliding among the rocks. They watched him\nand saw that at a certain place he stopped, put something down behind\na stone, and went away. The women went to look, and found his poison\nlike two little horns. In the evening he came back, went to the place\nwhere he had hidden his fangs, found them, and fixed them in position\nagain. This happened several days in succession, until one of the\nwomen suggested that they should steal the poison-fangs, and see what\nhappened. So the next day they took them into the house with them, and\nstood at the window to watch the _biscia_. When he came back and could\nnot find his poison fangs, he gave every sign of the utmost surprise;\nhe looked again and again behind the stone where he had left them, as\nthough to say:\u2014\u201cThis was certainly the place!\u201d He examined all the\nstones round the pool, and at last, hissing with rage, began to dash\nhis head against the stones. And the women were watching him all the\ntime from the window. After a while he was so overcome with despair\nthat he gave his head an extra hard knock and split open his skull so\nthat he died.\n\n\n\n\nPOMO AND THE GOBLIN HORSE\n\n\nTHIS that I am going to tell you now, the old woman went on, happened\nwhen my great grandfather was a little boy. My grandfather used to tell\nit to my father before he left his native place to marry my mother; for\nmy mother had no brothers, so my father came to live in her country.\nWhen my great grandfather was quite young, all the children used to be\ncalled in from the streets at sundown, lest they should be frightened\nby the black horse and his rider who for some time tormented that part\nof the country. This is the story of the ghost:\u2014\n\n * * * * *\n\nThere was in that village a man named Pomo, who was so lazy that he did\nnot like to work; so he said:\u2014\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll go for a doctor.\u201d\n\nSo he went into other districts where no one knew him, and said that he\ncould heal people. But instead he only made them die all the more; and\nat last he died too. One evening soon after his death, his relations\nwere sitting quietly in their house when they heard a great noise, and\nlooking out, saw all the air full of crows. This went on for several\nevenings; the house was surrounded by these birds, which flew hither\nand thither cawing loudly, and then vanished.\n\nAt last one evening there were no crows, but they suddenly heard a\ngreat clattering of hoofs in the street. They went to the window and\nlooked out and saw a terrible black horse with a man riding on him. The\nhorse came to the doorsteps, put his nose down to the ground, and stood\nthere some time, while the man looked imploringly at the terrified\npeople, but did not speak.\n\nThe next evening the horse came again. This time he stood on the\nthreshold, with his nose against the door, but the man did not speak.\nIn the morning the people went to tell the _parroco_ and beg him to\nsave them from the devil, for they were sure the black horse could be\nno other. The _parroco_ lived some way off, but he said:\u2014\n\n\u201cIf the horse comes to-night, call me at once, and I will see if I can\nhelp you.\u201d\n\nThat night as soon as the hoofs were heard someone ran off to the\n_parroco_, and the rest huddled into the kitchen so that they might not\nsee the dreadful sight.\n\nBut the horse came upstairs, and stood there close by the fire with his\nnose on the ground and the man hid his face on the horse.\n\nAs soon as they heard him coming up the people were so frightened that\nthey jumped out of window, all but one very old woman who feared the\nfall more than the horse.\n\nJust then the priest came and asked the man, in the name of God, what\nhe wanted. The man answered:\u2014\n\n\u201cI want mass said for me, that I may have rest in the lowest part of\nhell.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said the priest, \u201cI will say it to-morrow.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou must say it at midnight, with your back to the altar,\u201d answered\nthe man, \u201cand if you make a single mistake you will have to go to hell\nalong with me.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll do it for you,\u201d said the priest, for he was a brave man; and with\nthat the horse and man went away. But when they got among the chestnut\ntrees there was a great noise, and flames of fire; and so the horse and\nrider vanished. Well, the next day the _parroco_ tried to get someone\nto serve the mass, but he had great difficulty, as everyone was afraid\nof making a mistake and getting carried off to hell; but at last he\npersuaded a priest to help him, and towards midnight the two went to\nthe church. The horse and rider stood in the entrance of the west\ndoor, and the two priests read mass, with their backs to the altar.\nThey got through without mistake and the devil and the condemned soul\ndisappeared and were never seen again; but the priest who had served\nthe mass was taken up stiff and dumb with terror, and it was many weeks\nbefore he could speak again. The _parroco_ was less affected; but\nthere was a strange glitter in his eyes for some days; and it was long\nbefore he could trust himself to talk of that night.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThese stories of demon-steeds are not uncommon in the South. A notable\none is that of the terrible \u201cBelludo\u201d of The Alhambra, which Washington\nIrving uses with such grim effect in his book on the old Moorish pile.\n\n\n\n\nTUSCAN SKETCHES\n\n\n\n\nA TUSCAN COUNTRYSIDE AND THE FESTA AT IL MELO\n\n\nI HAD left Clementina and the little ones behind me, and had moved\nfurther up among the Apennines to a village which, perched on a low\nhill, overlooks the river and the winding valley. The summits of the\nmountains all around rise bare and scarped from dark pine and ash\nwoods, while their bases are clothed with chestnuts. Many a long line\nof soldiers have the villagers seen marching up the valley on the\nother side of the river which flows at their feet: for the pass is an\nimportant one, being the high road from Tuscany into the Modenese.\nNapoleon III. and Victor Emmanuel rode through it side by side, and old\nmen still relate how the village turned out to salute Emperor and King\nas they went by. The great Napoleon lives too, in the recollection of\nthe country people, for he drew many soldiers from all the districts\nround for his \u201cSummer Excursion to Moscow.\u201d One cannot vouch, however,\nfor the historical exactitude of some of the stories concerning him.\nOne old woman, for instance, whose husband had saved himself on the\nill-fated expedition by cutting open a horse and getting inside it,\nfirmly believed that _le petit Caporal_ had perished miserably at\nMoscow, pickled in a barrel of salt!\n\nNor are more ancient historical associations wanting. At a very\nlittle distance lies the village of Gavinana where the lion-hearted\nFrancesco Ferruccio, trying to burst through the mountains from Pisa\nto the relief of Florence, was betrayed in 1530 to the Prince of\nOrange. Captured in the battle which ensued, and carried, covered with\nwounds which must have been fatal, into the market-place before the\nImperialist leader, he was there stabbed to death in cold blood, and\nexpired with the exclamation:\u2014\u201cIt is a noble thing to kill a dead man!\u201d\n\nIn still more ancient times Catiline passed up the valley when trying\nto force the Apennines; and the public square bears the name of Piazza\nCatilina in honour of the monster whom Sallust took so much pains to\ndelineate.\n\nLegends of classical Italian literature, too, still linger here. An inn\nin the village is called the \u201cCappel d\u2019Orlando\u201d\u2014(Orlando\u2019s Hat)\u2014after\nAriosto\u2019s famous hero; and a conical-shaped hill on the other side of\nthe valley bears the same name. I asked one of my peasant acquaintances\nwhy it was so called, and who Orlando was. The answer was amusing as\nshowing the country conception of the temper and achievements of a\nknight-errant:\u2014\n\n\u201cOrlando,\u201d said the woman, \u201cwas a warrior, who rode about looking for\nsomeone to fight with. When he came to the top of that hill, he reined\nin his horse so violently to avoid falling over the precipice that\nthe animal\u2019s hoof sank deep into the rock, and the print can still be\nseen. He took a tremendous leap from the top of the hill down into the\nvillage below, but he left his hat behind him. It was afterwards found,\nand the place was then called Cappel d\u2019Orlando.\u201d\n\nAnother informant evidently attributed to Orlando the time-annihilating\nhat for which Carlyle sighs so vainly; for she added to the original\nstory a rider, saying that Orlando, after his marvellous leap, went to\nGavinana and was killed fighting against Ferruccio.\n\nRemembrances of an older classical literature than Ariosto abound\nalso. The Muses, Helicon, Troy, are common words among these peasants,\nwhether in speech or in song.\n\nAs is mostly the case in Tuscany, the country people are devout; that\nis to say, they go to mass on Sundays, firmly believe in miracles, and\nmiracle-working images, and are fond of walking in procession. The\nchurch of Cutigliano, the village in which I was staying, rejoices\nin the possession of the entire skeletons of two saints, and of\ntwo valuable palladiums\u2014a Madonna which preserves the place from\nepidemics, and a crucifix which regulates the supply of rain.\n\nOn the Feast of the Madonnina, the first of the palladiums is carried\nin state through the village, the peasants flocking in from all the\nhamlets near to join in the procession and chant their Ave Marias.\nThe figure is of wood, highly painted, dressed in light blue robes,\nornamented with tinsel, and with rings and rosaries on the outstretched\nhands.\n\n\u201cDid you see my nosegay right in front?\u201d said my landlady that evening.\n\u201cIt was the best there. I love that Madonnina; she saved us from the\ncholera and from diphtheria. They came right to the foot of the hill,\nbut did not touch us.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd it was the Madonnina that saved you?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cOf course. We took her in procession through the village, and where\nshe passed there was no illness. It\u2019s like the uncovering of the\ncrucifix.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cOh, don\u2019t you know? There\u2019s a crucifix in the church; and when it\nrains and rains, and the chestnuts are spoiling, we uncover it, and\nthen the rain stops at once.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy does it stop when you uncover the crucifix?\u201d I rejoined.\n\n\u201cOh, Ges\u00fa likes it to be uncovered.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen why don\u2019t you keep it always uncovered?\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, it\u2019s not the uncovering, but the candles and prayers and incense\nthat Ges\u00fa likes.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen Ges\u00fa must be vain,\u201d remarked the woman\u2019s husband, who is\nsomething of a heretic, \u201cand the Church says that vanity is a sin.\u201d\n\nEach village in the valley has its own special saint, whose feast is\nthe great event of the year, and is observed with more honour than any\nother festival. Brass bands are borrowed from other villages which are\nfortunate (or unfortunate) enough to possess them, and the peasants\nflock in new dresses and bright kerchiefs to walk in procession, pray\nto the saint, eat, drink, and dance. These feasts are sometimes the\noccasion of amusing outcrops of the old pagan spirit. Last year, for\nexample, there was a quarrel between the inhabitants of this village,\nand those of another, further down the valley. When Saint Celestina\u2019s\nday came round, therefore, our people determined to spite their\nenemies, who honoured Saint Celestina as their special protector. Brass\nbands were borrowed, fireworks bought, a huge balloon manufactured,\na ball arranged for the evening; no pains were spared, in fact, to\nrender the feast so attractive that even the protection of the saint\nherself could not draw visitors to fill the purses of her legitimate\nworshippers.\n\n\u201cBut what must the saint have thought of all that?\u201d I said, as my\ninformant was gloating over the clever revenge.\n\n\u201cThe saint? Oh, she must have been delighted; she had such special\nhonour that year.\u201d\n\nWho can say that paganism is dead in this 19th century? Images, too,\nand small cushion-like hearts blessed by the priest on that special\nday, are supposed to be of peculiar efficacy against evil. Without the\nlatter, the so-called _benediction_, no mother will dress her child.\n\nI once asked how the young women were chosen who carry the banner of\nthe Madonna in the procession.\n\n\u201cOh, they\u2019re chosen by lot,\u201d was the answer.\n\n\u201cThen it\u2019s no particular honour, no reward for specially good\ncharacter,\u201d I remarked.\n\n\u201cBut of course it is. God makes the lot fall on the one whom He\nspecially wishes; it\u2019s the greatest honour a girl can have.\u201d\n\nOn St. Nicholas\u2019 Day, everyone flocks to a little village called Il\nMelo (The Apple-tree), which worships the saint as its guardian. The\nvillage is perched right on the ridge of a chain of hills, bowered in\napple-trees and surrounded by chestnut woods. It consists of eight\nhouses (including the _canonica_ or priest\u2019s house), and a delightfully\nclean whitewashed church. Outside the church is a large cross of black\nwood, which the more rigorous kiss before entering; for it was left\nthem, long years back, as the story goes, by a saint-like friar who\njourneyed through the land preaching to the people.\n\nThe Feast of St. Nicholas occurring shortly before I left Tuscany, I\nresolved to see what was to be seen, and passed the previous night\nat a farm-house, which, lying higher than my village, was somewhat\nnearer to the scene of action. A magnificent thunder-storm rendered\nsleep impossible, and lit up the surrounding hills with wondrous\nbeauty. The next morning was bright and fresh with dripping leaves and\nmist-wreathed hills, and I started early for the Melo with a peasant\nfriend and my landlord\u2019s son. Our party was soon materially increased,\nhowever, for we emerged from the chestnut woods on to the road just\nas a band of men, with three horses, bound for the same village, were\npassing the farm-house. They were charcoal burners, and the horses were\nthose poor thin beasts which make their way along impossible roads\nup and down the mountains, loaded with two great sacks of charcoal.\nEverything was changed to-day, however. The men were not \u201cin black,\u201d as\n_Punch_ has it. They wore clean shirts, and bright ties, and carried\ntheir best coats flung over their arms. The horses, also, no longer\ncarried charcoal: a single sack, knobbly with parcels for various\nfarm-houses, or with things to be sold at the fair, lay across the\npack-saddle, and was tied down with a rope.\n\n\u201cGet up, Signorina,\u201d said my friends. \u201cIt\u2019s a long way to the Melo, and\nyou\u2019ll be tired.\u201d\n\n\u201cThis last horse is quite safe,\u201d said the man, \u201cand there\u2019s nothing\nthat can hurt in the sack.\u201d\n\nIt certainly did not look inviting, but I determined to try,\nnevertheless. So the horse was made to stand by a stone wall, and up I\ngot; on the wrong side, of course\u2014there was no help for that.\n\nThe road was like all hillside roads; now up, now down, now of large\nslippery stones, now of loose rolling small ones; and when the horse\ntook to making glissades down the former and catching his feet in\nthe latter, I did not find a knobbly charcoal sack, without pommel,\nstirrup, or bridle, the most pleasant of pleasant seats. However I held\non bravely by the wooden front of the pack-saddle, and saved my legs if\nI exercised my arms and back. A curious procession we must have made,\nwinding through the woods to the music of a concertina with which one\nof the men intended to provide for the dancing.\n\nWhen we reached the Melo we found that we were among the first\narrivals. In the one street there were two stalls covered with\nbrightly-coloured cakes and sweets; a basket of villainous-looking\npears sold by a villainous-looking man; a couple of baskets of figs;\nand a couple of men with steel-yards selling peculiar wafer-like cakes\nknown as _cialde_. Visitors had not arrived yet, however, and to pass\nthe time we sauntered into the church where mass was going on. Towards\nthe end, a man brought round the collection-box and a plate of bits of\nround baked dough. My companion took two or three of these, putting his\npenny into the bag at the same time, and handed me a couple.\n\n\u201cWhat are they?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cSt. Nicholas\u2019 bread. They have been blessed by the priest. Put one of\nthem outside the window when it rains, and no hail will come. Keep them\nin your bedroom and you\u2019ll never be ill.\u201d\n\nThe village was beginning to look more lively now, for it was getting\nnear eleven, the time for high mass. The peasant women were resplendent\nin new dresses made for the occasion; some of them even indulged in\nvelvet trimming and dress-improvers, to the undisguised admiration of\nthe swains, and the envy of their less fortunate sisters. They all wore\ntheir gayest kerchiefs, generally of fine silk, tied tightly over their\nwell-pomaded hair. Many of the younger women, too, had huge bows of\ncommon ribbon, tinsel flowers, and paper lace, boldly displayed in the\nvery middle of the chest. It would have been impossible to wear them at\nthe neck, of course, for they would have been partly hidden by the chin\nand the kerchief ends. The young men evidently considered grey the\ncorrect thing to wear; but they enlivened it by sticking jauntily into\ntheir hat-bands flowers and sprays of tinsel of the most amazing forms\nand colours. Of course everybody talked to everybody, and I was closely\nquestioned by one old woman after another, as to my nationality,\nfamily, occupation, etc., etc.\n\nHigh mass over, the crowd was speedily sucked in by the various houses,\nand the most important part of the day\u2019s business, the feasting,\nbegan. My landlord took us to the house of one of his friends, a keen\nsportsman who had just returned from the low-lands of the Maremma to\nsettle again in his native place. The phrase \u201cNature\u2019s gentleman,\u201d\nhas grown too commonplace for use nowadays; but it is the only\nexpression which gives an exact description of our host. He was a\ntall, finely-built man, small-flanked, broad-chested, with grey, bushy\nhair, thinnish brown face, aquiline nose, bright intelligent brown\neyes, and a peculiar grace in every movement. One of his two daughters\n(hard-working girls, both of them) had all his classical ease of\nmotion, and a winning suavity and urbanity of voice and manner, that\nmade one envy the clowns she was addressing. The blood of some superior\nrace seemed to reveal itself also in the fine figure, clean-cut\nfeatures, and wide intelligent grey eyes shaded by thick black hair, of\nthe youngest son.\n\nOur host told us stories of the Maremma. He had once been a thriving\nfarmer there, so he said, but American competition was proving too much\nfor Italian agriculture, burdened as this last is with heavy taxes; and\nin the last years of his stay there it had not paid him even to reap\nthe crops: he had let them lie rotting on the ground. He told us, too,\nof the terrible fever, and the terrible remedies by which it used to be\ncombated. He had had as many as fifty leeches on the pit of his stomach\nat once, in one bad attack. Then he and my landlord began to relate\ntales of the experiences of their common shooting expeditions in past\ntimes, and our host fell on an incident of quite medi\u00e6val colouring. He\nwas travelling once with a friend and his wife, he said, in the days\nbefore railroads. His friend was taken ill on the road, and on their\narrival at the inn where they intended to pass the night, asked for\nsome broth.\n\n\u201cCertainly not,\u201d was the answer; \u201cno broth on Friday or Saturday at my\nhouse, however ill you are.\u201d\n\nSo the poor man said, Well, he would go to bed, and see what rest\nwould do for him. To his horror he found he was to be separated from\nhis wife, who was assigned a room on the opposite side of the inn. He\nrebelled, saying he was ill and wanted her care; but mine host was\ninexorable; to-day was Friday, he repeated, and on that day it was the\nrule, in his house, that the men should sleep on one side and the\nwomen on the other.\n\nThere were about a dozen people at table with us. The men ate with\ntheir hats on, and began by asking for a \u201cvery little\u201d of everything.\nThen the hostesses (the two pretty daughters) would press them, would\npush meat on their plates by force, would fill their glasses with\na struggle, and beg them not to make _complimenti_. They finished\nby doing full justice to the fare. It was indeed such as to invite\njustice, being well-cooked, well-served, and with all the appointments\nof the table clean if very rough. The profusion was truly barbaric.\nThere were seven courses, with fruit and excellent coffee, served after\nthe fashion of the place in glasses, to finish off with. I entertain to\nthis day an astonished admiration for those simple peasant women, who\ncooked all that dinner without help, who yet found time to go to mass\nand take a short walk in the village in their best clothes, and who did\nthe honours of their table with such inborn grace, without haste, or\nflurry, or bustle.\n\nWe had scarcely finished dinner when a little girl came to ask me if I\nwould care to hear some improvisation. My companion and I went into a\nhouse close by and found a small party assembled round a bright-eyed,\ngood-looking woman. She was said to have \u201craised the glass a little\u201d\u2014a\nTuscan euphemism for having been somewhat assiduous at the wine-flask.\nShe had not drunk enough to make her foolish, but just sufficient\nto make her sing. And sing she did; _stornello_ after _stornello_,\ncomposing words and music as she went on; singing with that curious\nmonotonous drawl at the end of the verses, which all visitors to\nTuscany know so well. She had a fine voice, and could become quite\ndramatic on occasion, as when she was describing the thunder-storm of\nthe night before, and how she had awaked to find her bed soaked by the\nrain. She had to sing in church afterwards, however, and wanted to save\nher voice; so we left her and wandered into the fields till it was time\nfor mass and procession.\n\nAfter these were over I sat down at the door of one of the houses\nto watch the crowd surging on the little open space which served as\npiazza. Everybody was pushing, laughing, joking, and getting very\nhot in the blazing sun and the dust. Near me a small acquaintance of\nmine was shouting himself black over a basket of figs which he was\nselling, if I remember rightly at ten a halfpenny; further on, the\nvillainous-looking pear-seller was alternately crying his ware and\ndevouring it before the eyes of the people, to prove how good it was;\n\u201clying pears\u201d (_pere bugiarde_) the kind is called in Italian, but it\nwas not the pears but the man that lied. The dominant voice, however,\nwas that of one of the \u201c_cialde_\u201d sellers. Upright against the corner\nof the last house, steelyard in hand, this man had adopted a kind of\nrecitative which pierced the shouts of the others by its more musical\nintonation:\u2014\n\n\u201c_An\u2019iamo Giovinotti! An\u2019iamo Giovinotti! da quelle buone cialde, O\u2014\u2014\nh._\u201d[4]\n\nMany of the people went off to a meadow near, to dance to the music of\nthe concertina, and we, tired, hot and dusty, set out on our walk home\nthrough the cool, fresh chestnut woods.\n\n\n\n\nA WEDDING IN THE PISTOIESE\n\n\nBEPPE was the eldest son in a little farm-house hidden among the\nchestnut woods that clothe the Tuscan Apennines above Pistoia. His\nyounger brother, Sandro, was already married, and it was decided that\nBeppe, too, must take a wife. Another daughter-in-law was wanted in\nthe house. There really were not enough hands, now that wood must be\nstacked, fields dug, and fodder prepared ready for the winter. Moreover\nthe chestnut harvest was approaching, and too many girls must be hired\nunless there were someone else in the family to help with the work.\nSo Beppe, resigning himself to his fate with all the stolidity that\nbreathed from his broad, square-cut shoulders and short bull-neck, set\nto work to find someone to court. His choice fell on a highly-coloured,\nenergetic woman, well known through all the country-side as an\nindefatigable worker. He bought her a fairing, had the banns published,\nand married her in three weeks.\n\nI had been passing a few days in the farm-house, and now received\nmost pressing invitations to be present at the wedding. The guests\nwere first to assemble, at about eight o\u2019clock, in the bride\u2019s house;\nthen after a slight refreshment, _rinfresco_, to go all together to\nthe church in the village hard by, and thence to return to the Cavi,\nBeppe\u2019s home, to dinner at about midday.\n\nThe bride lived some miles away, in a little hamlet perched nearly\non the top of the mountain-ridge. The roads were in many places mere\nmule-tracks through the wood, and it was doubtful if I could get a\ndonkey.\n\n\u201cCome to the Cavi, Signorina,\u201d said Beppe; \u201csleep there, and come out\nwith us next morning. I\u2019m sure my bride won\u2019t be jealous.\u201d\n\nI hardly supposed she would; still, I did not accept the invitation.\n\nAt five o\u2019clock, therefore, on the eventful morning, a donkey, which\nhad been with some difficulty procured for the occasion, was led round\nto our door by a boy who boasted the romantic name of Poeta, and off we\nset: my landlord with his gun across his shoulder; his son, in all the\nglory of black clothes, bright tie, and heavy watch-chain; a peasant\nwoman who had constituted herself my companion, and myself.\n\nWe wound higher and higher in the ever-freshening morning air, between\nhedges gay with autumn berries, until, just below the Cavi, we halted\nto await the arrival of the bridegroom and his family. First of all\nthey were not dressed\u2014their new clothes tried them, it appeared\u2014and\nthen the bridegroom had forgotten the ring, and must go back across the\nfields to get it.\n\nWe waited for him by a little lonely shrine under a chestnut-tree.\nThe woods which clothed the slopes of the opposite mountains were\nstill hushed in the cold grey-blue of early dawn. Suddenly the scarped\nprecipices and lonely peaks above them were illuminated, as though from\nwithin, by wondrous rose-coloured fire, and hung there like some great\nglowing amethyst between the cold sky above and the cold woods below.\nThen, as we continued to gaze, the glorious hope was transformed, and\nmerged into the common life of the new day.\n\nJoined at last by the bridegroom, we had a long but most picturesque\nexpedition up a torrent bed, through rocks and woods of infinite\nvariety. The jokes that enlivened it were hearty, if not too refined.\nThey were the sort of jokes Shakespeare\u2019s clowns might have made; and,\nindeed, it often seemed as if the characters of some old play were come\nto life, and were moving and talking around me.\n\nThe bride\u2019s house was reached a few minutes after eight o\u2019clock. It was\na small one-storied cottage at the farther end of a higgledy-piggledy\nhamlet. At the foot of the steps which led up to the door stood a man\nwith a remarkably fine white beard, holding a thick stick in his hand.\nThis was the Guardian of the Bride, and he resolutely refused to let\nanyone enter. A loud altercation arose; Beppe opened his big green\numbrella, and, spinning it round above his head, tried to push by;\nmy landlord tried to force his way with his gun; but it was not till\npantomime and dialogue had grown fast and furious that the guardian\ngave the word, and the bride appeared framed in the dark doorway above\nus. Her rosy face was shadowed by her white bridal kerchief, and in her\nhands she carried bunches of flowers, which she smilingly distributed\nby way of welcome.\n\nThe door opened straight into the kitchen, where the _rinfresco_ was\nlaid. When my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and my ears to\nthe sound of many voices, I found myself surrounded by a crowd of\nwomen, who were questioning me, as usual, on my most intimate personal\naffairs. \u201cAre you married or single?\u201d was the first and all-important\nquestion. \u201cWhere do you come from?\u201d \u201cWhen are you going back to\nEngland?\u201d The questions followed each other fast and thick, as the\nwomen looked at me with strange curiosity written in their eyes. I very\nsoon managed to turn the conversation on to their own family affairs,\nhowever; and taking into my lap a delicate, fair-haired child, who\nlooked slight and flower-like indeed in that smoke-browned room and\namong those sunburnt faces, set them talking with much gesticulation\nand great volubility of feeling about the little thing\u2019s illness. They\nwere afraid she would have been lame. \u201cBut she\u2019s better now, and will\ngrow into a strong woman yet, _se Dio vuole_,\u201d they ended, as, smiling\ndown upon her, they turned away to give their attention to the business\nof the day.\n\nThe whole party, some forty in number, now proceeded to the\n_rinfresco_. On the coarse, clean table-cloth lay great hunks of\nexcellent brown, home-made bread, each piece about the size of an\nordinary loaf. These were eaten with slices of raw ham about a\nquarter of an inch thick. After the bread and ham appeared huge\npieces of _schiacciata_, a country cake made of the ordinary dark\nflour, flavoured with anise, and put to rise like bread. After the\n_schiacciata_, small cheeses were produced, and, lastly, piles of\nwafer-like biscuits (_cialde_). Meanwhile drinking had been going\non freely. In the middle of the table stood two gigantic bottles of\ncountry wine, while smaller flasks were passed merrily about. When full\njustice had been done to the wine, a light liqueur called _rinfresco_\nwas drunk out of small glasses, as well as another liqueur, the reverse\nof light, consisting, we are told, of rum and gin, or rum and brandy.\n\nAfter everyone had thus turned this \u201cslight refreshment\u201d into a hearty\nmeal, the whole party set out for the church, which was at Rivoreta, a\nvillage some little distance off. I was walking ahead with my peasant\ncompanion and one of the men. This man had been carefully provided\nwith halfpennies, as to the use of which I was hazarding various\nsurmises. We had not gone many steps before we found the road barred by\na rope, over which were hung the brightest of coloured kerchiefs.\n\n\u201cWhat is that for?\u201d I asked.\n\n\u201cThey have made the barrier,\u201d was the answer; \u201cthe bride must pay to go\nthrough.\u201d\n\nSo the man who was with us, the bride\u2019s forerunner, paid a halfpenny,\nthe rope dropped and on we went. This was repeated several times, the\nbarriers forming charming streaks of colour under the overarching trees\nand against the grey stone of the cottages, until the bride had finally\npassed from the little hamlet where she had lived her maiden life.\n\nIn due time we reached the church, and the ecclesiastical ceremony was\nperformed. As for the civil marriage, the peasant mind still regards\nthat as a superfluity which can be gone through or not, according to\nthe convenience of the parties concerned.\n\nI was much struck here by the good feeling shown by this ignorant,\nilliterate bride. Beppe\u2019s father and hers had had some hot words on\nthe subject of the dowry, and the former had sworn that he would not\nbe present at the wedding. Being an obstinate old man he stuck to his\nword, though he could not resist the temptation of accompanying the\nparty. Near the bride\u2019s hamlet he began to complain of a bad foot,\nsat down by the roadside, and absolutely refused to go farther. At\nthe church door he placed himself on a stone under the trees, and no\namount of persuasion would induce him to enter the sacred building.\nThis incident cast a gloom over the whole proceedings, but the bride\nwas not to be daunted. When she and Beppe, now man and wife, came out\nof the church, she went straight up to him, took his two hands in hers,\nkissed him, and looking pleadingly up at him, called him by the pretty\nItalian name \u201cBabbo.\u201d The old man was mollified, and walked back much\nmore cheerfully than he had come; though we have since heard that his\nvindictive obstinacy (a strongly marked trait in the peasant character)\nwas by no means conquered, and that much ill-will exists between the\ntwo families.\n\nRivoreta is a delightfully clean, breezy hamlet, consisting of about\nhalf a dozen houses, a whitewashed church, and an airy _canonica_,\nopening on to a small piazza, paved with white cobble stones. The snowy\nwhiteness of the buildings and the pavement, throwing up the bright\ncolours of the women\u2019s kerchiefs and dresses, the whole shut in by\nembowering chestnuts, formed a picture not likely to be soon forgotten.\n\nThe ceremony over, the guests repaired to the one wine-shop of the\nplace to consume more wine and rum; and as this and the priest\u2019s\nbreakfast (for Don Tito was going with us) took some time, it was\ngetting late ere the long procession started for the Cavi. First went\ntwo women with large round baskets on their heads; this was the bride\u2019s\ntrousseau. The bride and bridegroom should have followed next; but as\nthe donkey resolutely refused to play second fiddle, and the way was\nlong, etiquette was thrown to the winds, and we moved on in a merry,\nhaphazard crowd. As soon as the meadow that lies between the woods and\nthe Cavi was reached, however, the bride and bridegroom headed the\nprocession, both with hanging heads; he sheepishly playing with the\ncheap watch-chain he had bought at the fair, she trying to carry off\nher embarrassment by smiles, making heroic efforts to be natural in her\nwords and movements.\n\nBeppe\u2019s mother was \u201cdiscovered\u201d watching at the door of the farm-house.\nShe now came running across the field with outstretched arms, according\nto prescribed custom, welcomed her new daughter-in-law with a kiss on\nboth cheeks, and led her into her new home.\n\nIt was now midday. A man-cook and a woman-cook had been hired from\nthe village below and were already hard at work, but the tables had\nbeen put before the house on the threshing-floor, and were in the sun;\nbesides, there was not enough room at them, for more guests had come\nthan were expected, and numbered altogether quite fifty. So everyone\nset to work to help, the tables were carried behind the house on to the\ngrass in the fretwork of light and shade under the chestnut-trees;\nplanks were added to make them longer, and before long everything was\nready for dinner. I should not like to say of how many courses that\ndinner consisted, nor how much the peasants ate and drank, but I know\nthat, of everything that was provided, there was not a crumb of bread\nleft.\n\nThe bride and bridegroom were of course placed at the head of the\ntable. She tried to assume an air of indifference; he to make up\nfor his want of appetite and to prime himself to face the assembled\ncompany, by assiduity at the wine-flask. Signs, in fact, were not\nwanting that, however much the marriage may have been originally one of\nconvenience, the passion which sleeps in blood warmed by Italian sun\nand enriched by the odours of the forest, had been thoroughly roused by\nthe events of the day and the pungent jests of the guests.\n\nI was placed next to the bridegroom, between him and the sharp-faced,\nhumorous-looking priest, and from this coign of vantage could survey\nall the table. Our friend with the white beard distinguished himself\nespecially; continually interrupting himself, however, to cry \u201c_Viva\ngli Sposi!_\u201d Then the whole company would clap their hands and cry\n\u201c_Evviva gli Sposi_\u201d in their turn; only there were some who complained\nthat Il Rosso (the man had been red-haired originally) seemed to have a\nspite against them, and always called the _Evvivas_ just when they had\ntheir glasses in their hands.\n\nBut he was sly, this Rosso. He would call \u201c_Viva gli Sposi_,\u201d and set\nthe whole table clapping vigorously, and then add as an after-thought,\n\u201cand the one who married them,\u201d or, \u201cand the one next the _padre_\u201d;\nwhereupon Don Tito or myself would have suddenly to leave off clapping,\ndrop our eyes with all due modesty, and thank the assembled company.\n\nTowards the end of the dinner Il Rosso began to hum.\n\n\u201cWill he improvise?\u201d I asked the priest.\n\n\u201cNo doubt he will, both he and his father are noted for it; but not\nyet, he has not raised the glass often enough.\u201d\n\nAfter a little while, however, Il Rosso, feeling himself sufficiently\nwell primed, came to the head of the table. Silence was proclaimed, and\nhe sung a _stornello_ in honour of the bride and bridegroom, wishing\nthem the usual good things of this life; children to help them with\ntheir work, and plenty to eat and drink. He was followed by a little\nexcitable woman with a strident voice, much admired by her audience,\nwho had already sung once at the bride\u2019s house during the _rinfresco_.\nHer one form of dramatic action consisted in thumping the table with\nher closed fist.\n\nDinner being over, a few of the favoured guests were invited into\nthe parlour to take coffee\u2014coffee with rum in it, that is; black\ncoffee alone is not approved of. The rest lounged about the fields\nand chestnut woods for a time, but by about five most of them were on\ntheir way home. They all came and shook hands most heartily as they\nwent away, with a:\u2014\u201cDo come and see me\u201d; for they are most hospitable\npeople, and would beg you to share their last crust of bread with them.\n\u201c_Vuol favorire_\u201d is the phrase you hear from child or grandmother, if\nyou happen to drop in on them while they are eating.\n\nThe guests, having cows and heifers to be seen to before nightfall,\nset out home through the cool of the chestnut woods; and we, with our\ndonkey and its poetical driver, quietly dropped down the rock-paved\nroad, past the acacia hedges to the village below. The beauty of\nrock, forest, and torrent had passed into our souls, and I thought\nwonderingly of the strange mixture of the idyllic and the realistic in\nthe scenes of which this nature had been the setting; of the frankness\nmingled with reserve, open-heartedness with shrewdness, hospitality\nwith a tendency to critical carping that form the characteristics of\nthis most attractive peasant population.[5]\n\n\n\n\nOLIVE-OIL MAKING NEAR FLORENCE\n\n\nTHE sky, \u201cstripped to its depths by the awakening North,\u201d is of that\npeculiarly limpid clearness which only the _tramontana_ brings with it;\nthe sun\u2019s rays, penetrating with their full force through the pure, dry\natmosphere, are as warm and genial as those of Eastertide. Yet it is\nmid-winter, and we are going to witness a thoroughly winter occupation;\nthe making of the olive-oil in a villa at a little distance out of\nFlorence.\n\nLeaving the tram at the foot of the hill, we climb for about\nthree-quarters of an hour through vineyards in which the fresh green\nof the springing wheat contrasts hopefully with the knotted, bare\nvine branches. The slopes around us are clothed with olives, whose\ngrey-green is thrown into relief by the austere rows of cypresses in\nthe distance, and the spreading tops of the pine-trees on the further\nhills.\n\nAt last, on a ridge between two valleys, we sight the square\ntwelfth-century tower of the villa in question; the remainder of the\nbuilding dates from the fourteenth century. The heavy grating of the\nlower windows, the picturesque archway leading to the square, paved\ncourtyard, the little garden on one side, with its olive-tree bending\nover the grey wall towards the road below\u2014all breathe an almost\ncloistered quietness. _Parva domus magna quies_,[6] runs the legend\nsculptured in black letters on grey marble over the house door.\n\nNothing clashes in this villa. The present proprietor, with his\nantiquarian and artistic tastes, and his love of Latin inscriptions,\nhas produced a rare welding of past with present. On one side of the\nentrance gate, for instance (whose columns, be it noticed, are crowned\nwith two bombs, probably French, from Elba), another inscription,\nunearthed during the excavation of some Roman villa, offers rest to\nthose who are justly indignant at the world\u2019s perfidy:\n\n jovi hospitali\n sacrum\n o quisquis es dummodo honestus\n si forte\n pessimos fugis propinquos\n inimicorum\n solitaria succedens domo\n quiesce.[7]\n\nThe same pessimistic note is struck by a third inscription over the\narchway before mentioned. There we find, writ large, the following\nElban motto:\n\n Amici, nemici;\n Parenti, serpenti;\n Cugini, assassini;\n Fratelli, coltelli.[8]\n\nWe owe it to the owner to add that, like most people who rail against\nmankind in general, he is very tender-hearted to mankind in particular.\n\nPassing from the brilliancy of the outer air, we stumble through a\nlow doorway, over which, on the usual grey marble, stands printed\n_Frantoio_ (crushing-house), and find ourselves in the hot, heavy\natmosphere of the oil-making room. We distinguish a low, broad archway\ndividing the room into two parts, and at the further end a small\ntwinkling light; while nearer the entrance a lamp, swung from the roof,\nenables us, after a little practice, to make out the objects around us.\nThe whole place is pervaded by a grey steam, sweetish yet piquant, of\nthe peculiar odour of the undried olive.\n\nSo great is the heat that the peasants are working without coats, and\nwe, too, are glad enough to lay aside our winter wraps. Looming white\nthrough the steam, the first object that attracts our attention is the\nox that patiently turns the great stone crushing wheel. Round and round\nhe goes, triturating the dead oak leaves that make his path soft, while\nthe olives, continually poured into the circular concavity in which\nthe wheel moves, are quickly reduced, stone and all, to a dark-looking\npulp. The whiteness of the steam and of the ox, the creature\u2019s lustrous\neyes as they catch the light, the dark olives pouring into the trough,\nthe peasants dimly visible, make up a scene likely to remain impressed\nfor a long while on the memory.\n\nAs soon as the crushing process is over and the ox led back to his\nstall, a number of flat, circular baskets are brought, made of\nrope-work, and open above and below. The lower openings having been\nclosed for the moment, by drawing a rope, the baskets are filled with\nthe pulp and piled one above another in the press. Now begins the\nsecond part of the operation, which costs the peasants a considerable\namount of exertion.\n\nWe had noticed, near the archway, a tall pole, with a rope round it,\npierced by a crosspiece, and turning on a swivel. This rope having\nbeen wound round the beam that works the press, and again round\nanother upright on the further side of the press, four peasants set to\nwork at the crossbar. Again and again is the press-bar drawn to the\nfurther upright, let go, and drawn back again, while the oil flows\nin an invisible stream through the pipe that leads to its destined\nreceptacle, which is concealed under the floor beneath a trap-door.\nEvery now and then the men stop and sit down on stones or on a heap\nof unused baskets to mop the perspiration which streams from them in\nthat warm sweet atmosphere. It was during one of these pauses that they\ndrew my attention to the advantages of the system on which they were\nworking. In other villas, they said, the press-beam was wound towards\nthe peasants, and sometimes broke under the pressure and injured them;\nbut their _padrone_ had invented a method of winding it away from them,\nthus freeing them from all danger in case of a breakage.\n\nMeanwhile, at the further end of the room, by the dim yellow light\nof the twinkling lamp we had already noticed, another man is busy\nshovelling a rich dark-brown substance into bins against the wall. This\nis the so-called _sansa_, the olive pulp from which the oil has been\nexpressed. \u201cIt goes down to Galluzzo (the township at the foot of the\nhill),\u201d said the man, in answer to my enquiries. \u201cThere they treat it\nwith sulphuric acid, and get machine-oil out of it.\u201d\n\nAt last the pulp in the network baskets is pressed dry, the press is\nunscrewed, the fresh _sansa_ shaken out ready to be shovelled into the\nbins, and the various utensils that have been used plunged into the\nboiling water of the cauldron that steams in one corner of the room.\nThe trap-door is now raised, and the oil carried across the yard to\nanother room, the walls of which are lined with huge red terra-cotta\nvessels kept carefully closed. Into one of these the oil is poured\nand left to settle, _sansa_ being heaped well up round the vessel to\nmaintain a high temperature within. When the oil is finally poured off\nit is of a lovely golden colour, as clear and transparent as water. But\nit is not destined to reach the public in this Arcadian state. Scarcely\nhas it left the hands of the peasants, before it is manipulated and\nadulterated to such an extent that even in Florence pure olive oil is\nalmost unobtainable. Cotton oil, colza oil, etc., are mixed with it,\nrendering it absolutely hurtful to the consumer. The Italian government\nhas offered prizes for the discovery of a method of exposing the\nadulteration. At present no more certain way has been found than that\nof Professor Bechi, a well-known Italian chemist. He treats the oil in\nquestion with nitrate of silver, and judges of the adulteration by the\nresulting coloration.\n\nAnd now, business being over for this week, we are free to go and sup\nwith our peasant acquaintances. Crossing a second courtyard, round\nwhich stand houses and stables for the donkeys and oxen (Italians\ndo not work with horses), we pass under a second archway and enter\nour friend Ciuffi\u2019s picturesque kitchen. The rough, uneven stone\nfloor, that looks as though it might have been washed last year,\nthe stout nondescript table, the chairs loaded up with every kind\nof extraneous matter, the picture of the Madonna with the tiny lamp\nburning before it, the rows of gaudy crockery over the sink, the cat\npurring contentedly in the chimney-corner\u2014all these are illuminated,\nharmonized, almost glorified, by the caressing light of the huge\nwood fire, whose flames dance and crackle under the great projecting\nchimney. And beside the fire sits Ciuffi\u2019s youngest daughter Armida,\na girl of that fair, refined type that occasionally asserts itself\nstartlingly among these black-haired, swarthy-complexioned peasants.\nShe is sitting holding the frying-pan over the fire, but the menial\noccupation is forgotten as we watch the delicate poise of the head and\nstretch of the arm, the exquisite Greek profile, the lustrous dark eyes\ngazing dreamily into the fire, the fair wavy hair coiled into a knot\nat the back, and the soft pink of the common little cotton kerchief,\nwhich, tied with the point under the chin, is thrown up by the dark\ndress, and sets off the spring of the graceful neck.\n\nAnd when, the rough white cloth being spread in the visitor\u2019s honour,\nthe family cluster round the medi\u00e6val oil-lamp that makes a little\nruddy blot in the darkness beyond, we are more than ever struck at the\nwonderful ease and good-breeding displayed in word and movement by\nthese peasants who do the hardest work and live the roughest of lives.\nThe women especially have something indescribably lady-like about them,\nas they sit eating contentedly, perhaps without any plate, or pass from\none to another one of the pocket-knives which are the only cutting\nimplements on the table; or, it may be, question \u201cmy man,\u201d as to the\nlength of time that will be needed on the morrow to gather in the\nolives from a certain part of the _podere_. The more one has to do with\nthese Tuscan peasants the more constrained does one feel to adopt the\ncant phrase, and call them emphatically Nature\u2019s aristocracy.\n\n\n\n\nA TUSCAN FARMHOUSE\n\n\nOF all my experiences among the Tuscan peasants of the Pistoiese,\nnone, perhaps, was more thoroughly characteristic than a three days\u2019\nvisit at a farm-house just above the village I was staying in. I had\njust returned from the woods with my hammock, and was feeling rather\nlistless in the absence of my peasant companion, when the farmer\u2019s\nwife, who happened to be in the village that day, said to me, half\njoking, half in earnest:\u2014\n\n\u201cCome home with me to the Cavi, Signorina; come and sleep there\nto-night.\u201d\n\nI jumped at the proposal, borrowed a big kerchief from my landlady,\nput a few things into it in the most approved peasant fashion, and we\nstarted off together.\n\nI had already been to this farm with some friends for a picnic. On\nthat day the people were threshing and treading the straw; and the\nstone-paved _aia_ or threshing-floor before the house was bright\nwith the corn, and resonant with the sound of the flail. Then, when\nthe sun\u2019s rays were less strong\u2014for the peasants only thresh in the\nbright sunlight\u2014two cows and a donkey were produced, and led round\nand round, knee-deep in the straw, to break it up for their winter\nfood. I had been much struck at the time by the extreme primitiveness\nof the labour, though I could not help confessing that the swinging\nflails, yellow corn, and lazily moving animals formed a very much more\npicturesque contrast to the low grey stone house, and the blackness of\nits three open doorways, than any threshing-machine could have done.\n\nNothing of the kind was going on, however, when my hostess and I\nemerged from the chestnut woods on this cool September evening. The\nfarmer, just back from his digging in the fields,\u2014there are no\nploughs,\u2014was taking a meditative walk in front of the house.\n\nHe came forward to meet us, accompanied by his two dogs, and welcomed\nus with much hospitable grace. One of his sons was near him, watching\nthe two cows graze, and at the same time lazily stripping chestnut\nleaves for the creatures\u2019 fodder off a heap of boughs he had cut.\nWhile I was chatting to father and son, my hostess disappeared, and\npresently came down again, dressed in an old petticoat, chemise, and\nuntidy slippers. She took up a basket of potatoes, and we both set to\nwork to scrape and slice some of them for supper\u2014town people could not\npossibly eat potatoes baked in their skins, she thought. As we chatted\nshe suddenly exclaimed:\u2014\n\n\u201cSee how nice it is to live in the country, Signorina!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d I asked, curious to hear what poetical thought had been seething\nin her brain.\n\n\u201cWell, in the village, you see, you have to wear a dress, and go all\nclean and tidy, with boots on, too; but here one can go about so nice\nand dirty.\u201d\n\nShe had evidently expressed her inmost soul, for she repeated, looking\nround at the blue hills, and inhaling the cool, fragrant air:\u2014\u201cSo nice\nand dirty one can be here.\u201d\n\nBy this time it was getting towards twenty-four o\u2019clock. Twenty-four\no\u2019clock is a movable hour, and depends solely on the sun. In the height\nof summer it is at eight o\u2019clock, and then retrogrades by a quarter\nof an hour at a time till it reaches five, when it begins to advance\nagain. At the end of September, when I left, _le venti quattro_ were\nat half-past six. The peasants\u2019 supper-time is regulated by this\nsliding-scale, much to the disturbance of the appetite of those who are\naccustomed to eat by the clock and not by the sun.\n\n\u201cNow come and help me cook the supper,\u201d said my hostess, as we moved\ntowards the house. \u201cSee how many fine drawing-rooms I have,\u201d she\ncontinued, with a smile.\n\nWith that she threw open the first room, and we entered the _metato_.\nThis is the drying room and storehouse for the chestnuts. The floor is\nof earth, stamped hard. Above one\u2019s head, stretching from one side\nof the room to the other, and forming a sort of ceiling, are narrow\nstrips of wood, laid loosely side by side. On these the chestnuts are\npiled just as they come from the woods, and the heat and smoke of the\nfires which are lighted on the floor beneath, penetrating through the\ninterstices, dry the chestnuts and split the shells. From the _metato_\nwe passed through a door on the right into the second \u201cdrawing-room,\u201d\nthe kitchen. This, as usual, was a large, low, raftered room, with\na small window and a big hearth. This kitchen boasted a chimney,\nhowever, which carried away, at any rate, part of the smoke; and, more\nwonderful still, there was at the back a tiny scullery, with sink and\nplate-racks. For my host was a rich man; not only actual possessor of\nhis farm, but owner of another _podere_ higher up on the mountain-side.\nPassing to the right again, and crossing a small entrance-hall, now\nfull of sacks of grain, we entered the drawing-room _par excellence_,\nthe room in which the family have their meals. This room was nearly\nfilled up by the huge wooden table; but there was still room for a\nlarge cupboard with glass doors, behind which the best crockery was\ndisplayed, while on the walls hung bad portraits, offered for my\ncareful inspection, of various members of the family. A dozen low\nwooden steps led from the sacks of grain to the upper regions. These\nconsisted of four bedrooms, the plank floors of which gaped so widely\nthat one could see and hear everything that went on below. Everywhere,\nin _metato_, kitchen, hall, parlour, and bedrooms, were coloured\nprints of the Madonna or of some saint; and each bedroom contained,\nin addition, a little glass box, enclosing a wax baby, surrounded\nby tinsel flowers. For this is a devout family, fond of processions\nand tapers. The mother lights a lamp before an image of the Madonna\nevery Saturday; and she told me, with delight, how she had prayed to a\ncertain saint when her daughter\u2019s baby was born, intimating that that\nwas why the child was such a fine one.\n\nOur business lay now, however, in the kitchen. It was already\ngetting dark, but a fire was blazing brightly on the hearth, with a\ncopper-lined cauldron suspended over it from a chain in the chimney.\n\n\u201cWe are going to have _maccheroni_ this evening,\u201d said my hostess. \u201cI\nrolled them out before I left home this morning. But we must cut them\nfirst,\u201d she added, as she produced the long strips of home-made unbaked\npaste.\n\nWe accordingly cut them into pieces about an inch square, and then,\ntaking a pile in our hands, threw them one by one into the boiling salt\nand water of the cauldron. While they were cooking we made the tomato\nsauce, and the farmer grated the cheese; and by the time these were\nready, and the table laid, the _maccheroni_ could be taken off the fire.\n\nIt was now quite dark, the only light came from the dancing flames;\nand the whole family, including the broad-shouldered shepherdess,\nassembled in the kitchen to watch the progress of events. By the\nside of the fire sat the daughter-in-law, a beautiful, fair-haired,\nrefined-looking woman, unswaddling her baby; in the middle of the\nfloor, lighted from the right by the fire, my little grey-haired\nhostess was kneeling in front of the cauldron and fishing up the\n_maccheroni_, which she put in layers into a huge red earthern pipkin;\nand on the other side of the cauldron was the farmer with the tomato\nsauce, some of which he poured into the pipkin as each layer was\ncompleted, adding cheese, pepper and salt. Then there were the two\nsons, Beppe, low-built and square-cut, and Sandro, the baby\u2019s father,\nmore slender, more courteous in manner, but also more lazy; and lastly,\ntwo dogs and two cats who prowled on the outside of the group, in eager\nexpectation of their supper.\n\nThe _maccheroni_ being now all transferred to the pipkin, the water\nwas given to the dogs and cats, and we went into the parlour to eat.\nNeedless to say there was no dressing for dinner. The men came in\ntheir hats and shirt-sleeves, the women in their bright kerchiefs.\nYet certain rules of etiquette were strictly observed. The system of\n_complimenti_, for instance, was carried to an extent that seemed\nridiculous to English eyes. The mother would fill the son\u2019s plate,\nhe would declare he could not eat so much, she would continue\nto press him, he to refuse, until the voices grew quite loud and\nexcited. When it came to serving the shepherdess, things came almost\nto a good-natured quarrel. She was a low-built, broad-shouldered,\nbroad-backed girl of about fifteen, of almost gigantic strength,\nwho strode along in her hob-nailed shoes as though she had the\nseven-leagued boots on. I was evidently a great novelty to her, for\nshe could scarcely eat for looking at me, and presently set the table\nin a roar of laughter by coming out with a:\u2014\u201cNo, thank you,\u201d instead\nof the usual blank \u201cNo.\u201d Opposite to me sat Sandro with his wife and\nbaby. Charming indeed was it to see the way in which the young fellow\nfondled and nursed the little one. When he came home from the fields,\nthe first thing he did was to take it in his arms, and sit down on the\ndoorstep in the sunlight; at supper-time he neglected himself to play\nwith it and feed it. There is a great fund of kindness in the Italian\ncharacter, crossed, however, by a vein of strange hard cruelty, arising\nperhaps from a remarkable want of dramatic imagination. Sandro and his\nwife sat side by side according to old-established custom. When a son\nmarries, his housekeeping amounts to this: a double-bed and a large\ncupboard are put into the biggest bedroom, and husband and wife sit\nnext each other at table. If there are several married sons, all the\nfamilies live together until the quarrels are so intolerable as to\ndrive them apart.\n\nAfter supper, at about a quarter past eight, all the family went to\nbed. Three of the four bedrooms opened out of each other, and in the\nsmallest of these three, the middle one, was a single bed in which\nthe shepherdess usually slept. This was now reserved for me. The bed,\nthe Madonna, and a rickety chest of drawers, were the only furniture\nconsidered necessary. In the room on the right slept Beppe and Sandro;\nin that on the left, which one entered through a doorway guiltless\nof a door, were the shepherdess and Sandro\u2019s wife, Maria. Everyone\nwas in bed in half a minute; for it was summer-time, and they \u201cslept\nlike beasts,\u201d as my hostess put it, without even saying their rosary.\n\u201cGood-night,\u201d called out Beppe and Sandro. \u201cGood-night,\u201d answered\neveryone else, and then there was silence till between four and five\nnext morning.\n\nIt was hardly dawn when Sandro\u2019s voice was heard:\u2014\u201cEmilia, Emilia.\u201d\nThe shepherdess gave a grunt, tumbled on to the floor, and a moment\nlater strode fully dressed across my room, clamped downstairs and went\nout. Maria slept longer, for the baby had kept her awake. As a matter\nof fact, the little thing could scarcely be expected to sleep, for it\nhad been kept under the bedclothes all day. Italian peasant-babies\nhave not a very pleasant life of it. In the morning they are tightly\nswaddled, put into bed under a wooden frame, and entirely covered\nwith the clothes. There they lie in the dark, sleeping or screaming\ntill about midday when they are taken up, reswaddled, fed, and put to\nbed again till the evening. Then the same process is repeated, and\nthey are expected to sleep all night. This particular baby was washed\nabout twice a week, if indeed the term \u201cwashing\u201d can be applied to the\noperation. The mother sits down by the fire, and puts a glass of wine\nby her. She then fills her mouth with wine, puts it out into her hand,\nand rubs the baby, which screams violently.\n\nAt about eight o\u2019clock the men came in from the fields, the cauldron\nwas suspended from the chain, water was boiled, and my host set to\nwork to make the _polenta_. The maize flour is added gradually to the\nboiling water until the mixture is so thick that none but a strong man\ncan stir it. Then it is turned out on to a board kept for the purpose,\ncut into slices with a string, and eaten smoking hot with cheese. There\nare no plates, of course; all stand round and help themselves. Maize\nflour, chestnut flour, lentils, cheese, and beans, are the staple food\nof the peasants, with now and then a fowl to celebrate some specially\ngreat _festa_. Milk they never seem to drink, butter they rarely make;\nthey use their dairy produce exclusively for cheese.\n\nThese Tuscan peasants may be called an industrious race; that is to\nsay, they are never entirely idle. At the same time they do not work in\nsuch a way as to make it tiring to watch them; they take things very\neasily. A strong, well-built man, for instance, will be contentedly\nstripping chestnut-leaves off the branches for the cows, or leaning\nagainst a tree watching the animals feed. In another part of the field\na woman will be taking advantage of the gusts of wind to _folare_ her\ngrain, that is, to complete the winnowing of it. She spreads a sheet\non the ground, empties a sack of corn on to one corner of it, fills a\nheavy wooden tray with the grain, puts it on her head, and turns to\ncatch the wind. As soon as she feels a gust\u2014_folata_\u2014she lets the\ncorn fall in a narrow trickling stream on to the sheet; the chaff is\nblown away in the descent, and the winnowing is completed. The very\npoor have a terribly hard time of it, however, for they do the work of\nmules and donkeys, carrying great loads of wood on their backs for many\nmiles over the hills; and no one thinks of mending or making roads for\nthem. An old woman I was once talking to told me of the huge burdens\nshe used to carry in her youth.\n\n\u201cThe roads were bad then,\u201d she said, but added na\u00efvely, \u201cthey are\nbetter now; they were mended for the horses.\u201d\n\nBut to return to my hosts. On Sunday morning, the day being a _festa_,\nthe house received its weekly apology for a sweep, the women put on\ndresses and kerchiefs, and went so far as to comb their hair, and we\nstarted for the village, to go to Mass. It was very picturesque to\nwatch the parties of rosy, healthy peasant women as they came along the\nroad, in their bright aprons and head-gear. In one party was Beppe\u2019s\nintended bride.\n\n\u201cCome to Rivoreta, and see me married, Signorina,\u201d said she. \u201cDo come.\u201d\n\nAnd with many promises that I would do so if possible, I took leave of\nmy kind friends.[9]\n\n\n\n\nTHE FLORENTINE CALCIO: GAME OF KICK\n\n\nWE may not approve of the manner in which Italy is living in her Past,\nand celebrating centenaries when she ought to be setting her face\nstrenuously towards the Future; nevertheless, we must confess that the\nFlorentine f\u00eates a year or two back presented one historical spectacle\nthat was distinctly worth the trouble of reviving. We refer to the\nmedi\u00e6val game known as _Calcio_, or Kick, which is interesting to\nEnglish and American youths as bearing at least a superficial likeness\nto Football. At the time of the f\u00eates it was indeed spoken of as the\nFootball of Florence; but it differs from Football in two ways that are\neminently characteristic of Italian character: it is more complicated\nand more spectacular.\n\nTo begin with, there were twenty-seven actual players needed on each\nside, besides trumpeters, drummers, standard-bearers, referees, and a\nball-thrower. Of the twenty-seven players, fifteen, divided into three\nequal companies, were placed face to face with the enemy in the front\nof the battle, and bore the brunt of the strife. They were called\nRunners (_Corridori_) or Fronts (_Innanzi_).\n\nBehind the three battalions of Runners were placed in loose order,\nextending across the whole breadth of the field, five Spoilers\n(_Sconciatori_), so called because their business was to spoil the game\nfor the Runners of the opposite side.\n\nThe Spoilers were supported by four Front Hitters (_Datori innanzi_);\nand these again by three Back Hitters (_Datori indietro_). These Datori\nmay be spoken of as Half-backs and Backs.\n\nThe favourite Calcio ground in Florence was the square before the\nchurch and convent of Santa Croce. Here the great costume matches\n(_Calcio a livrea_) were held, as well as the ordinary games (not in\ncostume) which enlivened the cold afternoons during Carnival time.\nA description of one of the costume matches at once makes clear the\nfundamental difference between Calcio and Football.\n\nThe field was 100 metres long by 50 broad, enclosed top and bottom by\na palisade, on the left by a ditch, on the right by a low wall. Along\nthe wall were erected stands for the more honourable spectators and for\nthe umpires. At each end of the field was a tent round which stood the\nreferees, standard-bearers, etc., of their respective sides, together\nwith showily dressed halberdiers, who were also stationed at intervals\nround the field.\n\nThe spectators being assembled, the umpires and, perhaps, some foreign\npotentate or his ambassador, seated in the stand above the wall,\nthe grand march in of the players commenced. It was a procession of\npicked men from the noblest Florentine families. For the Calcio was\nan aristocratic game. It was not to be played \u201cby any kind of scum:\nnot by artisans nor servants nor ignoble nor infamous men; but by\nhonoured soldier men of noble birth, gentlemen, and princes.\u201d The ages\nof the players ranged from eighteen to forty-five, and they were all\nwell-built, athletic men. They wore light shoes, long hose, doublet and\ncap, and their costumes were of the most splendid material\u2014velvet,\nsilk, cloth of gold or silver\u2014for were not the brightest eyes of the\ncity to watch the game? Not only did each side have its own colours,\nbut the players had also to be dressed in the same material.\n\nThe march was opened by the trumpeters and drummers. Then came the\nRunners, going in couples, and chequer fashion: a red, say, behind\na white, and _vice vers\u00e2_. The Runners were followed by nine more\ndrummers preceding the standard-bearers, each dressed in the colours\nand bearing the flag of his side. Finally appeared the Spoilers, the\nHalf-Backs bearing the ball, and the Backs.\n\nAfter making the round of the field the procession, at the sound of a\nsingle trumpet-blast, split up into its component parts. Trumpeters,\ndrummers, referees, standard-bearers, placed themselves at the tents\nof their respective sides; the Runners divided up into their companies\nof five and faced each other in the centre of the field; the Spoilers\nplaced themselves at a distance of 13\u00bd metres behind the Runners\nand 9 metres from each other; the Half-backs 10\u00bd metres behind the\nSpoilers and 12 metres from each other; the Backs again 10\u00bd metres\nin the rear of the Half-backs and 17\u00bd metres from each other.\n\nA second trumpet blast, and the serving-men retired from the field; a\nthird, and the game began.\n\nThe Ball-bearer (_Pallaio_), in a parti-coloured dress formed of the\ncolours of both sides, threw the ball with great force against a\nmarble sign let into the middle of the wall on the right-hand side\nof the field. It rebounded between the two ranks of the Runners, who\nimmediately rushed towards it, acting, however, not independently, but\nin their companies.\n\nThe company of Runners which had possessed itself of the ball began,\nof course, to work it with their feet towards the opposite goal. Now\ncame the turn of the Spoilers, of whom the two nearest left their\nstations and ran obliquely at the advancing Runners, hustling them\nand endeavouring to get the ball from them and pass it to their own\nRunners, who were hovering near.\n\nThe Runners and the Spoilers worked the ball forward with their feet;\nthe Hitters (Half-backs and Backs) were allowed, nay, as their name\nimplies encouraged, to use their hands.\n\nIf the Runners succeeded in taking the ball past the Spoilers, they had\nto face the onset of two Half-backs, who, if they got the ball, would\nprobably pitch it clear over the heads of the players to the Half-back\non the opposite side. This was considered very diverting play, and was\nmuch appreciated by the onlookers.\n\nHaving pierced the lines of the Spoilers and Half-backs, the Runners\nfound themselves opposed by one of the Backs. The Backs were the\nstrongest men on the field, as, being placed so far apart, they were\nobliged to act separately.\n\nThe ball was generally knocked, not kicked, over the goal. When this\nhappened the two sides changed places on the field; the winning side\nmarching to its new position with flag unfurled and waving, the losers\nwith furled flag and lowered staff.\n\nSuch is a diagram\u2014a mere diagram, though a correct one\u2014of the\nFlorentine _Calcio_. Its connection with Football evidently lies,\nto adapt an expression from the vocabulary of folk-lore, in the\nfundamental formula: to send a ball through a goal without the aid of\nan instrument. But this formula developed differently in England and in\nFlorence. The traditions of the Florentines were military. Their youths\nwere trained to war from boyhood upward: they were accustomed to act\nin bands. Has anyone ever noticed the truly military spirit in which\nDante continually combines the souls into bands, _schiere_, moving\nand acting in unison? The remembrance of the disposition of the Roman\narmy, too, with its close and extended ranks, still lingered amongst\nthem. Add to this that they were a thoroughly artistic people, devoted\nto spectacular effects and cunning in the planning of them, and we at\nonce perceive the cause of the radical difference between this most\ninteresting game of ancient Florence and the English Football.\n\nThose were the times when Florentines penetrated either as merchants or\nexiles, and generally as both combined, into all parts of the Peninsula\nand of Europe; and they took their games with them. Matteo Strozzi\u2019s\nsons, one of whom was Filippo, the famous founder of the great Strozzi\nPalace, more than once beg their mother to put balls in with linen,\netc., which she constantly despatched from Florence to her exiled\nfamily, these balls being probably for the most energetic game of\n_Pallone_, still played throughout Tuscany.\n\nThey took the _Calcio_ with them too, just as the English take their\nfootball, cricket or tennis. Thus Tommaso Rinuccini, living at Lyons,\nwrites in his memoirs that: \u201cWhen Henry III., King of Poland, after\nthe death of Charles IX. his brother, left Poland for France in 1575\nto take possession of the kingdom, he passed through Lyons in France.\nAnd the Florentines living in that city played before him a _Calcio_,\nin which all the Florentine nobles took part, as it was their custom\nto do. And they sent Pierantonio Bandini and Pierfrancesco Rinuccini,\ntwo extremely handsome gentlemen and tall, both Florentines (who were\nthe standard-bearers in the _Calcio_), to invite his Majesty, in the\nname of their native city, to be present at the celebration. King Henry\naccepted the invitation and was a spectator of the game. When he spoke\nto them before they left his presence he asked whether all Florentines\nwere as tall and handsome as they.\u201d\n\nIt would be, indeed, well for the physical development of modern\nFlorentines should the _Calcio_ enter again into the ordinary life of\nthe youth of the city.\n\n\n\n\nELBA\n\n\n\n\nA MONTH IN ELBA\n\n\nI.\n\nAN atmosphere as invisible as that of Egypt, a sea of the clearest\namethyst and emerald, merging into sapphire in the distance, and\njealously guarded by a series of frowning headlands, now grey, now\nblack, now red, with heart and veins of iron, that enclose miniature\nbeaches and mysterious grottos where the water sleeps peacefully in\nthe arms of its lord; and within, a sea of vines embracing the feet\nof mountains clothed with pines, with lentisks that have watched the\npassage of centuries, with bushes of white heather taller than a tall\nman, with glaucous agaves, rigid and puritanical, with prickly pears,\nfantastic and repellent; the very air of a voluptuous quality: soft,\nvelvety even, with the mingled odours of an infinite number of aromatic\nplants and herbs, sweet with the white amaryllis that fringes the sea.\nSuch, in broad outlines, is the island for which Etruscans, Romans,\nGenoese, Pisans, Saracens, Spanish, French and English have fought, in\nwhich Victor Hugo was nursed into life, in which Napoleon was caged; a\nland of wine and iron, glowing with strength and passion.\n\nA land of perfect peace and infinite possibilities does this island\nseem as one drifts along the coast, watching the fish dart below\nthe keel of the boat, rounding the islets that look as though they\nhad skipped from the mainland in play and were intent on their own\nreflection in the water; as one swims into grottos purple-roofed, over\nwater of the purest aquamarine, and looks through the narrow opening\nacross the twinkling sea outside; or, as one walks through miles of\nvineyard in which grow the choicest grapes, or climbs up to the iron\nquarries, where the mountain is being simply dug away.\n\nYet, the deepest impression made on the mind of a visitor to Elba is\nnot so much that of the future prosperity of the island, for all its\nresources, as of its past importance. Almost every peak bears its\nruined castle; headland after headland was fortified in the Middle Ages\nby Powers jealously tenacious of their rights; the iron quarries, now\ncomparatively little known, were worked unremittingly by the ancients,\nwitness Virgil\u2019s well-known line:\n\n \u201cInsula inexhaustis Chalybum generosa metallis;\u201d\n\nand witness the iron slag that proves the existence in Roman times of\nfurnaces for refining the ore; the very wine, delicious as it is, is\nno longer the great source of wealth it was some years ago, partly on\naccount of the phylloxera which has lessened the production, partly\nbecause the customs-war between Italy and France stopped its export to\nthe country which afforded the most profitable market, partly for the\nreason that the peasants are primitive enough to insist on selling the\nunadulterated juice of the grape to a public that prefers manufactured\nwines.\n\nAll this adds to the sense of repose; the past is so long past, the\nfuture seems still so far off. And meanwhile the peasants and the\nsmall proprietors prune their vines and shell their almonds, and use\ntheir old-fashioned lamps, and dance barefoot on _festas_ to the music\nof a concertina, either at their own houses or at the _palazzo_ of a\nneighbouring large proprietor. They give each other nicknames, which\ngradually supplant the surnames, descending from father to son after\nthe fashion of primitive times. Thus a man who thought a good deal of\nhimself was called _il Papa_ (the Pope), whereupon his sons and sons\u2019\nsons are called _Papini_ (little Popes); a man noted for his patience\nwas called _Giobbe_ (Job) and his children are known as _Giobbetti_;\na man who once wore a coat that was too long for him has ever since\nbeen called the Doctor; another from a bad stroke at bowls rejoices\nin the name of Scatterer (_il Baracone_), and one who should now call\nhim John would be scarcely understood. They intermarry largely. They\ntroop from all parts of the island on donkeys and diminutive horses to\nthe _festas_ of the various miraculous Madonnas, not omitting to go\ndown to the nearest beach on the eve of a _festa_ and wash according\nto traditional custom. They preserve local differences and hostilities\nthat tell of difficult intercommunication: thus a Lacona man will tell\nyou that the men of Capoliveri,[10] whose township he can see perched\non a hill to the east, are \u201c_danniferi_; what they have with their eyes\nthey must also have with their hands,\u201d he adds, as he picks up a bunch\nof unripe grapes, wantonly broken off and thrown away. No one but a\nCapoliveri man would commit damage of that sort.\n\nThe earliest among the buildings that tell of the past importance\nof the island is the Castle of Volterraio. A ride along the hills\noverhanging the gulf of Portoferraio brings us to the foot of the\nprecipice on which it stands, rising, with the sheer rocks that form\npart of the building, out of a tangled mass of low growth, from\nwhich, every now and again springs a graceful wild olive. By only one\npath is the place accessible. Path is a courtesy title. The way up is\na scramble, often on hands and feet, up smooth, slippery, slanting\nmasses of jasper rock in whose crevices flourish rounded, hedgehog-like\ncushions of the most cross-grained thorns. Ten minutes\u2019 climb brings us\nto an ancient wall with a gap, where was once a gate, and a strongly\nbuilt, vaulted guard-house. Up again, over short grass this time, and\nwe come to the low, narrow doorway at the top of a steep flight of\nsteps sheer down on one side, without any trace of railing. At the\nbottom of the steps a hole in the ground gives evidence that an upright\nthere supported a further defence of some sort. Inside, where armed men\nfought, a couple of fig-trees flourish greatly, and the ground is a\nseries of heaps of grass-covered _d\u00e9bris_ that sound strangely hollow\nas one stamps on them. The sentinel\u2019s round within the castellation of\nthe walls is still intact. At some little distance on each side of the\ntower, which forms the south-eastern corner, it stops short, and deep\nholes for uprights in the parapet show clearly that a drawbridge on\neach side enabled the defenders to isolate the tower and fight to the\nlast gasp. At one place it widens out. A number of men could make a\nstand there; the inner wall is pierced with many loopholes, and these\nall converge on one place: the steps leading up to the wall, and\nthe well at the bottom of them. One can creep too, into a number of\ndungeon-like recesses in the walls, or clamber through a hole down a\nsteeply inclined ledge of rock to a little underground chamber having\na recess like a rough bed on one side, lighted by a hole in the rock\nthat forms the roof, and another in that which looks over the gulf. A\nsmall opening, defended by an outwork, puts this underground cell into\ncommunication with the outer world; but the outwork is evidently a\ncomparatively late structure.\n\nAll this is absolutely lonely, save for a few goats that now and again\nmake their way up, and the falcon that screams and wheels overhead.\nOnce it was the storehouse of the Etruscans of Volterra, who, drawing\niron, copper[11] and other minerals from the island, built the\nVolterraio as a defence for themselves and their treasures in case of\nsudden assault. It has stood many sieges, has heard the oaths of many\nnations in Roman and Medi\u00e6val times and is now falling to decay; for\nTurks and Saracens roam the seas no more, and the island it helped so\nlong to guard has become part of a united peaceful kingdom.\n\nQuite the most curious proofs of the ancient importance of the island\nare to be found between the little villages, of S. Ilario and St. Piero\ndi Campo, overlooking the southern coast. We are in a granite country\nfrom which the stone is exported for sculptural and architectural\npurposes. No need of quarries to obtain it, though; it lies scattered\nover hill and valley in huge blocks, as though some prehistoric giant\nhad dumped cart-load after cart-load with the idea of raising some\nenormous building, but had been cut off by a god in the midst of his\noperations. They have a certain defiant air about them, still, those\nmasses of granite. They shrug a shoulder at you from under the houses,\nthey poke out a rounded back in the very middle of the church wall,\nthey lie across your path in winking, slippery masses, nourishing\nthorns in their bosoms on to which you may fall, and then, if you look\nup suddenly, you may see one that has climbed on to the shoulders\nof his brethren and with feathered cap stuck awry, and big empty\neye-sockets, is grinning down at you with unholy, sardonic mirth. Every\nlittle fold in the hillside, shut in strangely from the outside world,\nhas its chestnut grove and its running stream; but even here there is\nsomething uncanny, and no peasant will put his lips to that water\nwithout making the sign of the cross above it; he fears he may become\npossessed by the spirits that haunt it. It is curious, however, that if\nhe takes the water in a glass he considers himself free from the danger.\n\nIn the midst of all this weird desolation rise two Roman buildings at\nsome little distance from each other; one a spacious ancient church,\nthe other a square tower. They are built of beautifully hewn blocks\nof granite, oblong or square, but mostly square, at the surface, put\ntogether without mortar. The door of the church is low and square,\nnot arched; its face is pierced just under the roof (now fallen in)\nby a rounded window formed of smaller slabs of stone, also without\nmortar, in which a bell formerly hung, but which does not give one the\nidea of having been built for a belfry. The building is rather oblong\nthan square, and was apparently divided into two unequal portions by\na low granite wall, which does not seem to have much in common with\nan altar-railing\u2014it is too much towards the middle of the church and\nappears to have been altogether too strong a construction. The apse\nis extraordinarily shallow, pierced by three of the loopholes that at\nlong intervals serve as windows to the church. There are no traces of\npillars.\n\nAt some distance from the church the granite rocks have piled\nthemselves into a peak that looks straight over the underlying plain\nto the sea beyond. On this peak stands the tower. \u201cThe solidity of\nits walls,\u201d writes that most conscientious, but not very critical\nhistorian, Giuseppe Ninci,[12] \u201cthe smallness of its rooms, the great\ndifficulty of access, show it to have been one of those terrible\nprisons in which pined for long years those unfortunates who, exiled\nfrom their native land, were sent off to the islands.\u201d If prisoners\nwere put there, it must have been to starve, and for that they might\nsurely have been shut up in some place which would cost less to build.\nThere is but one side on which it can be approached, and even there\na man must twice grasp the edge of the rock above his head and draw\nhimself up by sheer force of biceps before he reaches the base of the\ntower. Once there he discovers that he must repeat the operation, for\nthere is no door, only a window above his head, which he can reach by\nstretching up his arms. The tower consists of two low rooms one above\nthe other, with walls a metre thick. Was it really a prison, or was it\nnot rather a watch-tower, or a tower of refuge? Otherwise what should\nit be doing there all alone on its granite base? Was there once a Roman\nor an Etruscan city round that large church or temple? Yet, the huge\ngranite blocks look as though man had never attempted to oust them for\nhis advantage. Wanted, an arch\u00e6ologist\u2019s report before these writings\nof past history become still further obliterated.\n\nSt. Piero di Campo is well worth lingering in for a while on one\u2019s\nreturn from San Giovanni. It was always a favourite landing-place for\nhostile ships, the plain below being fertile, and the gulf sheltered.\nThe castle, therefore, contained everything that could be wanted in\ncase of siege: a church, and a graveyard in addition to the usual\nmeans of defence. It is a square, massive building, with but one small\nentrance. The church is extremely ancient. The roof, low and vaulted,\nis supported on two short, thick granite columns, one having a roughly\ncarved capital which is well worth study, the other none at all. The\nwalls have been barbarously whitewashed, but in two or three places\nwhere the whitewash has been chipped off, there stand revealed the\nfigures of early 15th-century frescoes executed by a Tuscan artist.\nOne or two figures have been laid bare as a matter of curiosity, and\nit appears probable that the whole church is frescoed in the same way.\nIf so, and the Campesi would undo their barbarism, it would be worth a\npilgrimage to see.\n\n\nII.\n\nSURELY no city in the world queens it over the waves so completely as\ndoes Portoferraio. She rides them imperiously, lifting high the turrets\nthat are her crown and defence; she decks herself in the brightest\ncolours, conscious of her beauty; and sets herself boldly on the very\nhead and front of the dark blue waters that wash her feet or leap up in\nwrath at her pride, yet never injure her. Genoa is called the Superb,\nbut the epithet rises more spontaneously to the mind on view of the\ncapital of the Island of Elba.\n\nPortoferraio was originally one of those headlands, so characteristic\nof Elba, that grow out from the mainland on a narrow stalk, and then\nwiden and heighten into rocky peninsulas. It is now, however, an\nisland, for Cosimo I., Duke of Tuscany, cut a moat through the stalk,\nand severed the peninsula from the mainland. The peninsula consists\nof two heights, on one of which is the fort known as the Falcone,\non the other, that of the Stella; and these are bound together by a\nlofty wall, within the castellations of which sentinels could walk\nwithout descending into the town. Immediately below each fort, a bank\nof concrete, kept in former times very clean and free from growth,\nformed a water-shed for the rain which streamed down it into a cistern\nbelow. At present the concrete, though still railed in, is quite\novergrown, for the city boasts a water-supply brought down from the\nneighbouring hills. Round the forts are spacious granite-paved squares\non which considerable bodies of men could man\u0153uvre; and below cluster\nthe red-roofed, green-shuttered houses, whose inhabitants sleep, in\nOriental fashion, through the heat of the day, coming out in the\nevening to walk among the oleanders of _Le Ghiaie_\u2014a tiny park above a\nbeach of the whitest gravel (_ghiaia_)\u2014or to dance with the officers\nin the new bathing establishment, of which they are so proud. Down\nagain, at the foot of the houses, lies the port, a semi-circle pointed\nat the southern end by the pink-washed tumble-down offices of the\nsanitary inspector, at the northern end by the octagonal tower of the\nconvict prison. Soldiers, convicts, \u201csociety,\u201d trade, all hive on those\ntwo little hills, and the only opening through which workers and drones\ncan pass in and out on the landside is a low-browed gateway, bearing\nthe Medici arms, and overlooking a plank bridge spanning the moat of\nsea-water. Within the gateway is a wide, open space, through which one\npasses up the first ramparts of the Falcone, to a wonderful winding\ntunnel, hewn in the solid rock. This brings one out through another\ngate, into the flaunting little city. The tunnel is known as _La\nTromba_ (the trumpet-shaped), and was the work, as usual, of Cosimo\u2019s\nengineer.\n\nPortoferraio, Ferraio, the iron city, as it was originally called,\ndates, at any rate, from Roman times. The name would suggest this,\nand the fact is abundantly proved by Roman walls, pavements of brick\nand marble, tombs with inscriptions, skeletons, lamps, etc., coins of\nconsuls and emperors, workmen\u2019s tools, that were unearthed from time to\ntime during the seventeenth century, when excavations were being made\nfor the subterranean cisterns, guard-houses, powder-magazines, halls of\nevery kind that honeycomb the ground.\n\nTowards the end of April, 1548, there arrived in the bay below\nPortoferraio a fleet bearing one thousand soldiers, three hundred\nsappers and miners, and the architect John Baptist Camerini. Ferraio\nwas at that time a heap of ancient ruins, but Cosimo I., the merchant\nDuke of Tuscany, whose coasts lay open to the invasion of the Turks,\nand whose galleys were continually assailed by pirates, concluded that\nthe best possible points of defence against these redoubtable enemies\nwere Ferraio and Piombino. With a large sum of money, and a very great\ndeal of diplomacy, he persuaded Charles V. (who thought that the same\npoints of defence would be as irritating to the French as to the Turks)\nto grant him the places. The agreement was hardly concluded when the\nDuke\u2019s men landed on the little peninsula, quarried the blocks, ready\nsquared to their hands from the Roman villas and walls, made a brick\nkiln on the coast near by where there was suitable clay, obtained\nexcellent mortar from the stones of the neighbouring hills, and in a\nfortnight had raised the walls breast high. Cosimo made two visits\nto the island to inspect the works, living not in Ferraio itself,\nbut in a house on the hillside opposite, that is still known as the\nCasa del Duca (Duke\u2019s house), and bears on its garden wall a defaced,\nweather-stained marble bust of Duke Cosimo. The Turks, the French, the\nGenoese, and the rest of Cosimo\u2019s many enemies were beside themselves\nwith rage. Elba was wasted throughout its length and breadth, the new\ntown\u2014no longer Ferraio, but Cosmopolis\u2014was besieged by mighty fleets,\nintrigues were obstinately kept up to induce the Emperor to revoke\nhis grant, but the Duke (now Grand Duke) made head against force and\nintrigue; the town remained in his hands, and still, as witness to his\nmight, bears over its gateways the proud inscription:\n\n templa, moenia, domos, arces, portum,\n cosmus florentinorum dux II. a fundamentis\n erexit an. MDXLVIII\n\nThe port, as made by Cosimo, still remains, but the defences and\nengineering works completed by him and his successors are now deserted,\nor have been turned into the convict prison, the three white columns\nof whose water-gate form a striking feature in a view of the port. The\nconvicts are here allowed to work at various trades. Workshops are\nprovided within the prison walls, and a show-room for the sale of\ntheir goods. The government exacts a small royalty on objects sold.\n\nA sentimental interest attaches itself to Portoferraio, as being the\nplace which preserved to mankind a sickly puling infant of the name\nof Victor Hugo. An epigraph by Mario Foresi, on the walls of the\ntown-hall, commemorates the fact.[13]\n\nAlong the shore of that part of the gulf, which lies outside the port,\nthe sea looks as though some eccentric gardener had been laying out\ngarden beds in it, with grassy walks between, and white pyramids at\nirregular intervals. These are the _saline_, where the government makes\nsalt (not very good salt either) for its subjects. It produces about\n1,152 tons a year, which it sells at the rate of _3d._ per pound.\nTruly a government salt monopoly is not a pleasant thing for peasants,\nwho can get salt alone as a condiment for their soup of cabbages and\nbeans, or their mess of maize flour.\n\nFerraio, then, takes its name from the principal product of the island,\nbut the mines are not near the town; they are on the eastern coast, at\nRio and at Cape Calamita (Loadstone Cape).\n\nRio, like all other villages in this part of the world, consists of\ntwo parts: Rio Alto, whose streets are merely a succession of stairs;\nand Rio Marina, a modern town, where the mines are. The prevailing\ncolour in Rio Marina is red: red are the hills that shut out the fresh\nnorth breezes from the town, red is the sea where the steamers lie\noff to be loaded, red are the four piers where the trucks go up and\ndown, red the houses, with their curtains, stairs, and furniture. This\nred ochrous ore is associated, as one ascends the mountain, with the\nmassive and micaceous varieties of h\u00e6matite; so that while one sees red\ncliffs towering on one side, and solid knobs and blocks of iron, almost\nnative, on the other, one walks over roads that glitter and sparkle\nlike running water, and are almost as slippery as ice.\n\n \u201cAnd Seius, whose eight hundred slaves\n Sicken in Ilva\u2019s mines,\u201d\n\nwrites Lord Macaulay; thereby showing that he had never been to Rio.\nFor there is no mining properly so-called here; there is no tunnelling,\nno blasting on a large scale. The men work in the open air, digging\naway the red earth, blowing away the harder masses with small charges\nof powder or getting them out with picks. The earth is washed in a\nlarge cistern, with a revolving paddle-wheel, that keeps the water in\ncontinual motion; and the iron thus separated from the clay is loaded\non to the ships without further refining.\n\nAt present the mines are farmed out by the Government, and produce\nabout 176,516 tons yearly. The men are paid by piece work, and earn\nfrom two francs to four francs a day. Only one set of men is kept. When\nthey are not lading foreign vessels, they dig ore, and make great heaps\nof it; when they are not digging, they lade. It is evident the place\nwants development.\n\nAt the iron quarries of Cape Calamita, where magnetic iron is obtained,\nwe watched the process of lading. A large English-built steamer had\ncome in, under a Genoese captain, for iron, which it was to exchange\nfor coal at Cardiff. She stood in as near to the shore as was safe,\nand then anchoring, opened three mouths on each side to receive her\nfood. Come out to her six willing slaves, small boats called _laconi_,\nwith the most audacious masts and yard-arms one can imagine. They look\nas though they would rend the clouds and pierce the sky; but it is\nall bluster; the boats are such helpless creatures that if they are\nto cross the bay, they must have a steam-tug to pull them. The men in\nthe _laconi_ rest planks on the open lips of the monster that towers\nabove them, and proceed to pour down its six gaping throats an infinite\nnumber of small baskets of the red, earthy ore. For four consecutive\ndays they feed her, if the weather be fine, and then she goes off to\nthe northern seas, where _laconi_ are unknown, where the water is\nrarely motionless, and where steam cranes and puffing engines tell of\nwork done in a hurry. It must be confessed, however, that the Elban\nmethod is adorably picturesque. Sea, sky, and hills are glowing in the\ngreat calm. The big black ship lies motionless; her crew lounge, her\njovial, white-suited captain, so proud of his mahogany-fitted passenger\nship that used to go to India, stands watching the ore slide in; the\nElbans cluster up the sides of the planks to pass the baskets from one\nto the other; they talk and laugh, showing glittering white teeth; and\nthey wear hanging red fishermen\u2019s caps, patchwork shirts and bright\nsashes.\n\nOnward along the coasts from Rio, we come to the ancient town of\nPortolongone, built along the curve of a fine, natural harbour.\nSheer above the town, where the Portolongone women flaunt it along\ntheir sea front after mass, in the brightest of dresses, and the\nmost artistic of black or white lace head-veils, rises one of the\nstrongest fortresses of the island. It was built in 1603, to the\ninfinite dismay and disturbance of such small fry as the Florentines,\nGenoese, and the Pope, by Philip III. of Spain. The approach to it is\nbroad, but very steep; the outer ring of fortifications are a city in\nthemselves; and within, across the inner moat and drawbridge, there\nare spacious squares, clusters of houses, an interesting church, and\nthe large prisons in which are kept criminals condemned to solitary\nconfinement. The prisons we cannot enter, but let us sit for a while\nin the chaplain\u2019s cool, brick-paved room, sipping the country wine\nand breaking the long, curled strips of pastry which his hospitable\nwomenfolk have heaped on the table, and listen to what he has to tell\nus of his charges.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d he says, \u201cthey none of them live long, once they come in here;\nthey go mad or fall into consumption, and so die if they have not\nsucceeded in committing suicide first. We have to look out sharply to\nprevent that. A man managed to do it, though, about a month ago. He\ntore his shirt into strips and made a slip-knot for his neck, climbed,\nno one knows how, to the grate in the middle of the deep window-hole,\nand tied the end of the noose there, bound his own hands together\nsomehow or other, and then kicked away the stool he had been standing\non. When he felt himself strangling, he struggled to get free, but his\nhands were fast, and he only succeeded in pulling the noose tighter\nand tighter. He was quite dead when they took him down. Outside the\nprison are a number of cells open to the air, closed by iron gates. You\ncan see them down there.\u201d We were walking about outside by this time,\nwhere the convicts not in solitary confinement are building the new\nprisons. \u201cEvery prisoner has an hour\u2019s turn in one of those open-air\ncells once a day, guards pacing outside the gates the whole time.\n\n\u201cTheir food? Well, yes, as you say, it is clean, savoury, and\nwell-cooked\u201d\u2014we had been peeping into the kitchens as we came\nalong\u2014\u201cbut they have a very small allowance; a plate of soup given\nhalf at midday and half in the evening (vegetable soup, with _pasta_\nin it) and two loaves, not much bigger than rolls, of white bread. It\nis piteous to see how a stout well-built man dwindles away on this\n_r\u00e9gime_. The men who are at work buy extras with their wages. Those\nwho wear chains from ankle to wrist were sentenced under the old penal\ncode. When they go to bed they are chained to the wall. Chains are\nabolished by the new code.\n\n\u201cThe prison consists of two storeys of cells, running down each side of\na central corridor that extends up to the roof. Communication with the\ncells of the upper storey is obtained by an iron balcony which runs the\nlength of the building at the height of the first storey. All the cell\ndoors open towards the inner end of the prison, where an altar has been\nset up.\n\n\u201cWhen I say mass, they are all set ajar (there is in every case an\niron gate, kept locked, inside the wooden door), and so the prisoners\ncan look at the altar without seeing each other. I go round to them\nat regular intervals, unless someone calls for me specially, and talk\nto them from outside the iron gates. No, I am not afraid, but it is\nthe custom. They generally like to have me go, and appear really to\nappreciate the comforts of religion. Read! Ah, you saw Library printed\nup near the gate, did you? But there are very few books in it. What\ncan we give them? They must not read novels, and they must not read\npolitics. I give them a religious paper about the miraculous Madonna\nat Pompeii, and some of them read that. Otherwise they do nothing. All\nthe work of the place, washing, nursing, cooking, building, cleaning,\nis done by convicts. Even the barbers are convicts, and as they have\nnearly served their time, and besides get better paid than the others,\nthey are careful of their behaviour; there is no need to be afraid\nof them. That house down there, with its back against the rock, is\nthe lowest depth of all. The cells are dark, and none but the most\nrefractory prisoners ever go there. It has been empty for some time\npast.\n\n\u201cBorn criminals? No, I don\u2019t much believe in that doctrine; I think\nthat in most cases one whom Lombroso would call a born criminal, may\nbe saved by careful training. Before I came here I knew a man who\nbrutally killed his wife while his little boy looked on. The man\nwas condemned; we looked after the bringing up of the boy. At first\nbut little could be done with him. He would bully his fellows, and\nthen, crossing his arms over his breast, would throw back his head\ndefiantly and say: \u2018Do you know who I am? My father was the terror\nof the village.\u2019 He did not seem to know what pain was. I have seen\nhim undergo an operation in his finger which had been caught in a\nmachine, without a sign of suffering. One day the lads were working\nat a machine, and one of them grew tired. \u2018Who\u2019ll take my place?\u2019 he\ncalled out. No answer. \u2018Will no one help me?\u2019 Another pause. Then the\ncriminal\u2019s son called out, \u2018I will.\u2019 He went to the machine and worked\nthere till he was nearly dropping with fatigue. But from that day he\nwas completely changed, and he has grown up into a quiet, trustworthy,\nhard-working man.\u201d\n\nBy this time our courteous host had accompanied us back to the inner\ngateway; and so, taking leave of him, we left that terrible artificial\nworld, over which, with a hush still greater than that of the sea and\nsky and mountain, broods the awful presence of unknown crime terribly\nexpiated.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIRST STEP OF A MIGHTY FALL\n\n\n\u201c_Le premier degr\u00e9 d\u2019une chute profonde_,\u201d says Victor Hugo, speaking\nof Elba in connection with Napoleon. And it is impossible to remain in\nthe island long without conjuring up the figure of the fallen prince\nhurrying hither and thither with one or two attendants, building his\nvilla, enquiring into the agricultural and mineral wealth of his new\nkingdom, collecting his taxes and his customs duties, strengthening\nhis fortifications, holding the tiny court of which the people of\nPortoferraio were so inordinately proud, carrying on his _amours_,\nchatting with the peasants and the proprietors\u2014and under the mask\nof all this activity enlisting men, collecting stores, conducting\na continuous secret correspondence with Naples, with Corsica, with\nFrance, undecided whether to make himself King of Italy or to go back\nto be Emperor of the French.\n\nElba, towering above her satellites Pianosa, Monte Cristo, S. Stefano,\nGiglio, with the rocky islet of Palmaiola as sentinel in the very\nnarrow channel towards Piombino, is an excellent place to plot in, and\na very difficult place to watch. Napoleon, as was but natural, took\nin the advantages of his position at a glance. He had hardly arrived\nin Elba before he claimed the neighbouring islands as part of his\ndomain, and began to establish outposts on them. Thus he surrounded\nhimself with a barrier within which no foreign ship could penetrate\nwithout violating the independence secured to him by the Treaty of\nFontainebleau; and which at the same time afforded him a valid excuse\nfor short sea-trips and for a constant movement of small vessels\neminently adapted to conceal secret negotiations of every kind, and\nespecially his intercourse with Corsica. In this most favourable\nposition, shut off from prying eyes by diplomacy and nature combined,\nwithin easy communicating distance on the one hand of Tuscany and of\nMurat, on the other of Corsica and France, Napoleon remained from\nMay 4th, 1814, to February 26th, 1815. With his political intrigues\nduring that time we do not propose to concern ourselves, nor with the\nvexed question raised by some disappointed Frenchmen, who seem to have\nunderstood neither the Treaty of Fontainebleau nor the geography of\nElba, as to England\u2019s complicity in his escape; rather we would picture\nhim in the places with which we too are familiar, would shadow him\nforth not as the banished Emperor of France, but as Monarch of Elba.\n\nBy the time the English frigate, the _Undaunted_, that bore him,\nreached Portoferraio, Napoleon had decided on the line of conduct he\nintended to pursue: that of a monarch on a small scale, intent on\ndeveloping the resources of his kingdom, firm in exacting respect for\nhis new flag from all maritime powers. And so well did he play his part\nof miniature kingship that even Sir Neil Campbell, English Commissioner\nin the island, thought that he was contented; and more than once opined\nthat if Napoleon were well supplied with money\u2014as he should have been\nby the terms of the treaty\u2014he would remain quietly where he was; but\nhe was such a very eccentric person that, if he ran short, there was no\nknowing what improper conduct he might pursue.\n\nHe assumed this position at once on his arrival in the harbour of\nPortoferraio. He refused to land until his new subjects should have\nhad time to prepare an ovation suitable to the reception of a monarch,\nand he issued an address to General d\u2019Alhesme, then commanding in the\nisland, in the following terms:\u2014\n\n\u201cGeneral! I have sacrificed my rights to the interests of my country,\nreserving the sovereignty and possession of the island of Elba. To this\nthe Powers have consented. Have the kindness to make known the new\nstate of things to the inhabitants, and the choice that I have made of\ntheir island as my abode on account of the mildness of their customs\nand their climate. Tell them that they will always be the objects of\nmy warmest interest.\u201d\n\nThe Portoferraiesi took the Emperor at his word. They were overwhelmed\nwith gratitude at the honour he showed them. They received him with\nflags, with fireworks and with Te Deums; they sent deputations to wait\non him; they presented him with a map of his dominions\u2014a very bad\none, by-the-by\u2014on a silver tray; they gave up their best furniture to\nfurnish, provisionally at least, the Palazzina dei Mulini, just under\nForte Falcone, where he was to live; they took his officers into their\nhomes; they put on their finest dresses and went to receptions in the\ntown-hall in the evening, telling themselves that their city already\nseemed like one of the capitals of Europe. And Napoleon fostered their\ndelusion. He proposed to readopt the name given to the city by Duke\nCosimo de\u2019 Medici, and to call it Cosmopoli; deriving the first part\nof the word, not from Cosimo, but from the Greek _kosmos_, world,\ndeclaring that his Cosmopoli was to be the _City of the World_. At the\nsame time he built and altered extensively in and around his house,\nadding another storey, planting a garden, forming a library, erecting\na tribunal and theatre; he shipped over furniture from the mainland;\nhe prepared a residence close to his own for his mother; he bought\nland and built a country-house not far from Portoferraio; he sent for\nhis sister Pauline; he prepared extensive stabling; he established a\nlazaretto in the harbour, which was to compete with that of Leghorn:\neverything pointed to complete acquiescence in his position.\n\nHe had, in fact, scarcely landed before he began to take possession\nof his new dominions, as a good monarch should do, and had soon\nvisited the places of importance in Elba and its dependant isles. His\ncorpulence rendered climbing and even walking difficult, but his active\nspirit overcame all difficulties; and the Elbans who met him, his\nofficers and attendants, continually on the roads and mountain paths,\nfelt quite convinced that the Emperor was devoting himself to their\nwelfare.\n\nOne of his first expeditions brought vividly before him the extent\nof his fall. He had visited all the forts and surroundings of\nPortoferraio, had collected information concerning the salt manufacture\n(a Government monopoly) and the tunny fishery; and turning to the left\nfrom the land gate of Portoferraio, had pushed as far as the iron mines\nof Rio\u2014then, as now, Government property\u2014and the fort of Longone; but\nhe had not yet climbed the hills that shut in his capital at the back.\nThese are crossed by a few bridle-paths and by a road, sheer up and\ndown, paved now with the native rock, now with loose, rolling stones,\nand known as the Colle Reciso. About half-way up the Portoferraio side\nof this road, a breakneck path leads to the right, up the face of a\nhill called St. Lucia, whence the Etruscans once drew copper for\ntheir bronze. The Emperor, Colonel Campbell, General Bertrand, and\ntheir attendants, riding to the top of this hill, found themselves\namong the ruins of a very large ancient castle. The towers lie prone\nin enormous masses of masonry, the walls have partly fallen in, partly\nbeen quarried for surrounding buildings; of roof there is no trace; the\nplace is simply a large grass-grown square surrounded by naked, ruined\nblocks of masonry. Not quite abandoned, either, for in one corner is\na tiny church with a couple of rooms built on to it in which a hermit\nonce lived and died. Here the party halted and looked round. They were\ndominating the narrowest part of the island. Right and left the hills\nstretch away in barren, fantastic peaks now crowned with ruins, now\nsheer with granite cliffs; before and behind the sea is visible in four\ndifferent places. Napoleon looked around for a little while, taking in\nthe principal points of the landscape, and then, turning to Campbell,\nsaid, with a quiet smile:\u2014\u201c_Eh, mon \u00eele est bien petite_.\u201d\n\nLater on he would often follow the Colle Reciso down into the fertile,\nvine-covered plain of Lacona, which lies at its foot on the southern\nside. The conditions here, even now, are truly patriarchal. The\nmountains form a semi-circle about the coast; and in the midst stands\nthe proprietor\u2019s villa surrounded by eucalyptus trees, prickly-pears\nand aloes\u2014an island among the spreading vineyards. To see the\n_contadini_ waiting at the well for the master, his arrival with his\nfamily, and the respectful familiarity with which they take their\norders from their _padrone_, is to get a glimpse into old world ways\nand ideas such as does not fall to the lot of everyone.\n\nFrom this plain springs the headland known as Capo di Stella. It\nis narrow and low at its base, but rises and swells as it advances\ninto the sea, and becomes a wild rocky hill, with sheer precipices\ndown to the water, covered with lentisks, with aromatic herbs, with\ngreat silvery shining thorn-bushes known to the inhabitants as _prune\ncaprine_. It is the home of hares and innumerable birds. Here Napoleon\nproposed to make a preserve for game; and actually went the length of\narranging matters with the proprietor, Jacopo Foresi, and of making\nsome show of beginning the wall which was to span the isthmus, cutting\noff the headland from the rest of the estate. Needless to say that the\ngame on Capo di Stella was not in reality profoundly interesting to\nNapoleon, and that the plan was never carried out. There is an incident\nrecounted of the Emperor in these parts, commemorated by an inscription\naffixed by the present proprietor, Mario Foresi, to the walls of\nthe house of one of his peasants. A certain Giaconi was ploughing\nwhen Napoleon came along, and in his character of one interested in\neverything, took the ploughshare out of the man\u2019s hands and attempted\nto guide it himself. But the oxen refused to obey him, overturned the\nshare and spoilt the furrow. Foresi\u2019s inscription runs as follows:\n\n napoleone il grande\n quivi passando nel MDCCCXIV.\n tolto nel campo adiacente l\u2019aratro d\u2019un contadino\n provavasi egli stesso ad arare\n ma i bovi rebelli a quelle mani\n che pur seppero infrenare l\u2019europa\n precipitosamente\n fuggirono dal solco.[14]\n\nFarther along the coast, to the west of Lacona, and separated from it\nby a semi-circle of almost pathless hills, is the beach and village\nof Campo, where are extensive granite quarries. To this place also\nNapoleon paid several visits, and caused a road to be made winding\nround the base of the hills and joining it with Portoferraio. Must\nhe not develop the resources of his island by providing for the\ncarriage of its granite? Or rather, would not such a road be extremely\nconvenient for keeping up communication with the outlying island of\nPianosa, where he was collecting troops and training cavalry? The room\nwhere Napoleon passed the night on one of his visits to the village is\nstill shown; an old man, too, blear-eyed and tottering, is listened\nto with a certain respect by the villagers as he relates how he was\nnursed and caressed by the Emperor. His father had been a sailor in\none of Napoleon\u2019s fleets, had been taken prisoner by Nelson, had spent\nmany years in England, had been ultimately accepted as a sailor on an\nEnglish ship, and had made his escape from Genoa. Napoleon visited the\nman, made him relate his experiences, and showed himself affable with\nthe children, as was his general way in Elba.\n\nMost thickly do reminiscences of Napoleon cluster round the lovely\nvillage of Marciana. The road leading westwards from Portoferraio\nskirts the seashore. On the left hand rise cliffs densely overgrown\nwith white heather; below, on the right, lies the shore in a succession\nof bewitching bays and headlands. A ride of between two and three\nhours brings one to a village lying along a graceful curve, backed by\ndense chestnut woods, over which hang the frowning precipices of Monte\nCapanne, the highest mountain in the island. This is Marciana Marina.\nBehind it a steep, boulder-paved path, running along a ridge above\nthe chestnut woods, where _cicale_ sing all day long to the sound of\nfalling waters, leads to Marciana Alta, a fortified place defended\nonce by a huge castle. The castle is now a mere shell within which\nfowls are penned; they pick up a living among the heaps of _d\u00e9bris_,\nand drink out of the two halves of the large iron crown which once\nhung proudly above the Medici arms. To the right of Marciana Alta, a\nlong Via Crucis leads to a church known as the Madonna del Monte. The\nroad is absolutely breakneck, formed of blocks of stone, which devout\nvisitors to the shrine have hammered into the soil at their somewhat\neccentric pleasure. The church is one of the richest in the island,\npossessing beautiful massive silver chalices and lamps, rich vestments,\nvineyards and fields. It stands in a wood of magnificent chestnut\ntrees, and has at the back a charming semi-circular wall of grey stone,\ndivided by pilasters into three sections, each of which contains an\nancient stone mask spouting the coldest, lightest of water. Close by\nthe church is a little house in which a lay hermit lives. What wonder\nthat Napoleon should take a liking to so picturesque a place, renowned\nthroughout the island for the excellence of its air and its water? What\nwonder that he should love to retire thither, and to wander through\nthe woods to the truculent little village of Poggio that stands up so\ndefiantly on its granite prominence? That he should even like to picnic\non the road in the fold of the hills where the five springs keep up\na continuous splashing? That he should choose this place to receive\nthat mysterious lady (in reality, the Polish Countess Walewsky) whom\nthe unlucky mayor of Marciana wanted to f\u00eate as no less a person than\nthe Empress Marie Louise in person? Surely all this was harmless and\nnatural enough. But follow up the path that leads off to the right\nof the hermitage, pass out of the shade of the trees and across the\ngranite boulders to the promontory that commands the coast of Elba, the\nmainland, and Corsica. There two huge masses of rock tower above their\ncomrades. Between them is a little stairway, partly natural, partly\nartificial, which leads to the top of the outer rock. This presents\na natural platform shielded along part of its length by a natural\nparapet. The parapet has been added to with brickwork, and a deep hole\nbig enough to hold a large flagstaff has been driven into the platform.\nThis was a favourite resort of Napoleon\u2019s. What place could be better\nfor taking the air? And what place could be better for signalling to\nCorsica, the window-panes of whose villages glitter at so short a\ndistance? As a matter of fact it is some thirty-five miles away; but\nin the limpid atmosphere of this \u201cisle of the blessed,\u201d distance, like\ntime, seems to be annihilated. Here then, like the hero of Balzac\u2019s\ntale, would the prodigal sit gazing at his _peau de chagrin_, now so\nwofully shrunken, and scheming for some way to reverse the spell and\nrestore it to its former amplitude. Vain dream! from which he was\nfinally awakened by the rude shock of Waterloo. After Napoleon left the\nisland, the people of Marciana put up a pompous inscription on the\nouter wall of the church. It runs as follows:\u2014\n\n napoleone I\n vinti gli imperi\n i regi resi vassalli\n da rutenici geli soprappreso non dalle armi\n in questo eremo\n per lui trasformato in reggia abitava\n dal 23 agosto al 14 settembre 1814\n e ritemprato il genio immortale\n il 24 febbraio 1815\n da qui slanciossi a meravigliare di se\n novellamente il mondo.\n\n il municipio di marciana\n con animo grato e riverente\n a tanto nome\n decretava di erigere questa memoria\n il 18 febbraio, 1863.[15]\n\nOf regular residences Napoleon may be said to have had three in the\nisland of Elba: the Mulini in Portoferraio, the country-house at St.\nMartino, and a house at Longone. The Mulini is a small, two-storeyed\nhouse, with a garden behind it, and a winding path leading down to\nthe sea; the path ends in a little grotto known as \u201cNapoleon\u2019s bath.\u201d\nThe Emperor occupied the lower storey, giving the upper one, which\nhe himself had built on, to his sister Pauline. No trace of the\nillustrious occupant now remains: the furniture has been entirely\nremoved, some of it, as in the case of a bed in my possession, having\nleft the island altogether; even the library, presented by Napoleon\nto the town, and lodged in the town-hall, has been to a great extent\nscattered, owing to the carelessness of the municipal authorities.\nOnly one tangible record of the Emperor remains: the bronze mask in\nthe chapel of the Misericordia. Antonmarchi, Napoleon\u2019s doctor, made\nin Paris three bronze masks from the plaster cast which he had taken\nimmediately after the death in St. Helena. One of these masks passed\nthrough the Murat family into the hands of the sculptor, Hiram Powers,\nin Florence, and is now[16] exposed for sale in London. The second I\nhave not been able to trace. The third is at Portoferraio, kept in a\nhandsome sarcophagus, and exposed to the public gaze every 5th of May,\nwhen a funeral service is performed over it. The face, as shown by the\nmask, is thin and drawn, the brow heavy and projecting; the likeness to\nthe bust of Julius C\u00e6sar in the British Museum is quite extraordinary.\n\nNapoleon\u2019s country-house at St. Martino lies in the fold of the hills\nwest of Portoferraio. The building of it enabled him to play to\nperfection the _r\u00f4le_ he had determined to adopt. He bought up the\nground from the small proprietors who owned it, respecting, however,\nthe rights of one old woman who refused to sell; and as soon as the\nworks were well under way was continually to be seen riding along\nthe road from Portoferraio to inspect their progress, supervising\neverything, chatting with everybody, talking to the children and giving\nthem money. A tree is still shown which he is said to have planted\nwith his own hand. Round the house, which was quite small, is a wood\nwith fine old ilex-trees through which a path leads to the spring at\nwhich Napoleon loved to drink, and to the right rises a hill which the\npeasants still call the _hill of sighs_, because, they say, Napoleon\nused to go up there to sigh for his beloved France. The Emperor\u2019s\nbedroom has been preserved intact, with its pretty decorations and its\ncharming Empire furniture. Near the bed are two windows, of which one,\njust at the level of the eyes of a person lying there, opens on to a\nsuperb view of Portoferraio, the sea and neighbouring coast-line.\n\nThe house within the fort at Longone is now as bare as that at\nPortoferraio. The place, however, is interesting, for it was with the\nexcuse of repairing the fortifications there that the Emperor supplied\nhimself with guns and ammunition; while the ostensible sale, at Genoa,\nLeghorn, and other places, of the old iron found in the fort, afforded\nhim an additional means of communication with the Continent. He was\nvery frequently at Longone while maturing the final details of his\nescape.\n\nNotwithstanding his apparent affability towards the Elbans, intended,\nwe must believe, rather to mislead outsiders than the people\nthemselves, Napoleon was not popular in the island. Being in continual\nwant of money he was obliged to tax the people beyond their resources;\nand they naturally saw clearly that, whatever he might say and however\ncondescending he might show himself, the money he drew from them was\nby no manner of means applied to the improvement of their position.\nHis tax-gatherers were insulted; riots took place in the very churches\nwhen the priests gave out the date by which the taxes were to be sent\nin; in one village troops were billeted on the inhabitants until the\nlast penny should be paid. The cries of \u201c_Vive l\u2019Empereur!_\u201d which had\noriginally greeted him on his various expeditions, ceased to be heard.\n\nBefore matters reached a veritable climax, however, Napoleon had played\nout his part, and had left the island in which he had landed with so\nmany fine promises. He had shown himself a clever actor, a skilful\nintriguer to the outside world of European diplomacy; debauched,\ntyrannical and exacting to the inner Elban world, into which foreign\ndiplomats could pry with difficulty. In his vices, in his astuteness,\nin his ambition, Napoleon, as he revealed himself in the island of\nElba, moves backwards through history, and takes his place beside the\nBorgia, the Orsini, the Medici of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries.\n\nOf the caricatures of the period the most interesting is the grimly\ningenious German portrait of the Conqueror, to which the following\nexplanation is attached: The hat is the Russian eagle which has gripped\nwith its talons and will not leave go; the face is composed of the\nbodies of some of the thousands he has sacrificed to his ambition; the\ncollar is the torrent of blood shed for his vain-glory; the coat is a\nbit of the map of the confederation arrayed against him and of his lost\nbattlefields. On his shoulder, in the guise of an epaulet, is the great\nhand of God, which plucks the cobweb and destroys the spider that fills\nthe place where a heart should have been.\n\n\n\n\nFUGITIVE PIECES\n\n\n\n\nA TALE FROM THE BORDERLAND\n\n\n\u201cWELL, it is a story to take or to leave. I tell it you as it happened\nto me. Think what you like about it.\u201d\n\nThe speaker was a spare man of middle height; an Anglican priest, whose\nlong black coat and white band set off a face that might have belonged\nto a seer of old: pallid yet not bloodless, with delicately cut mobile\nnostrils and grey eyes now piercingly bright, now losing themselves in\nfar-off mystery. The few grey hairs combed across the ample brow seemed\ninstinct with the life beneath them. In moments of great spiritual\nexcitement, when the eyes kindled and the nostrils worked, they would\nappear to rise as into a halo above the inspired pallor of the face.\nAnd the cypresses were around us, gloomily aspiring; while the ground\non which we sat was alive and gay with the most delicious little pink\ncyclamens: sweet, everyday human thoughts that come like a smile across\nthe over-strained soul.\n\n\u201cI was in England then, working in a large Northern parish in the\nmidst of dirt, misery and ignorance; and would often come home\nexhausted by the sufferings I had seen and could do so little to\nalleviate. One pouring wet evening I got in very late, soaked to the\nskin, faint with hunger, oppressed by the thought of the preparation\nneeded for an early communion service I was to celebrate on the morrow.\nI told Janet to admit no one: that for no reason would I go out again\nthat night; and sat down to dinner.\n\n\u201cI had hardly begun when the door bell rang, and voices reached me from\nthe hall\u2014that of a woman, evidently a lady, pleading, and Janet\u2019s,\nrepeating my order.\n\n\u201c\u2018But,\u2019 the strange voice insisted, \u2018he would surely come if he knew.\nIt is to see a dying man. Tell him it is to see a dying man. To save a\npassing soul.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe woman\u2019s distress and anxiety were so evident that I could remain\npassive no longer. I called Janet and told her to show the lady in. She\nwas tall, graceful, dressed in black, with a long veil which she kept\nlowered, so that I could see the features but indistinctly. With every\nsign of agitation she repeated to me what she had said in the hall.\n\u2018Would I come with her? It was to see a person who must die this night,\nand all unprepared.\u2019\n\n\u201cI had no heart to refuse; and we sallied forth together, she leading,\nI following. After some time I found myself in a better part of the\ntown, where the rows of squalid houses had given place to detached\nresidences, each in its garden. At one of these we stopped, ascended\nthe steps, and I rang.\n\n\u201cThe door was opened by a butler, who had the air of being an old,\nconfidential servant. I asked to see the person who was dying.\n\n\u201cThe man looked at me in amazement. \u2018No one is even ill here; much less\ndying. You must have the wrong address.\u2019\n\n\u201cI looked around for my mysterious guide. I was alone.\n\n\u201c\u2018But,\u2019 said I to the butler, \u2018I assure you that a lady came to me this\nevening, asked me to follow her to a house where a man must die this\nnight, and led me here. Are you certain there is no one ill?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Not only my master, but all the servants are perfectly well,\u2019 was the\nreply.\n\n\u201cJust then a door opened and the master of the house appeared: a young,\nflorid man, easy and good-natured, with a certain air of distinction\nabout him. I introduced myself and repeated my story.\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, come in out of the rain now, at any rate,\u2019 said he. \u2018I am just\nsitting down to dinner. You will not refuse to join me?\u2019\n\n\u201cI accepted the invitation and found my host bright, well-read,\nwell-travelled: a most agreeable companion.\n\n\u201cAs we were smoking after the meal, he said, hesitatingly:\u2014\n\n\u201c\u2018Do you know I have been wanting to make your acquaintance for a long\ntime past? I have had an instinctive feeling that I could confide in\nyou as in no one else: a strange sympathy going out to you while you\nwere personally unknown to me. And now I feel it stronger than ever. I\ncannot shake it off. May I make a father confessor of you? I am sick of\nthis life. I want to be at something real.\u2019\n\n\u201cI encouraged him to speak, and promised him all the help my experience\nshould enable me to give him.\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, I will leave you for a little to collect my thoughts,\u2019 said he.\n\u2018Be so kind as to remain here.\u2019\n\n\u201cWhile he was away I looked about the room, and found myself attracted\nby a picture, evidently a portrait, of a lady. I considered it\nattentively, and to my utter surprise recognised my mysterious visitor\nand guide.\n\n\u201c\u2018Who is that?\u2019 I asked my host on his return.\n\n\u201c\u2018That? My mother. She died when I was a child. Yet\u2019\u2014with a hesitancy\nthat was almost shamefacedness\u2014\u2018yet, I feel somehow as though she were\nstill caring for me.\u2019\n\n\u201cWe had a long talk in which he recounted his life, that of a young man\nabout town; and the upshot of it was that he promised to come to the\ncommunion service on the following morning.\n\n\u201cI was at the church very early, waiting anxiously for his appearance.\n\n\u201c\u2018Do you really suppose he will come?\u2019 said the friend who was to help\nme celebrate, and to whom I had related the strange experience. \u2018You\nhad better give up any hope of seeing him. It was probably nothing but\na fit of the sentimentality that follows a comfortable dinner. It took\nthat form because you happened to be with him. I have seen dozens of\nsuch cases.\u2019\n\n\u201cStill I had faith in my convert; and as the service went on and he did\nnot appear, I felt my heart grow big with sorrowful disappointment.\n\n\u201cI walked home sadly enough.\n\n\u201cIn the hall I found the butler of the previous evening. He looked\nwhite and scared. He was trembling.\n\n\u201c\u2018Sir, sir,\u2019 he stammered, \u2018come with me. Come quickly. My master is\ndead. I found him dead this morning.\u2019\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\nA silence fell upon us. The cypresses waved mysteriously towards the\nheavens\u2014my friend\u2019s face, with the awe-struck eyes, showing white amid\nthe gloom.\n\n\u201cA mother\u2019s love,\u201d he murmured. \u201cWhy should it not compel the forces of\nmaterial being? A mother\u2019s love. Is it not \u2018the last relay and ultimate\noutpost of Eternity?\u2019\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE PHANTOM BRIDE\n\n\nTHERE were three of us: men between youth and middle age who had gone\nthrough school and college together, had walked the hospitals and\nworked in the dissecting room without a break in our friendship; and,\nseparated by the exigencies of our practice, had still, as though\nby some occult sympathy, kept in touch with each other across long\nstretches of absence and silence. We were sitting with our coffee and\ncigarettes on the public walk above Florence. Before us lay the great\nsquare with the colossal David: the bronze giant that looks ever to\nthe hills beyond the town, with his sling ready to defend her from\nassault; while behind us rose the church from which the creator of\nthat giant really had protected the city against the strange-speaking\nNorth-men who had poured over those very hills for her destruction.\nThe last gleam of sunshine was, as we knew, making the gold of the\nmosaic glitter over the church-door there above us. It lay too on the\ntown at our feet, lighting up the captivating grace of the bell-tower,\nthe chastened glow of whose marbles seemed actually before our eyes;\nbringing out the unsurpassable curves of the cathedral dome, and the\nsquatter lines of that of St. Lorenzo, where the Medici moulder in\ntheir marble tombs; lingering on the graceful sturdiness of the Palazzo\nVecchio; touching the spires of the church of St. Croce and of the\nBargello where prisoners once pined. It was that hour before the actual\nsunset when the city, lying languidly amid the encircling hills, seems\nconsciously to breathe out the suavity by which she captures her lovers\nand holds them to her in life-long thraldom. And two of us had been\nlong away from our mistress; the spirit of the time and the place was\nupon us; confidences of loves and sorrows rose naturally to our lips.\n\nConti flung away his cigarette and threw himself back in his chair. I\nglanced at his small nervous hands as he folded his arms; remembering\ntheir quick, sure movements in the most delicate operations; and then\nI looked into his blue eyes, whose bright sparkle the deadly habit of\nmorphine-taking, the future ruin of that bright career, was already\nchanging into dreaminess.\n\n\u201cDecidedly, Neri,\u201d exclaimed he, \u201cyou are the most changed of the\nthree. There you sit smoking your cigarette as quietly as though we\ncame here every day of our lives. With a line between your brows, too!\nYou look as though you were obliged to take a wife to-morrow. What has\nhappened? Has someone got drowned in such a way that you cannot tell\nwhether it was a homicide or a suicide, and are afraid of misleading\njustice? Has a supposed corpse come to life again and objected to being\ndissected?\u201d\n\nA smile flickered across Neri\u2019s gravity. He was the handsomest of\nthe three: one of the best made men in the town. He wore a thick,\npointed beard, and the mouth under the moustache was of quite\nexceptional firmness and delicacy. In fact he was what the women call a\n_bell\u2019uomo_; and but for his thorough-going solidity of character and\nimmense variety of interests, would infallibly have had his head turned\nby their admiration. As it was he simply had no time to give them very\nmuch attention. And lately, so we were told, he had taken less notice\nof them than ever; but had gone about his work with the line between\nhis brows, and lips that rarely relaxed except to smile encouragement\nto some poor patient on whom he had operated.\n\nHe breathed out the smoke slowly, luxuriously, from his mouth and\nnostrils\u2014he was a confirmed cigarette smoker\u2014and answered:\u2014\n\n\u201cNo, I am not going to be married to-morrow; and I was thinking of a\n_post-mortem_, but not of such an one as Conti imagines. I will tell\nyou the story; but keep it to yourselves. There\u2019s a woman in the case,\nof course,\u201d he added, with a short nervous laugh. Then he hesitated\nagain, and at last began.\n\n\u201cJust a year ago to-day I had to make a _post-mortem_, and a report to\nthe police, on the body of the one woman who has entered profoundly\ninto my life. She was a rising operatic singer with a singular power\nof vivid dramatic intensity, though I do not think her impersonations\nwere ever a full expression of her innermost powers. Her interests\nwere extremely varied, her mind exceptionally mobile\u2014her occupation\nfostering this mobility, and increasing that power of quick sympathy,\nof putting herself into touch with the people with whom she came into\ncontact, which was one of her distinguishing features. She was not\nbeautiful; but she had fine large dark eyes that looked straight at\nyou; and she was so lithe and girl-like in all her movements (she was\nrather older than myself in reality) that you felt inclined just to\ntake her in your arms and hold her fast against all the troubles of the\nworld\u2014and she had her share, I warrant you.\u201d\n\n\u201cH\u2019m,\u201d said Conti. \u201cAnd you did it, I suppose. You seem to have been\nhard hit.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, I did not do it; although I was more than hard hit. Her position\nwas so difficult that I had no heart to make it worse; and she had\na certain dignity about her, even in her moments of most childlike\n_abandon_ in talking with me, that prevented any light advances. You\nfelt as though you must help her even against herself, for her nature\nwas evidently passionate; and that made your feeling for her all the\nmore profound. She had married unfortunately; a man who had ill-treated\nand neglected her in every possible way. After a couple of years she\nfled from her husband, left the stage, and changing her name, lived by\ngiving singing lessons; and, when I first knew her, was making a brave\nstruggle not only to support herself and her boy, but to obtain and\nhold such a position in the world as should enable her to launch him in\nhis career. Then she fell ill; more from exhaustion of vital force than\nanything else; and I never saw anything like the spirit with which she\nbore up. She was almost too weak to teach, and held her pupils together\nwith the greatest difficulty; yet she managed always to wear a bright\nsmile, and she refused absolutely to give up hope. \u2018Why, it is the most\nstimulating of medicines,\u2019 she would say. \u2018If I give up that, I shall\ncollapse immediately. I consider that, given the conditions in which I\nlive, self-deception, on the right side of course, is a distinct duty.\u2019\n\n\u201cTowards the end of the summer she left town for a fortnight, and\nI went out to see her. She insisted on our having a little picnic\ntogether, and took me to the top of a hill hard by. There was a small\npine wood up there, with a stretch of grass and ling. Opposite rose\nCastel di Poggio. The hills were round us ridge on ridge, and fold\non fold; their bosoms veiled by draperies of mist, for it was still\nearly. We might have been hundreds of miles away from any town: yet\nFlorence was close at our feet. I had left it only a couple of hours\nago, and should be down there again breathing the phenic acid of the\nhospital that same afternoon. Never shall I forget the morning of chat\nand reading (I had taken up a volume of poems\u2014her gift), with the bees\nbooming in the ling, the gorgeous green of the pine needles, intense\nunchangeable, against the brilliant sky, and the mingled scents of\npine, cypress, honey-flowers, and aromatic herbs. As we were starting\nto go down she stopped. \u2018We must keep vivid the remembrance of this,\nNeri,\u2019 she said, and caught my hand. I turned and looked into her eyes,\nwhose deep earnest gaze remains with me yet. We clasped hands, and so\nparted.\n\n\u201cWell, when she came back to Florence she began to lose her spirit.\nMoney matters worried her, I fancy, though she would never trouble me\nwith them. Then her husband accidentally found and began to trouble\nher, threatening that unless she went back to live with him he would\ntake the boy (now nearly seven years old) from her. She sent the child\nto her people in Switzerland. \u2018It would so much simplify matters if\nI were to die,\u2019 she wrote me once. \u2018My people would never let him go\nthen; and my husband could urge me no longer. The struggle is too\ngreat. Only I do not want you to have to make the _post mortem_ on me\nwhen I have said good-bye to this life: it would be too painful for\nyou.\u2019 Still I did not think she would ever really commit suicide; not\nbecause she had any fear of death, but because I knew she looked on the\nproceeding as cowardly; and also because she had a power of the most\nintense enjoyment and interest in all the beauties of life, whether\nphysical or intellectual. Hers was the most elastic nature I have\nknown. I said what one could say, and it\u2019s precious little, in such\ncircumstances: and she seemed to recover tone.\n\n\u201cThen I left Florence for nearly a month. I was obliged to return\nunexpectedly to the hospital; and was just leaving it to call upon her\nwhen I was told there was a _post-mortem_ waiting for me. I went into\nthe room. It was she; lying there on the table....\n\n\u201cWell, I got through somehow. It did not take very long, for I knew\nher well enough to guess what she had used, and had only to verify\na suspicion. And while I was working it seemed as though she were\nlooking at me, looking at me with a pitifully pleading look as though\nsupplicating forgiveness for the horror of my position. I remember I\nkept her covered as religiously as though she had been alive; and I\nremember I arranged everything when all was over and carried her in\nmy own arms to the bier which was to take her away. Then, I believe,\nPaoletti found me, got me into a cab, and drove me home in a high\nfever. The second evening I came to myself. I was without fever and\nfell quietly asleep. Towards morning I awoke. She was there standing by\nmy bed with the same pitifully pleading expression I had felt in the\nhospital. She caressed my cheek, then bent over me and touched my lips.\n\n\u201cOh yes, I know. _Optical hallucination_, _subjective sensation_, and\nall the rest of it. _Hallucination_; _subjective_ as much as you like;\nbut I saw her; and I feel her about me now just as plainly as I felt\nher then. I suppose the impression will fade as time goes on. I may\ntake a wife and have children as other men do. Still (with a repetition\nof the little nervous laugh) it has not begun to fade yet; and I feel\nas though I should see her once more: on my death bed.\u201d\n\n * * * * *\n\n\u201cDecidedly,\u201d said Conti, breaking the silence. \u201cNature\u2019s irony is more\nscathing than man\u2019s. It is just Neri,\u2014- Neri who never philandered,\nwho never sentimentalised, who would have nothing to do with what was\nnot downright brutally real\u2014it is just Neri whom the Fates have wedded\nto a phantom bride.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome,\u201d said Neri, shaking himself, \u201cit\u2019s nearly dark; we can see\nneither dome nor bell-tower any longer. Shall we go to the Arena? Tina\ndi Lorenzo is acting. And then we will finish up at the Gambrinus\nHalle.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nCYPRESSES AND OLIVES: AN INTERLUDE\n\n\n_Amice, quisquis es, dummodo honestum, vitae taedet_.\n\n * * * * *\n\nTHE road was parched and burning. I was sad, so sad, at my heart\u2019s\nheart. The sun seemed to laugh me to scorn, and the passers to sneer as\nthey went by. My soul was sore, sore to its inmost fibres, and I hated\nthe very beauty of Nature.\n\n * * * * *\n\nSo I turned aside among the cypresses. They will calm me, I thought.\nTheir whisperings are so grave. They flaunt not their joy at the sun\u2019s\nkisses, like the shameless trees along the roadside. They keep their\nhearts unmoved in sun and in storm; they are the true stoics of Nature.\nAnd their calm is sympathetic; it comes not of a soul immovable; it\ncomes of strength in trial.\n\nAnd the cypresses wrapped me round in their scent\u2014the grave,\npenetrating odour in which the battered spirit folds its wings to rest,\nand the heart-beats grow quieter, and the brow smooths itself out in\npeace. In long, long lines they stretched away before me, and I walked\nunder their guidance, conversing with them familiarly, searching the\nheight and depth of their thoughts. And I was no longer sore with my\nfellow-men. I could tolerate the thought of the flaunting trees and\nflowers, of the exuberant life evermore renewing itself away out there\nalong the road I had left. But still I walked among the cypresses, and\nwith them I held communion.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnd lo! they took leave of me. At the edge of a grassy path they left\nme. And beyond the path I saw freshly-ploughed brown earth, and the\nquiver and strain of a yoke of white oxen as they pulled the plough\nthrough some harder spot; and two workers with brown aprons, arms and\nfaces like glowing bronze, and soft felt hats weather-stained into\nharmony with the earth and the tree-trunks. They bent to their labour;\nand the soil laid bare its breast, rich in promise, before their eyes;\nand the vines around whose roots the plough passed encompassed them\nwith luxuriant clusters, purple and white; and the olives bent close\ndown around their heads, embowering them under a low roof of silver.\nSo I passed through the toil of those workers, toil calm and regular,\nblest in its fulfilling and in its ending; and I carried in my heart\nthe picture of those bending men, the slow-moving oxen, the rich soil\nand the embracing trees.\n\n * * * * *\n\nSuddenly a spell was woven round me; a spell as of moonbeams. I was\nin a wood of olive trees. Their sharp, narrow leaves, of a sheen like\nfrosted silver, pointed with rigid grace into the luminous grey of\nthe sky. No shadow, no darker spot of black or green fruit broke the\nwondrous diffused splendour. The very branches, as they spread and bent\noutwards from the low trunks, had softened the harshness of their scaly\nbark and were as softly radiant as the foliage and the sky above them.\nOnly the trunks and the under-sides of the branches were in shadow;\nrugged and brown, they were like a rough shell which had opened to give\nlife to an Aphrodite of new and chastened beauty. No flowers jarred\nwith bright tints the harmonious hush of colour; but here and there\ndelicate campions raised slender stems that bent with the weight of\ngrey-green calyx and pallid, wide-eyed blossom.\n\nAnd I walked, in the exquisite suavity of the wood. Surely, I thought,\nthe moonbeams have become tangible. Surely I am in an enchanted land\nand should meet its mistress; a maiden slim and grave, with wealth\nof olive-black hair, with deep dark eyes, with clinging gown of grey\ngirdled with a zone of cold blue-green. How sweet to stay here for ever\nwith soul attuned to the melody that mutely breathes from the living\nsilver of boughs and leaves, and falls graciously from the pearl-like\nsky.\n\nBut onward and ever onward must I go; and the olives left me as the\ncypresses had done.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThey left me at the edge of the highway; and I passed out again into\nthe glare of the sunshine, the gaze of the passers, the laughter, the\nbustle, the pushing, on the parched and burning road.\n\nAnd behold! a change had come over my soul. The stoicism of the\ncypresses, the calm of the toilers, the suave quiet strength of that\nharmonious olive wood\u2014these things had permeated the fibres of my\nbeing. The indifference of the passers-by found no way open to my\nheart; the unheeding joy of trees and flowers no longer jarred me. I\nwas clothed upon with a vesture woven of the enduring calm that broods\never at the unchanging heart of Nature; like armour it encompassed me\nabout, and I possessed my soul in peace.\n\n\n\n\nLOVELORNNESS\n\nAFTER THE MANNER OF THE EDDA\n\n\nBALDUR was once obliged to go away out of Asgard and leave Nanna all\nalone. So Nanna was very sad. She knew that no one would hurt her\nBaldur, but still it was to her as though he had been swallowed up by\nthe mists of Niflheim, and as though she would never see him again. So\nshe went to the Norns who dwell by the tree Ygdrasil, and she said:\u2014\n\nNANNA: \u201cTell me, oh Norns, who know all things. What can the\nbody do, when the soul has left it?\u201d\n\nNORN: \u201cThe body when the soul has left it can do nothing; it\nis lifeless and inert, and turns to dust.\u201d\n\nNANNA: \u201cTell me, oh Norns, who know all things. What can the\nthoughts do, when the master-brain has left them?\u201d\n\nNORN: \u201cThe thoughts fly hither and thither when the\nmaster-brain has left them. They seek their director, and finding him\nnot, fall fluttering to the ground lifeless and useless, or lose their\nway along paths that have no ending.\u201d\n\nNANNA: \u201cTell me, oh Norns, who know all things. What can the\neyes do, and the ears, when the lord they love to see, and the voice\nthey love to hear, have gone from them?\u201d\n\nNORN: \u201cThe eyes grow dim with watching and longing, and the\nears deaf with hearkening and listening\u2014nought else can they do.\u201d\n\nNANNA: \u201cTell me, oh Norns, who know all things. What can the\nlimbs do, when the support they twine round has been removed?\u201d\n\nNORN: \u201cThe limbs fall powerless to the earth when their\nsupport has gone; they cannot raise themselves nor stir themselves;\nthey await a wakening voice, which shall bid them live once more.\u201d\n\nNANNA: \u201cTell me, oh Norns, who know all things. What can the\nheart do, when the body is lifeless, the thoughts scattered, the eyes\nand ears worn, the limbs powerless?\u201d\n\nNORN: \u201cThe heart is no longer in the body. It went away with\nthe soul, with the master-brain, with the lord the eyes loved to see\nand the ears to hear, with the support the limbs clung to. And not till\nthat great awakening lord brings back the heart, will the body become\nquickened, the thoughts reach their mark, the eyes and the ears revive,\nthe limbs stir and raise themselves once more.\u201d\n\nSo Nanna went back to Asgard, and shut herself up forlornly in her\ngolden palace till such time as Baldur should bring back her heart.\n\n\n\n\nAN ESTHONIAN FOLK-TALE: KOIT AND \u00c4MARIK\n\n\nDOST thou know the lamp that shines in the All-Father\u2019s halls? Just now\nit is resting; it has gone out. But its reflection still glows through\nthe heavens; and already do the rays of its light turn round towards\nthe East, whence, in its full might, it will ere long salute the whole\nof Creation.\n\nDost thou know the hand that receives the sun and leads it to its rest\nwhen it has run its course? Or the hand that rekindles it when it has\ngone out, and sends it forth again on its road through the heavens?\n\nThe All-Father had two true servants, whom he endowed with eternal\nyouth. And when the lamp had finished its course the first evening, he\nsaid to \u00c4marik:\u2014\n\n\u201cTo thy guard, my daughter, do I commit the sinking sun. Quench it, and\nhave a care with the fire, that no hurt come to pass.\u201d\n\nAnd again, when the time for morning came, he said to Koit:\u2014\n\n\u201cMy son, it shall be thy concern to light the lamp and make it ready\nfor a new journey.\u201d\n\nBoth did their duty faithfully, and on no one day was the lamp wanting\nfrom the vault of heaven. And when in winter it wanders along the edge\nof the sky, then it goes out earlier in the afternoon and sets forth\nlater in the morning. And when in spring it awakens flowers and the\nsongs of birds, and when in summer it ripens the fruit with the heat\nof its beams, then it has but a short time to rest; \u00c4marik gives it up\nat once when it is quenched into the hands of Koit, who breathes a new\nlife into it.\n\nThe fair time was now come when the flowers open their perfumed cups,\nand birds and men fill with songs the hollow of Ilmarinen\u2019s tent.[17]\nThen Koit and \u00c4marik looked each other too deeply in the eyes, dark as\nwhortle-berries; and when the sun, as it went out, passed from her hand\nto his, then hand pressed hand, and the lips of the one stirred the\nlips of the other.\n\nBut an eye which ever wakes had marked what was happening in the\nsecrecy of the midnight stillness; and on the morrow the Ancient of\nDays called them both before him and said:\u2014\n\n\u201cI am fully content with the way in which you fulfil your duties, and\nI wish you to be completely happy. Marry, then; and wait on your task\ntogether as man and wife.\u201d\n\nAnd as with one voice they answered:\u2014\u201cFather, disturb not our\ngladness. Let us remain ever betrothed groom and bride; for we have\nfound our happiness in this state where loves are ever young and\nnew.\u201d And the Ancient of Days granted their request and blessed their\nresolution.\n\nOnce only in the year, during four weeks, do the two meet at midnight.\nAnd when \u00c4marik puts the sun that has gone out into the hand of her\nlover, there follow a pressure of the hand and a kiss; and \u00c4marik\u2019s\ncheeks grow red and their rosy hue is reflected through the heavens,\nuntil Koit lights the lamp again and the golden sheen in the sky\nannounces the upgoing sun. For that joyous meeting the All-Father\nadorns his fields with the most lovely flowers; and nightingales cry\njestingly to \u00c4marik as she lingers on Koit\u2019s breast:\u2014\u201cCareless girl,\ncareless girl. The night is long.\u201d\n\n_Translated from the_ FOSTERL\u00c4NDSKT ALBUM.\n\n\n\n\nTWO TRANSLATIONS FROM THE ITALIAN OF ADA NEGRI\n\n(_From \u201cTempeste,\u201d by kind permission of Messrs. Fratelli Treves_).\n\n\nThese translations, although they have not received final revision, are\nincluded because of the striking character of the originals.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GREAT\n\n\n WONDER for the Strong! who, forehead-kissed\n By superhuman lips,\n Following the lights of new horizons\n From height of sovereignty,\n\n The smile, the flash, the song of genius\n Had, and its folly;\n Knew all its flights and all its tears\n And all its harmonies;\n\n And from their peak launched to the listening world\n Their sacred words;\n And died \u2019mid dreams and symphonies\n Bathed in bright sunlight.\n\n * * * * *\n\n Love for the Rebels! Heart-bitten, they,\n By s\u00f9preme anguish;\n Linked in Love\u2019s leash\n With those who weep, with those who tremble,\n With those, outcast, by Christ redeemed,\n By brethren betrayed.\n\n By sea, by land, to thronging crowds\n New laws have they proclaimed;\n Have raised the hymn of coming ages,\n Sublimely frenzied\n For the ideal; and,\u2014irons, rope or axe\u2014\n Smiled at their torments.\n\n * * * * *\n\n But for the Great of Gloomy Places,\n Tears, heart-wrung. Such as are\n A-hungered, trodden down; and\u2014venerable\u2014\n Nor truce nor pardon knew\n From hostile, impious nature,\n Yet hated not.\n\n Who saw the corn-ear spring for others,\n Yet thiev\u00e8d not.\n Whose drink was gall and tears;\n who, traitorously\n Lashed in the face by blindfold Tyranny,\n Yet murmured not.\n\n Who walked \u2019mid frosts and tempests\n Darkling and quite forgot;\n No sun, no bread, no clothing,\n Yet trusted God.\n\n Who had a heap of straw to sleep on\n Loathsome and horrible;\n A lazar-house to die in,\n Yet loving died.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WORKMAN\n\n\n AROUND me rose the city\n Stirring at the first glimpse of day;\n The great city, that gives bread, that labours,\n Rose, as the sun gleamed forth, to its gigantic toil.\n\n There was a crying of clear voices, unknown voices,\n Beating waves of sound;\n A throwing wide of doors and windows,\n A whistling of trains, a whirling of wheels.\n\n There was a hastening gaily, furiously,\n Of a thousand human forces\n Towards the work that gives health and food,\n That unfurls a thousand flags to the wind.\n\n All things glittered, palpitated, laughed\n In the glory of the morning;\n All things seemed to open wings;\n Hope and joy gleamed on every visage.\n\n Then I observed him. Powerful was he: his front\u2014\n Pale with thought\u2014\n Proudly and nobly bore he\n On the bronzed neck, free-moving.\n\n Bull neck\u2014breast of the savage\u2014\n Bold glance and word;\n In his veins the surge of life,\n Billows of love and of bravery.\n\n Resounding the footfall! Like a victor\n Advanced he in the light;\n And my heart murmured:\u2014Is he not a leader?\n Amid the pandemonium\n\n Of the workshop, proud in his workman\u2019s blouse,\n Does he not tame the monsters\n To whom man meted claws and bills,\n Soul of flame and thews of steel?\n\n Wells there not within him a fount of vigour,\n Leaping, overbearing,\n That shall fill with fresh life this languishing age,\n Sallow with vice and lack of blood?\n\n Oh bless\u00e8d, bless\u00e8d to be beloved of him....\n To wait for him each evening\n Before the frugal board, with all the true\n Sweet anxiousness of one who loves and waits.\n\n Bless\u00e8d to cull from him, as the white lily\n Culls from the golden bee,\n The kiss of one who knows grim strife and toil;\n To be all his treasure, to bear a son to him:\n\n And in this son, fair and blameless,\n Informed with all his father\u2019s worth,\n To nurse a hope, a hope eternal,\n To find the joys of a falling world:\n\n And to dream, through him continued\n In the centuries to come,\n Of the race of the unbowed, of the pure,\n Destined to dazzling days of light:\n\n Of an unstained race of slaves redeemed\n Who amid songs shall reap\n Harvests of freedom born from the weeping,\n From the blood, from the very hearts, of their forerunners.\n\n\n\n\nTHREE LITERARY STUDIES\n\n\n\n\nGIOSU\u00c9 CARDUCCI\n\n\nTHE Roman historian Niebuhr reviewing the literature of the Augustan\nage, gave it as his opinion that epic poetry was dead, the lyric form\nof poetical expression being the only one adapted to the genius of the\nRomans at that period. Virgil\u2019s \u201c\u00c6neid,\u201d beautiful as are its details,\nhe considers a failure as an epic; for an epic hero should, with fresh\nsimple spontaneity, go straight home to the heart of the people at\nlarge, and this, he argues, the character of \u00c6neas could never have\ndone. Greek legends in Virgil\u2019s poem are so dove-tailed into the Latin\nones that the work loses its national character, loses therefore its\nspontaneity, and remains now, as it must have been from the beginning,\nan exquisite mosaic, to be appreciated only by the cultured; and\nappreciated, moreover, rather for the delicacy of the descriptions and\nthe art of the versification, than for any inherent interest attaching\nto the principal characters. Roman literary society was, in fact, too\npositive to produce an epic poem. The sceptical spirit was uppermost.\nLegend, instead of firing the imagination, did but arouse the critical\nfaculty. The story of Romulus, of his wondrous birth and preservation,\nof his building of the city, his government, and marvellous death,\nwas neither believed in as fact nor treated as poetry. Men set to\nwork to examine and to explain it; a useful task, no doubt, and one\nwhich Niebuhr himself has performed as well as anyone else, but one\nexpressive of a spirit far removed from that which animates the writer\nof an epic poem. The death of the epic meant, however, the life of the\nlyric. Occupying themselves but little with the motives and actions of\nthose who lived in other ages, men felt all the more need of uttering\ntheir own subjective feelings and impressions. For such utterances they\nnaturally chose the lyric form, which the highly developed \u00e6sthetic\nsense of the time induced them to work to a high degree of perfection.\nThis, in fact, was the age of Horace and Catullus.\n\nSurely much the same causes are at work, in different forms of society,\nat the present day. The Italian critic Trezza sings the dirge of the\nepic, and proves that the lyric is the only form of poem possible to\nthe society of the nineteenth century. Another authority besides Trezza\nmakes a similar assertion.\n\n \u201cThe epic,\u201d he says, \u201cwas buried some time ago. To violate the tomb\n of the mighty dead by singing doggerel over it, even if it were not\n the sign of a depraved disinclination to undertake higher flights,\n would not be particularly diverting. The drama (referring to poetic\n drama) is _in extremis_, and the superabundance of doctors won\u2019t even\n let it depart in peace. Lyric poetry, individual by nature, appears\n to stand its ground, and may still last some little while provided\n it does not forget it is an art. If it degrades itself into a mere\n secretion of the sensibility or sensuality of such and such an one, if\n it surrenders itself to all the unnatural licences which sensibility\n and sensuality allow themselves, then, poor lyric, she too is no\n longer recognisable.... To have adapted to the lyric this style of\n versification, fit only for narration and description, without verses,\n and with rhymes _a piacere_, is a sure sign that every idea of the\n true lyric has been lost.... An asthmatic lyric, paunch-bellied,\n in dressing-gown of ample girth, and slippers\u2014tie upon it!... I,\n bending at the foot of the Italian Muse, first kiss it with respectful\n tenderness, then try to fit on the sapphic, alcaic, and asclepiadaic\n buskins in which her godlike sister led the choruses on the Parian\n marble of the Doric temples, which look down at themselves in the sea\n that was the fatherland of Aphrodite and Apollo.\u201d\n\nSo writes the great Italian poet Carducci, using a similitude which\nmight have come from the pen of Horace himself. The Augustan age\nproduced a poet who measured the Greek lyric buskins on Latin measures;\nthe nineteenth century has given birth to one who has fitted them on to\nItalian verse.\n\nGiosu\u00e9 Carducci, whose poetical works have raised so much controversy\nin Italy, and occasioned a deluge of treatises on metre, Italian and\nLatin, was born at Valdicastello, in the classic Tuscan land, on July\n27th, 1836, of a family which, in the days of the independence of the\nTuscan cities, had given a Gonfaloniere to the Florentine Republic.\nHis first impressions of Nature he received from the Pisan Maremma,\nhere stretching away in \u201cpeaceful hills, with steaming mists, and\ngreen plains smiling in the morning showers\u201d; there in \u201cchalk-hills\nof malignant aspect, sparsely shaded by wood, with horses wandering\nunder the guilty-looking cork-oaks that bristle, lowering, in the plain\nbelow\u201d; or again in \u201ccloud-swept unsown plains, by the widowed shores\nof the Tuscan sea,\u201d scattered with the old-world feudal towers, and\nfull of ancient memories of decayed cities and medi\u00e6val strife. It\nwas among such surroundings that at the age of eleven Carducci wrote\nhis first verses. These reveal at once the historical and classical\ntendency of his mind; for besides a few lines on the \u201cDeath of an Owl,\u201d\nwe find a poem on \u201cThe Fall of the Castle of Bolgheri into the hands of\nLadislaus, King of Naples,\u201d and another entitled \u201cM. Brutus Meditating\nthe Death of C\u00e6sar.\u201d\n\nThose were unsettled times, however. Political revolution deprived\nCarducci\u2019s father in 1849 of his post of village-doctor, and forced him\nto take refuge in Florence, where Giosu\u00e9 was put to school with the\nScolopian Fathers. All readers of Ruffini will remember that author\u2019s\nexperience of the Scolopian convent school as described in \u201cLorenzo\nBenoni\u201d; and can imagine that Carducci, accustomed to the open life of\nthe Maremma, full of aspirations towards the freedom of classic times,\ndid not feel himself altogether in his element as he sat learning from\nthe black priest whose \u201cclucking voice blasphemed _Io amo_,\u201d and \u201cwhose\nface it was vexation to behold.\u201d\n\nOn leaving school, young Carducci published his first volume of poems;\nand in 1858, together with some of his friends, started a review named\nafter the famous sixteenth century poet \u201cIl Poliziano.\u201d The paper,\nas is usual with such juvenile ventures, was short-lived; but it is\ninteresting as showing the efforts the young poet was already making\ntowards the adaptation of classical forms to modern ideas. It was,\nhowever, impossible that any ardent youth should content himself with\nmere literary form during that period of ferment which resulted in the\nformation of a United Italy. He, like his contemporaries throughout the\nlength and breadth of the land, was fired by the noble efforts made\nby Garibaldi and Mazzini for the redemption of their fatherland from\nthe hated Austrian yoke; and, though republican by tradition (as all\nItalians must be) as well as by natural inclination, Carducci was yet\nwilling to follow the moderate party and Garibaldi in their support of\nthe monarchy of Savoy. Speaking of his political views at that time, he\nsays:\u2014\n\n \u201cI was one of the very many who in \u201959 and \u201960 adopted the formula of\n the Garibaldini, \u2018Italy and Victor Emmanuel,\u2019 without any enthusiasm\n for the moderate party and its leaders, but loyally. I was drawn to\n it partly from grateful affection for the King and Piedmont, in whose\n firmness I had found some consolation for the misery of the preceding\n ten years; partly from the idea that in the fusion of the noble with\n the burgher element, of the army with the people, of the monarchical\n traditions of one part of the country with the democratic traditions\n of other parts, in the intimate union of loyalty with liberty, of\n discipline with enthusiasm, of ancient tradition with modern belief,\n the history of Italy\u2014that history of wondrous tissue, which bears\n within itself all the seeds, developments, blossomings, fadings of all\n political ideas, forms and phenomena\u2014will at length find, better than\n the Greek could have done, its necessary unfolding and complement,\n achieving the liberation, the union, the greatness of the whole\n country by means of the valour and strength of the nation, without,\n and even in opposition to, any foreign interference.\u201d\n\nAs this extract clearly shows, Carducci\u2019s attachment to the Moderates\n(as he calls the Monarchists) was purely Platonic; his natural passion\nwas for the Republicans. Such dualism between head and heart, such war\nbetween his just idea of the exigencies of modern times and his fervid\nadmiration of the methods and life of the classic world, soon brought\nhim into serious difficulties, and rendered his active participation\nin the military and political events of the Sixties null. For the\nmen with whom he found himself associated as colleagues, though at\none with him as regards the fundamental tenet of the necessity of a\nmonarchy, had but little understanding of his idea that the valour\nand strength of the nation was to be the making of Italy, without\nforeign interference, or even in opposition to it. They relied more on\nmodern methods of diplomacy than on Greek dash and daring; and, to\ngain their ends, were ready to compromise with other Powers and with\nthe Church in a way that clashed with Carducci\u2019s classic enthusiasm.\nHence the poet was forced into opposition to the party to which his\nreflection politically attached him, and poured out the bitterness of\nhis soul for the indignities inflicted on his ideal, in a series of\npoems afterwards collected and published in a little volume bearing\nthe title of \u201cGiambi ed Epodi\u201d (\u201cIambics and Epodes\u201d). This attitude\nnaturally led the Moderate party into the belief that Carducci was a\npreacher of republicanism. As such they persecuted him, even suspending\nhim from his chair of Italian Literature at Bologna; and as such he has\never been considered until he fell under the spell of the extraordinary\nfascination exerted by the grace and manners of Queen Margherita.\nUnder this spell his old admiration for the House of Savoy revived,\nbecoming, as many think, exaggerated. He was reproached as a turncoat\nby those who never fully understood his former opinions or his true\nattitude with regard to the Moderate party; he lost caste among the\nstudents, who once kept him for a whole hour in his lecture-room while\nthey hissed him violently; and the people at large, finding him turned\ninto a court poet, openly asserted that he was in his decadence, and\nthat his latter end was not worthy his beginning. It is certainly a\npity for his fame that it should have been, of all persons, the Queen\nin whom he found so warm and appreciative a friend; for his constant\npresence about her in the summer holidays doubtless laid him open,\nfor many minds, to the charge of snobbism. Two things, however, must\nbe remembered in his defence. Firstly, that he has always considered\nmonarchy as necessary for Italy in her present condition; secondly,\nthat the combination of military glory with grace and culture has been\nhis ideal from boyhood; and this combination he found represented in\nKing Umberto and Queen Margherita. One of his later poems, \u201cWar\u201d (\u201cLa\nGuerra\u201d) which hymns the praises of military enterprise, clearly shows\nthat he has lost nothing of his ancient admiration for martial prowess;\nwhile others, addressed to Queen Margherita, prove also his poetic\nsensibility to feminine grace. It is thus easy to explain Carducci\u2019s\napparent change of attitude, while at the same time fully understanding\nthat the masses\u2014not apt to enquire into the workings of a man\u2019s\nmind, not apt to read with much attention or reflection\u2014are simply\nstruck by the difference in tone between his earlier poems (the \u201c\u00c7a\nIra\u201d in honour of the French Revolution, for instance), and his later\nlaudations of the House of Savoy, and launch against him the charge to\nwhich we have alluded.\n\nIt is difficult to choose, from the scathing scorn of the \u201cGiambi\u201d\n(\u201cIambics\u201d), poured out in the incisive terseness of Carducci\u2019s verse,\nany short passage which should give an idea of the whole series. We\nmay mention, however, the terrible little poem entitled \u201cMeminisse\nHorret,\u201d written in 1867 while the Court was at Florence. He describes\na horrible nightmare in which he sees Italy giving the lie to all\nher past traditions. Her ancient heroes are turned into cowards\nand supplicate those whom once they proudly defied; Dante, dressed\nlike a clown, obsequiously shows strangers round Santa Croce; while\nMachiavelli, peeping slyly from behind a tomb, proclaims with a wink\nthe adulteries of his mother-country in few words which cut to the\nquick. In the poem, written on the death of Giovanni Cairoli, the youth\nwho, like his three brothers before him, died in battle for the unity\nof his country, to the grief yet glory of his widowed mother, the poet,\nbranding, as Dante might have done, the infamy of those who dance and\nmake love, and bring Italy to shame on the very graves of her heroes,\ngoes so far as to curse his fatherland:\u2014\n\n .... Cursed\n be thou, my ancient fatherland,\n on whom to-day\u2019s shame and the vengeance\n of the centuries lie heaped!\n\n The plant of valour grows here yet\n but for thy mules\n to bed on; here the violet\u2019s perfume\n ends in the dung-heap.\n\nBitter, too, are the verses entitled \u201cItaly\u2019s Song as she goes up the\nCampidoglio.\u201d The mode, namely, in which the Italian Government,\nafter promising in the September Convention that it would not occupy\nRome, slunk into the city while France and Germany were busy with\ntheir own affairs, revolted Carducci\u2019s whole soul, much as he, like\nall true Italian patriots, desired to set the Capitol as crown and\nseal on United Italy. He represents the army as entering stealthily by\nnight, and calling on the Capitoline geese not to make such a dreadful\nclatter; it\u2019s only \u201cItaly, great and united,\u201d who is coming back to\nher own again, and they\u2019ll wake Cardinal Antonelli if they cackle so.\nWe might quote endlessly to show how intensely despicable Carducci\nconsidered the diplomats of the Moderate party, who tried to gain their\nends by crooked negotiations now with one Power, now with another,\nboasting that they had \u201cread their Machiavelli\u201d; and its generals who\nled out the fiery Italian youth to be slaughtered by the enemy. Nothing\ncan equal, however, the concentration of scorn to be found in the\nsonnet \u201cHeu Pudor\u201d:\u2014\n\n He lies who says that, when the heart flares up,\n the breath of heated genius fans it.\n With the eternal stamp of infamy had I too\n branded the front of this unworthy herd.\n\n As fierce mayhap as thine, oh Dante father,\n the hate and scorn that camp within my heart;\n But their voracious flaming roars enclosed,\n destroying me, and ne\u2019er attains its aim.\n\n New lakes of pitch, made thick\n with serpents, monsters, and with demons harsh\n a new and twofold bolgia had I dug;\n and, with its hills and with its walls, cast in\u2014\n like to a loathsome tatter\u2014\n this fatherland of Fucci and Bonturi.[18]\n\nIt must not be thought, however, that Carducci can emit nothing but\nfire and smoke. From the lurid \u201cGiambi\u201d we can turn for relief to the\nexquisite little word-pictures of the \u201cOdi Barbare\u201d and of many of the\npoems published in the collections entitled \u201cLevia Gravia\u201d and \u201cRime\nNuove.\u201d It is in these that Carducci\u2019s sense of nature, frank classic\npaganism, united curiously, however, to a certain German sentimental\npessimism, and his extraordinary power of word-sculpture reveal\nthemselves.\n\nLet no reader of Burns or Hogg expect to find in Carducci, however,\nthe same type of nature-sense as abounds in the Saxon poets. The clear\nsky and sharp outlines of Italy do not encourage that gentle sentiment\nproduced by the misty vagueness of hills and plains in the rain-laden\natmosphere of the north. A poet of Greek-Latin race is not likely to\ngive us the \u201cAddress to a Mountain Daisy,\u201d the sweet tenderness of\n\u201cKilmeny,\u201d the undefined melancholy of Tennyson\u2019s \u201cDying Swan,\u201d or\neven the cradling lusciousness of \u201cHaroun Al-Raschid.\u201d His landscape is\naltogether larger; his sky, clear, \u201cstripped to its depths,\u201d as Shelley\nsays of that of Venice, renders distinct even small distant details of\nscarped or forest-clad hill, and, reflected in lake or sea or lighting\nup the mountains with amethyst and topaz, gives colours of greater\nbrilliancy, though of less mystic warmth and depth, than does the\never-varying atmosphere of the British Isles. Macaulay and Longfellow\nhave already observed the difference of the two types of mind in the\nexactitude of detail to be observed in Dante\u2019s \u201cInferno\u201d as compared\nwith the vagueness of Milton\u2019s \u201cHell,\u201d and it is very noticeable also\nin the nature-descriptions of lyric poets. Take as an instance the\nopening of the following poem \u201cAll\u2019Aurora\u201d \u201cTo the Dawn\u201d:\u2014\n\n \u201cThou risest and kissest the clouds with thy rosy breath, O Goddess,\n Kissest the darkling tops of marble temples.\n\n The woods feel thee and rouse with a chilly shudder,\n The falcon springs upon the wing with robber joy,\n\n Whilst the garrulous nests are full of whisperings among the damp leaves,\n And the sea-gull screams grey over the purple sea.\n\n In the laborious plain the first to rejoice in thee are the rivers,\n Glittering tremulously among the murmurs of the poplars:\n\n The sorrel foal runs joyfully towards the deep-flowing streams,\n His maned head erect, neighing to the winds:\n\n The watchful valour of the dogs gives answer from the cabins\n And the whole valley resounds with lusty lowings.\n\n But man, whom thou awakenest to consume his life in work,\n Still regards thee with thoughtful admiration,\n\n Just as, in time gone by, the noble Aryan fathers\n Upright among their white flocks adored thee on the mountain.\u201d\n\nIt is a pity that it is impossible for us to give the subtle melody\nof Carducci\u2019s verse. Although French and German poets have recognised\nthe master and translated some of his works, no Englishman appears\nto have as yet shown this mark of appreciation. Nevertheless, the\ncharacteristic way of treating the subject is clearly visible. The\nhawk, emblem of freedom and strife, is the first living creature that\nstrikes the poet\u2019s eye and mind. The sea-gull, the galloping foal, then\nthe baying of the dogs and the \u201clusty lowings,\u201d render an impression\nrather of grandeur than tenderness; the smaller birds are hardly\nmentioned, the landscape is clear and exact. At the same time there are\nlittle touches of exquisite beauty, worthy of Virgil himself, as in\nthe \u201crosy breath\u201d with which the Dawn kisses the clouds, the \u201cchilly\nshudder of the woods,\u201d \u201cthe garrulous nests whispering among the damp\nleaves.\u201d Such jewels of expression are indeed scattered throughout the\nwhole of Carducci\u2019s work, their conciseness rendering very apparent the\nclassicality of the models on which Carducci formed his style. Of him,\nindeed, Tennyson might have said, as he did of Virgil\u2014\n\n \u201cAll the wealth of all the Muses,\n often flowering in a lonely word.\u201d\n\nSpring sets Carducci\u2019s heart beating in dithyrambs; it is in his spring\nsongs that he abandons himself most completely to the joy of life as\nlife, and attains, perhaps, some of his highest flights of lyric song.\nVery beautiful, for instance, are the three poems entitled \u201cGreek\nSpring Songs\u201d: i. \u00c6olic; ii. Doric; iii. Alexandrine. From the first of\nthese we may quote the return of Apollo\n\n \u201cfrom the hyperborean shores to the pious soil of Greece, to the\n laurels from the sluggish cold; two white swans draw him as they\n fly: the sky smiles. On his head he bears Jove\u2019s golden fillet, but\n the air sighs in his thick-growing locks, and the lyre moves in his\n hand with amorous trembling. Around him circle in light dance the\n Cyclades, fatherland of the deity; from afar Cyprus and Cythera send\n up white foam of applause. And a slight skiff follows throughout the\n great \u00c6gean, purple-sailed, harmonious: Alc\u00e6us of the golden plectrum,\n bearing arms, guides it through the waters. Sappho sits in the midst\n of it, with soft smile and hyacinthine tresses, her white breast\n heaving in the ambrosial air which streams from the god.\u201d\n\nThe poet is not always so classical as this, however. Of a very\ndifferent stamp, to select one other out of many spring poems, is his\n\u201cBrindisi d\u2019Aprile\u201d (\u201cApril Drinking Song\u201d)\u2014\n\n \u201cWhen, in the dark ilexes and new-flowered almond, revels the nuptial\n chorus of the birds, and the primroses on the sunny hills are eyes of\n old-world nymphs looking out on mortal men, and the sun greets the\n beds of flowers with youthful smile, and over the silent moor the sky\n bends piously, and the breath of April moves the flowering corn like a\n sigh of love stirring a young bride\u2019s veil; then do the trunk of the\n vine and the heart of the maiden leap up with throbs; they feel their\n wounds. The vine breathes odorous buds into the cold twigs, the maiden\n darts desire in her virgin blushes. Everything ferments and grows\n languid in the tepor of the air: the blood within the veins, the wine\n within the casks. O, ruddy prisoner! thou yearnest for thy fatherland,\n and the breath of thy native hill raises a ferment within the tun.\n There is the joyous life of the vine twigs: here thou art a prisoner\n in the snare.... Hurrah for liberty! Let us go, let us go to liberate\n the captive; let us call him back to life and make him sparkle in the\n glass, sparkle on the crest of the hill, sparkle to the sunlight; let\n the light breeze kiss him again; let him behold the young vines.\u201d\n\nAnd yet with all this revelling in nature, and especially the nature\nof spring-time, the melancholy despondent strain is never far distant.\nEven in the Greek spring songs there is nearly as much talk of chill\nmist and rain as of clear sky and sunlight; and the third song,\nthe Alexandrine, goes so far as to even introduce a graveyard. In\nthe little poem entitled \u201cSchool Memories,\u201d too, the poet, after\ndescribing the priest, makes a charming picture of the summer landscape\nand beckoning trees that he sees through the window: but everything\nis suddenly crossed and darkened by the thought of \u201cdeath, and the\nformless nothing,\u201d and this thought of death has haunted him ever\nsince. He is too fond of graveyards; too apt, like some German poets\nat the beginning of last century, to look upon the world as a vast\ncemetery. It is perhaps to this same strain of pessimism, this same\ntendency to look at the ugly side of things, that we are to attribute\nthe absolute repulsiveness of many of the images he employs. To\ncompare trees, bald, dripping, and bent, to sextons over a grave is\nhardly poetical, but it is at any rate harmless; some of his other\nsimilitudes are too repulsive for translation, and we must think it a\npity that so great a poet should encourage the tendency to dwell, quite\ngratuitously, on disagreeable non-poetical subjects.\n\nPerhaps the poems which are most free from these defects are those\ncontained in the first volume of the \u201cOdi Barbare.\u201d There we find the\nexquisite little piece entitled \u201cFantasia.\u201d\n\n \u201cThou speakest and thy voice\u2019s soul, yielding languidly to the gentle\n breeze, floats out over the caressing waves, and sails to strange\n shores. It sails smiling in a tepor of setting sunlight, into the\n solitudes: white birds fly between sky and sea, green islands pass\n by, the temples on their rocky summits dart rays of Parian whiteness\n in the rosy sunset, the cypresses on the shores tremble, and the\n thick myrtles send forth their odour. The smell of the salt breezes\n wanders afar, and mingles with the slow singing of the sailors, whilst\n a ship within sight of the harbour peacefully furls its red sails.\n Maidens come down from the acropolis in long procession, and they have\n beautiful white peplums, they bear garlands on their heads, in their\n hands they have branches of laurel, they extend their arms and sing.\n His spear planted in the sand of his fatherland, a man leaps to earth,\n glittering in arms: is he perchance Alc\u00e6us come back from war to the\n Lesbian virgins.\u201d\n\nTo see the charming way in which Carducci can blend history with\nnature, we must turn in the same volume to the poem entitled \u201cSull\u2019\nAdda.\u201d\n\n \u201cFlow through the red fires of evening, flow, blue Adda: Lydia on\n the placid stream, with tender love, sails towards the setting sun.\n Behold, the memorable bridge fades behind us: the airy spring of the\n arches yields to the distance and sinks to the level of the liquid\n plain that widens and murmurs.\u201d\n\nAnd then the poet, in musical verse, traces the history of the battles\nbetween the Romans and barbarians; speaks of the \u201cpale Corsican who\npassed the dubious bridge amid lightnings, bearing the fate of two\ncenturies in his slight and youthful hand\u201d; and in contrast with\nthe smoke and clang and blood of battle we have the recurrence of\nthe verse representing Lydia floating through the fires of evening\ntowards the setting sun: \u201cBeneath the Olympic smile of the air the\nearth palpitates: every wave glows and rises trembling, swelling\nwith radiant love.\u201d The smell of youthful meadows rises from either\nbank, the great trees sign to the skiff as it passes, and, descending\nfrom the trees and rising from the flowering hedges, the birds follow\nthrough the gold and rosy streaks (of sky and water), mingling joyful\nloves. Between rich meadows the Adda flows on to lose itself in the\nEridano; the untiring sun sinks to its setting.\n\n \u201cO sun, O flowing Adda!\u201d exclaims the poet, \u201cthe soul floats through\n an elysium behind thee; where will it and mutual love lose themselves,\n O Lydia? I know not; but I would lose myself now far from men, in\n Lydia\u2019s languid glance, where float unknown desires and mysteries.\u201d\n\nHis power of blending historical scenes with descriptive poetry is also\nto be found in the poem entitled \u201cAt the Springs of the Clitunnus.\u201d\nUmbrians, Tuscans, Romans, Carthaginians pass before the reader; then\nCatholicism appears with its black-robed priests, driving out ancient\ngods and tillage, but ousted in its turn by new developments of the\nhuman mind. \u201cBefore us the train, steaming and panting after new\nindustries, whistles as it rushes along.\u201d Strange as it may seem, all\nthis history does not swamp the poetry, which is of the most purely\nidyllic character throughout.\n\nWe must not leave the subject of Carducci\u2019s sympathy with nature\nwithout mentioning the pretty little dialogue between the poet and\nthe great alley of cypress-trees at which he used to fling stones,\nand among which he used to go bird-nesting in his boyish days. The\ncypresses run to meet him like a double row of young giants, welcome\nhim and beg him to remain with them, offering him the pastimes of\nyears gone by. The poet answers that he cannot stop; he has grown to\nbe a celebrity now, he reads Greek and Latin, writes and writes, is\nno longer an urchin, and, as to stones, he no longer throws them,\nespecially at plants. A murmur runs through the doubting summits, the\nrosy light of the setting sun shines athwart the dark cypress green\nwith a pitying smile, sun and trees seem to feel compassion for him,\nand the murmur embodies itself in words. The winds have told the\npoet\u2019s old companions of his eternal unrest, of his eternal brooding\nover vexed questions which can never be settled. Let him come back to\nhis old haunts, to the blue sea, the smile of the setting sun, the\nflights of birds, the chirping of the sparrows, the choruses which pass\neternally between earth and sky. So only will he lay the evil spectres\nwhich rise from the black depths of man\u2019s thought-beaten heart, as\nputrid flames rise before one walking in a cemetery. The poet will not\nstop, yet, as the train whirls him back to the problems of the world,\nhe looks back at the quiet graveyard to which they lead up and where\nhis grandmother lies, wondering whether they may not be right, and\nwhether what he has sought for morning and evening so many years in\nvain, may not after all be hidden there. Yet as the train rushes on,\nthe colts run racing beside it; and it is only a donkey, feeding on a\nthistle, that stands stolidly gazing on the busy scene before him.\n\nA pilgrim to this cypress alley relates that its owner, Count Walfredo\ndella Gherardesca, refuses to cut down the trees, many of which have\nsuffered much from storms, and replant the alley. \u201cCarducci loves\nthem,\u201d he said, \u201cand therefore I respect them. Those that have suffered\nI shall replace little by little by young plants, and thus the alley\nwill preserve its true and now celebrated appearance.\u201d\n\nAs an expression of pure nature-sense, we may still quote, perhaps, the\nsonnet entitled \u201cThe Ox\u201d:\u2014\n\n \u201cI love thee, O pious ox; a gentle sentiment of strength and peace\n dost thou infuse into my heart, whether, solemn, monumental, thou\n lookest out over the free and fertile fields, or whether, bending\n to the yoke, thou secondest man\u2019s swift work with grave content: he\n urges thee, he goads thee, and thou answerest with the slow turn\n of thy patient eyes. Thy breath streams from thy nostril large and\n damp and black, and thy lowing loses itself in the still air like a\n joyous hymn; and within the grave sweetness of thine eye, with its\n green-shadowed depths, the divine verdure of the plain lies reflected\n broadly and tranquilly.\u201d\n\nThe conciseness and precision of Carducci\u2019s language give him an\nextraordinary power of vivid representation of his subject. He\n\u201cetches, sculptor-like,\u201d as Emerson says of Dante. What can be more\nvivid, for instance, than the picture of rural life which opens the\npoem \u201cAt the Springs of the Clitunnus\u201d?\u2014\n\n \u201cStill do the flocks come down to thee, O Clitunnus, through the moist\n air of evening, from the mountain that waves with dusky ash-groves\n murmuring in the wind, and scatters afar its odours of wild sage\n and thyme; the Umbrian boy still plunges the struggling sheep into\n thy wave; whilst the babe at the breast of the sunburnt mother,\n sitting barefoot by the cottage door and singing, turns towards\n him, and smiles from its fair round face; thoughtfully does the\n father, his legs clad in goat-skins like the fauns of old, guide the\n painted ploughshare, and the strength of the beautiful heifers; the\n beautiful square-breasted heifers their heads erect with mooned horns,\n sweet-eyed, snowy, that gentle Virgil loved.\u201d\n\nDoes not one see before one, too, the _Bionda Maria_ (fair-haired\nMaria) of the \u201cIdillio Maremmano\u201d in the following verses?\n\n \u201cHow lovely wert thou, O maiden, emerging from the long waving\n furrows, with fresh-plucked flowers in thy hand, tall and smiling; and\n under thy glowing brows thou opened\u2019st the blue of thy large deep eyes\n darting untamed fire. Like the cornflower among the yellowing gold of\n the corn-ears did the blue of that eye blossom forth among thy tawny\n hair; and before and around thee the height of summer flamed; the sun\n laughed, broken by the green branches of the pomegranate, sparkling\n in red. At thy passing, as at that of a goddess, the gorgeous peacock\n opened his eyed tail, beholding thee, and sent up to thee a harsh cry.\u201d\n\nOf a different kind, but equally effective, is the following\ndescription, drawn from a scene in the hall of a thirteenth-century\nlord. The storm is raging outside; the greyhound bays at the thunder,\nand stretches out his taper head, with erect ears and restless eyes,\ntowards the marchioness who sits amid her women and maidens; a fire,\nsmelling of the pine forest, blazes in the midst, and, upright before\nit, Malaspina rises a whole head above the minor barons:\u2014\n\n \u201cA fine trained goshawk perched on the knight\u2019s fist, and, when the\n hail struck the windows now here now there according to the shifting\n wind, and the swift-passing lightning whitened the flashing arms\n hanging on the walls, the bird beat its wings, stretching out its\n snakelike neck, and gave out a hoarse cry of joy: the love of his\n native, free Apuan heights burnt in his piercing eye; he longed, the\n noble bird, to direct his flight through the thunder athwart the\n clouds.\u201d\n\nDiverse once more, yet none the less apt to remain impressed upon the\nmemory, is the opening picture of the poem for the fifth anniversary of\nthe battle of Mentana, where, it will be remembered, Garibaldi\u2019s troops\nwere defeated by the combined French and Papal forces:\u2014\n\n \u201cEvery year when the sad hour of Mentana\u2019s rout sounds over the\n conscious hills, plains and hills heave, and proudly upright stands\n the band of the dead on the tumuli of Nomentum. They are no hideous\n skeletons; they are tall and beautiful forms, around which waves the\n rosy veil of twilight: through their wounds laugh the pious, virgin\n stars; the clouds of the sky wreathe lightly round their locks.\u201d\n\nNo doubt it is Carducci\u2019s classicism (in a poem entitled \u201cClassicism\nand Romanticism\u201d he holds up the latter to utter ridicule) which gives\nhim this marked power of word-painting; it also informs his poem\nwith a paganism of which we shall have presently to speak. Yet it\nis classicism deeply coloured by nineteenth-century life. Take, for\ninstance, the little poem \u201cRuit Hora,\u201d and see how the modern unrest\ncomes across the calm of the classic scene. Horace\u2019s Lydia would not\nhave understood a lover of this sort for all his passion:\u2014\n\n \u201cO green solitude for which I have yearned, far from the noise of\n men! hither come two divine friends with us, O Lydia, Wine and Love.\n See how Lyc\u00e6us, the eternal youth, laughs in the shining crystal: as\n in thine eyes, O glorious Lydia, Love rides in triumph and unbinds\n his eyes. The sun shines low through the trellis and breaks, rosy,\n against my glass; he glances and trembles golden among thy locks, O\n Lydia. Among the blackness of thy locks, O snowy Lydia, a pallid rose\n languishes, and a gentle sudden sadness tempers the fires of love in\n my heart. Tell me: why does the sea down there send up mysterious\n groanings under the flaming evening? What songs, O Lydia, do those\n pines sing to each other? See with what desire those hills stretch out\n their arms to the setting sun: the shadow grows and embraces them: it\n seems as though they were begging the last kiss, O Lydia. I beg thy\n kisses, if the shade envelops me, O Lyc\u00e6us, giver of joy; I beg thine\n eyes, O shining Lydia, if Hyperion sinks. And time is rushing by. O\n rosy mouth, unclose! O flower of the soul, O flower of desire, open\n thy cup! O loved arms, open!\u201d\n\nPerhaps, too, Carducci, for all his classic forms, is the only living\npoet who could make a detailed description of a railway station, the\narrival of the train, clipping of the ticket, banging of the doors,\netc., without once falling into triviality or bombast; yet such a feat\nhas he performed in the poem entitled, \u201cAt the Station on an Autumn\nMorning.\u201d\n\nEspecially marked in Carducci\u2019s poems, and particularly in his early\nones, is his rebellion against the Church. The poet\u2019s paganism has\nbeen much discussed. It is a paganism based not on any repugnance for\nthe teaching and character of Christ (on the contrary, the poet makes\na most attractive picture of Christ in one of his poems), but upon\nthe unfeigned joy in nature with which, as an antidote to his own\npessimism, the classic poets presented him. It takes the form of a\nviolent revolt against the creed that, in his opinion, had neglected if\nnot opposed art, had raved of \u201catrocious unions of God with Pain,\u201d had\nsubstituted gloom and sadness for the happy life of freedom and nature\n(see the poem entitled \u201cIn a Gothic Church\u201d), had for centuries been a\nbarrier to human progress, had constantly been found in alliance with\nthe enemies of Italy, and had, in these later years of ardent strife\nfor the unification of the Fatherland, systematically, with violence\nand with cunning, opposed the heroes who were giving their lives in\nthe cause of freedom. The Romish Church was for him the symbol of\nretrogression, gloom, and antipatriotism; and in the violence of his\nreaction against it he confounded it with the whole of Christianity,\neven going so far as to personify progress and liberty, by antithesis,\nunder the title of \u201cSatan.\u201d\n\nThe \u201cHymn to Satan,\u201d published for the first time in 1865 at Pistoia\nunder the pseudonym of \u201cEnotrio Romano,\u201d may be said, indeed, to be the\nbeginning of his fame. Launched on the world without any explanation,\nthe misleading title caused it to be understood only by a few careful\nreaders. The world at large saw in it, according to the opinion of\none critic, \u201can intellectual orgy,\u201d a blasphemous rebellion against\neverything that the nation, and even the world, had hitherto considered\nsacred and necessary for the existence of society. Its publication\nexcited great controversy, afterwards given to the world under the\ntitle of the \u201cPolemiche Sataniche,\u201d which gave Carducci the opportunity\nof responding to the attacks of the critics, and explaining the\nintimate sense of the poem; but even after his explanations, even when\nwe know from his own lips that for him, taking up, as he believes,\nthe standpoint of the modern Roman Catholic Church, \u201cSatan is beauty,\nlove, wellbeing, happiness\u201d; that \u201cSatan is thought that flies, science\nthat experiments, the heart that blazes up, the forehead on which is\nwritten \u2018I will not abase myself\u2019; that Satanic were the revolutions\nthat brought men out of the middle ages; Satanic the Italian communes;\nthe German Reformation; Holland embodying liberty in deed; England\nvindicating and avenging it; France spreading it abroad to all orders\nand all peoples,\u201d\u2014even after the poet himself has told us this,\nthe poem still jars in many places for the unwonted violence of its\nexpressions. It is a battle-hymn, with all the fire and energy of the\nbattle-charge in it. The metre rushes like the swift running of horses,\nsweeping the reader along with irresistible force. The poem opens with\nthe following invocation:\u2014\n\n \u201cTowards thee, boundless principle of being, matter and spirit,\n reason and sense, whilst the wine sparkles in the cups like the soul\n in the eye; while the earth and sun smile and interchange words of\n love, and a murmur of mysterious nuptials runs through the mountains,\n and the fruitful plain palpitates,\u2014towards thee does the bold\n verse break forth; I invoke thee, O Satan, king of the feast. Away,\n O priest, with your aspersorium and your chant! No, priest, Satan\n turns not back. See, rust eats away Michael\u2019s mystic brand; and\n the faithful archangel, plucked of his feathers, falls into space.\n Cold is the thunderbolt in Jehovah\u2019s hand. Like pallid meteors,\n extinguished planets, do the angels rain down from the firmaments. In\n never-sleeping matter, king of phenomena, king of forms, Satan lives\n alone.\u201d\n\nSatan lurks in beauty, love, and wine, so the poem goes on; and Satan\nbreathes \u201cfrom my verse if, bursting forth from my breast and defying\nthe god of guilty priests, of bloody kings, it shakes the minds of men\nlike a thunderbolt.\u201d It was Satan who breathed in the nature-worship\nof ancient times; Satan that, driven out by the barbarous Nazarene\nfury of the love-feasts whose sacred torches were used to burn down\ntemples, took refuge among the hearth-gods of the people, and shook the\nbreasts of witches, who, pale with eternal care, drew their inspiration\nfrom nature and him. He opens the cloister gate before the alchemist,\nrevealing new and radiant skies. In vain monks and nuns try to shut\nhim out from their lives; he inspires Helo\u00efse, he murmurs the verses\nof Ovid and Horace among David\u2019s psalms and tears of repentance. But\nSatan often peoples the sleepless cell with images of a better age.\nHe arouses, from the pages of Livy, eager tribunes, consuls, agitated\nshouting crowds. Wiclif and Huss, Savonarola, Luther secure the triumph\nof human thought: matter, rise again! Satan has conquered.\n\n \u201cA beautiful and terrible monster breaks loose, traverses the ocean,\n traverses the land: shining and smoke-wreathed like the volcano,\n it climbs mountains, devours plains, leaps gulfs; then hides in\n nameless caves traversing deep-hidden paths; and issues forth; and\n untamed sends out its cry like a whirlwind from shore to shore, like\n a whirlwind scatters abroad its breath: he passes, O peoples, Satan\n the Great,\u2014passes beneficent from place to place on the resistless\n chariot of fire. Hail, O Satan, O rebellion, O avenging force of\n reason! Sacred are the vows and the incense that rise to thee. Thou\n hast conquered the Jehovah of the priest.\u201d\n\nThe metre of the \u201cInno a Satana\u201d is, as we have said, swinging and\nfree. It is not in this poem that Carducci has \u201cmeasured the lyric\nbuskins on to Italian Muse\u201d; and indeed he himself, in the \u201cPolemiche\nSataniche,\u201d severely criticises its form. It was the expression of the\npoet\u2019s inmost soul, written at white-heat in a single night. Carducci\u2019s\nreal work as a lyric poet is to be found in his other poems, in the\nthree volumes of \u201cOdi Barbare,\u201d for instance, the \u201cLevia Gravia,\u201d the\n\u201cRime Nuove,\u201d the \u201cGiambi ed Epodi.\u201d\n\n \u201cI have called these odes barbarous,\u201d he tells us, \u201cbecause they would\n sound so in the ears and judgment of the Greeks and Romans, although\n I have attempted to compose them in the metrical form of their lyric\n poetry. I felt,\u201d he goes on to say in substance, \u201cthat I had different\n things to say from those sung by Dante, Petrarch, Politian, Tasso, and\n other classic lyric poets, and could not see why, since Horace and\n Catullus were allowed to enrich Latin verse with Greek forms, since\n Dante might adapt Proven\u00e7al rhymes to Italian poetry, why I should\n not be pardoned for doing that for which those great poets received\n praise.\u201d\n\nNeither is Carducci alone in his attempts to adapt Latin measures to\nItalian verse. Other poets (among them Chiabrera) had written _Poesia\nBarbara_ before him, and his contemporary Cavallotti has tried it\ntoo; but they have produced _Poesia Barbara_ of a different kind.\nThe essential difference between these poets and Carducci lies in\nthis: that whereas they copied the mechanism of the Latin metre, with\nits complicated system of long and short syllables, Carducci, with\nfiner intuition of the genius of his mother-tongue, has aimed at\ncatching and reproducing the music, the rhythm of the Latin verse. He\nis hence no copyist but a musician of most delicate ear, whose keen\nsense of harmony has procured him success where others have failed,\nand are likely to fail miserably. Modern Italian is not fitted, any\nmore than modern English, for the formal construction of verse on\nthe basis of long and short feet,\u2014on the basis, that is, of metre.\nIndeed many Italian critics think that even in Latin this form of\nverse-construction was gradually giving way, or assimilating itself\nto the rhythmical verse\u2014the verse whose movement struck the ear,\nas does the rhythm of music or dance, without awakening grammatical\nconsiderations of length or shortness of syllables. It is this\nreproduction of rhythm instead of metre that renders Carducci so\neminently and pleasurably readable where other poets, even great ones,\nare insupportable. All readers of Tennyson, for instance, know the rage\nwith which one tries to infuse a little music into his \u201cexperiments.\u201d\nOne struggles with \u201cBoadicea,\u201d trying vainly to discover some sort of\nmelody in it, but, on coming to such a line as this\u2014\n\n \u201cMad and maddening, all that heard her in her fierce volubility,\u201d\n\nreally throws away the book in utter despair. Not so with Carducci.\nIt is rare to find a harsh verse in his work, though such, of course,\ndo occur here and there, and the ease with which his poetry can\nbe translated into Latin (as much of it has been) proves its close\naffinity with this language.[19]\n\nAs will be seen from the foregoing sketch, Carducci is no easy-going\npoet. He bears out in his everyday work the dislike he has expressed\nat seeing the Lyric in dressing-gown and slippers, and has given us,\nin a little poem at the end of the \u201cRime Nuove,\u201d his idea of what a\npoet should be\u2014the true _poietes_ (\u03c0\u03bf\u03b9\u03b7\u03c4\u03ae\u03c2) of the Greeks. For him\nthe poet is a great artificer, with muscles hardened into iron at his\ntrade: he holds his head high, his neck is strong, his breast bare, his\neye bright. Hardly do the birds begin to chirp, and the dawn to smile\nover the hills than he, with his bellows, rouses the joy of the leaping\nflames in his smithy. Into the blazing furnace he throws the elements\nof love and thought, and the memories and glory of his fathers and his\npeople. Past and future does he fuse in the incandescent mass. Then\nwith his hammer he works it on the anvil, and in the splendour of the\nnewly risen sun, sings as he fashions swords to strive for liberty,\nwreaths to crown victory and glory, and diadems to deck out beauty.\n\u201cAnd for himself the poor workman makes a golden arrow, which he shoots\ntowards the sun: his eye follows its shining upward flight, follows it\nand rejoices, and desires nothing more.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nGIOVANNI PASCOLI\n\n\nTHOROUGHLY Italian and of the best period is Pascoli in the exquisite\npropriety of his words; in the sharpness with which he outlines the\nlittle pictures, which are characteristic, especially, of his earlier\nwork. In these respects one feels his close affinity with the Latin\npoets\u2014above all Virgil\u2014who are his Gods, and from whom the early\nItalian poets immediately derive. Less Italian\u2014using the word in\nthe stereotyped sense which would exclude Leopardi altogether from\nItalian song\u2014less Italian is he in the mode and direction of his\nthought. No gay love-songs, no easy sentimentality have come from his\npen: the passion of love is in fact strangely absent from his work.\nHe is a child not so much of Italy, as of his age, in his attitude of\nenquiry towards the great questions of life and death; in the gravity,\nthe earnestness resulting, especially in his later works, from this\nattitude.\n\nNor is this individuality to be wondered at; for Pascoli\u2019s muse was\ncradled in sorrow. He was but a lad when his father, returning home,\namong the hills of Romagna and within sight of the medi\u00e6val republic of\nS. Marino, was treacherously murdered by an unknown hand. His mother\ndied not very long after, having never really recovered from the shock;\nthen three brothers and a sister; so that Giovanni found himself at a\nvery early age head of a family of a brother and two sisters.\n\nA hard struggle enabled him to form a home for them. One of the little\npoems to his mother which mark, year after year, the anniversary of her\ndeath, refers to this struggle as follows:\u2014\n\n Know\u2014and perhaps thou dost know in the churchyard\u2014\n the child with long gold ringlets\n and that other for whom thy last tear fell\u2014\n know that I fostered them, that I adore them.\n\n For them I gathered up my shattered courage\n and I wiped clear my soul for them;\n they have a roof, they have a nest\u2014my boast:\n my love it is that feeds them, and my toil.\n\n They are not happy, know it, but serene;\n theirs is the smile but of a pious sadness:\n I look on them\u2014my sole, lone family\u2014\n\n and ever to my eyes I feel there comes\n that last unfinished tear that wet thy lids\n in the death-agony.\n\nHe now lives either at Messina, where he is Professor of Latin, or\namong the chestnut woods that clothe the hills round Barga near Lucca,\nwith one of his sisters. This is Maria, the careful, winning housewife\nwhom all readers of her brother\u2019s poems love\u2014herself known also in\nthe world of letters as a graceful poetess and an accomplished Latin\nscholar. Two or three verses of the little poem entitled \u201c_Sorella_\u201d\nreflect the bond that unites them.\n\n I know not if she be to him more mother\n or more daughter, the sister, gently serious;\n she\u2014sweet, and grave and pious\u2014\n corrects, consoles and counsels;\n\n Presses his hair, embraces him\n care-burdened; speaks:\u2014\u201c_What is it?_\u201d\n Conceals her face against his breast,\n Speaks, in confusion:\u2014\u201c_Know\u2019st not?_\u201d\n\n She keeps on her pale face\n and in her eyes quick glancing,\n ah! for when he leaves, the smile;\n the tears for his return.\n\nTwo principal influences, then, have gone to the moulding of Pascoli\u2019s\ngenius: one, the potent attraction of the Augustan poets; the other,\nthe shock, strain and struggle which have fixed his thoughts on the\nmost painful problems of existence; which have, by the very breaking up\nof his home, accentuated the longing for the domestic affections above\nthat for amorous passion; and have tinged the whole of his work with an\nautumn-like sadness.\n\nBoth these influences reveal themselves in Pascoli\u2019s first published\nwork; a small volume of little poems entitled _Myric\u00e6_, and bearing\nthe legend _Arbusta juvant, humilesque myric\u00e6_. The shock was at that\ntime, however, still too near to have exerted its full influence\non the poet\u2019s character. It kept his mind fixed not so much on the\nphilosophical as on the sentimental and physical side of death: on\nthe churchyard with its cypresses, its driving showers and gleams of\ngolden sunshine, its rainbow, its groups of merry children playing\n\u201cTouch\u201d round the great cross\u2014but, also, with its dead lying through\nthe long nights of rain and wind. Even here, however, where triteness\nwould seem inevitable, Pascoli is individual. He never contemplates\nphysical decay: worms and skulls are not so much as hinted at. It is\nthe loneliness of his dead that rivets the poet\u2019s thoughts, their vain\nlonging for news of those they left on earth:\u2014\n\n Oh, children\u2014groans the father \u2019mid the black\n swish of the water\u2014ye whom I hear no more\n for many years! Another churchyard\n\n perhaps received you, and maybe you call\n your mother as you shiver naked\n \u2019neath the black hissing rainstorms.\n\n And from your far-off dwelling you stretch out\n your arms to me, as I do mine to you,\n oh sons, in vain despair.\n\n Oh, children, children! Could I only see you!\n For I would tell you how in that one instant\n for an entire eternity I loved you.\n\n In that one minute ere I died\n I raised my hand up to my bleeding head,\n and blessed you all, my children.\n\nAnd again:\u2014\n\n They weep. I see, see, see. They form\n a circle, wrapped in the ceaseless booming.\n They still wait, and they must wait.\n\n The dead sons cling about the father\n unavenged. Sits in a tomb,\n I see, I see in midst of them, my mother.\n\n_Sunt lacrymae rerum._ Pascoli returns to his father\u2019s death more than\nonce in these early poems: never with impotent cries against man or\ndestiny, but with a sense as it were of wide-eyed wonder at the pity\nof the thing. Here are a few verses characteristic of his attitude;\ncharacteristic, too, of his daring simplicity of expression, relieved,\njust as there is a fear of its sinking into mere prose, by some equally\ndaring conception that throws a vivid light over all that has gone\nbefore.\n\n August 10th.\n\n St. Laurence\u2019 day. I know\u2019t, because so many\n stars through the quiet air\n burn, fall; because so great a weeping\n gleams in the concave sky.\n\n A swallow was returning to her roof;\n they killed her; \u2019mid the thorns she fell\n She had an insect in her beak:\n the supper for her nestlings.\n\n Now she lies there as on a cross, and holds\n that worm out to that far-off sky;\n and in the shadow waits for her her nest;\n its chirping fainter comes and fainter.\n\n A man, too, was returning to his nest.\n They killed him; he spoke: Pardon!\n And in his open eyes remained a cry.\n He bore two dolls as gifts....\n\n There in the lonely cottage, now,\n in vain they wait and wait for him:\n He motionless, astonished, shows\n the dolls to the far-off sky.\n\n And thou, oh sky, from far above the worlds\n serene\u2014infinite sky, immortal\u2014\n oh! with thick-falling tears of stars inundate\n this atom dark of Evil.\n\nSuch poems bear, however, but a small proportion to the rest of the\nwork even in the first edition of the _Myric\u00e6_, and a still smaller\nproportion in the later editions. The note is struck and left for a\ntime: heard again, it has been developed into a theme whose harmonies\nare rich and deep.\n\nThe _Myric\u00e6_, now in its fifth edition, is a collection of the shortest\nof poems. Many of them are but a few lines long, that pass in Italian\nlike the brush of wings and cannot be rendered in our heavier English.\nNow it is a little picture, cut like a sixteenth century cameo, of\nsome detail of the country or of country life, generally with just\na touch at the end that relieves the feeling of pure objectiveness,\nand suggests the Infinite which lies around and behind the fragment\npresented; now it is some philosophical maxim or reflection which has\nevidently become part of the poet\u2019s individuality; now an impression\nof infancy, childhood, girlhood, old age; now a fine-wrought point of\nirony to prick the ignorance and arrogance of the Philistine.\n\nA consideration of Pascoli\u2019s relation to Nature and the peasantry\nimmediately suggests a comparison with Wordsworth. It is, however,\na curious fact that the more one attempts to fix the similarity\nbetween the two, the more elusive does it prove to be. We might\nsay, tentatively, that Pascoli is both more pagan and more human,\nnotwithstanding _Margaret_ and _Michael_, than Wordsworth. He is more\npagan in that his delight in the beauty of a natural object is more\nself-sufficing, therefore more intense; it is a delight that suggests\nno defined religious or quasi-religious ideas, though there is always\na feeling, conscious or sub-conscious, that the object is an organic\npart of the Universe. He is more human in that the peasants too attract\nhim more for their own sakes than for the moral reflections to which\nthey may give rise. They are, moreover, peasants in the full sense\nof the word. They are an inseparable part of their surroundings, and\ntheir interest derives from their unbroken contact with Nature, who\nnow favours, now destroys their toil. A carefully thought out parallel\nstudy of the two poets would without doubt be interesting: it would\nhave to set out from the fact that the fundamentals of the philosophy\nof the two men are essentially different: the Christianity and\nPlatonism of the English poet being replaced in the Italian\u2014citizen of\na nation which is rapidly casting off metaphysical speculation\u2014by a\nfrank facing of the possibilities and probabilities opened up by modern\nscientific research, by a passionate longing for truth built upon the\nrock of scientific fact. A reference to the poet\u2019s lecture entitled\n_L\u2019Era Nuova_ (The New Era) will put this point beyond dispute.\n\nAmong the poems which mark most strongly this fundamental difference\nand this elusive similarity between Wordsworth and Pascoli is that\npublished in the _Marzocco_ of August 19th, and entitled _Inno del\nMendico_. The simplicity of the diction, the spaciousness of the\natmosphere, the patient resignation of the beggar-man, his harmony with\nthe upland and the lake which form a setting for him, at once suggest\nWordsworth; but the details of the poem are so totally different from\nany conception of Wordsworth\u2019s that a second reading shows the likeness\nto be superficial. Pascoli is too thoroughly modern in his scientific\nattitude, notwithstanding his Latin affinities (or perhaps if the\nmatter be well thought out partly in consequence of them), to have many\npoints of contact with any of the early Victorian English poets.\n\nAs for the _Myric\u00e6_, the poems are so varied that it is difficult\nto characterise or to illustrate them. Some of the most individual\nand attractive\u2014\u201c_Dialogue_\u201d (between sparrows and swallows),\n\u201c_Hoof-beats_,\u201d and others\u2014are very delicate word-imitations of\nmovements, of sounds, of mental states even: and the verbal imitation\nis quite inseparable from the conception. The poet himself groups\nhis little \u201cswallow-flights of song\u201d under a number of heads; but\nis nevertheless constrained to leave many standing alone. Thus we\nhave a set of ten headed \u201c_From Dawn to Sunset_,\u201d in which occurs\nthe \u201c_Hoof-beats_\u201d already mentioned; another group entitled\n\u201c_Remembrances_\u201d in which is the little poem above quoted on the\nanniversary of his mother\u2019s death; another headed \u201c_Thoughts_\u201d\u2014short\nbut pregnant reflections of a philosophical character; \u201c_Young\nThings_\u201d\u2014five tiny pieces which reveal a tender sympathy with young\nillusions, springing from a deep sense of the contrast between the\nworld of the children and the reality into which they have been born.\nWe may perhaps quote a couple as they emphasize the feeling for\ncontrasts visible in other parts of Pascoli\u2019s work.\n\nFIDES.\n\n When evening was glowing all ruddy,\n and the cypresses seemed made of fine gold,\n the mother spoke to her boy-child:\u2014\n \u201ca whole garden\u2019s up there, made like that.\u201d\n The baby sleeps and dreams of golden boughs,\n of golden trees, of forests of pure gold:\n meanwhile the cypress in the murky night\n weeps in the rainstorm, fights against the wind.\n\nORPHAN.\n\n Slowly the snow falls, flake on flake:\n listen, a cradle rocks so gently.\n A baby cries, with tiny thumb in mouth;\n an old dame sings with chin in hand.\n The old dame sings:\u2014\u201cAround thy little bed\n roses and lilies grow, a lovely garden.\u201d\n The baby in the cradle falls asleep:\n the snow falls slowly, flake on flake.\n\nIt will be perceived that it is not only the child in age whose\nillusions are touched on. The wider symbolism is at once apparent.\n\nFrom the sixteen poems included in \u201c_The Last Walk_,\u201d we may perhaps\nquote one that illustrates Pascoli\u2019s tendency to parable.\n\nTHE DOG.\n\n We, while the world goes on its road\n eat out our hearts, and double is our torment,\n because it moves, because it moves so slowly.\n\n So, when the lumb\u2019ring waggon passes by\n the cottage, and the heavy dray-horse\n imprints the soil with thudding hoofs,\n\n the dog springs from the hedgerow, swift as wind,\n runs after it, before it; whines and bays.\n The waggon has passed onward slowly, slowly;\n\n the dog comes sneezing back to the farm-yard.\n\n\u201c_In the Country_\u201d includes eighteen charming little pieces in which\nthe precision of the poet\u2019s wording reveals itself with striking\nclearness. One tiny picture we may translate. Each object in it is\ndistinct; and a feeling of aerial perspective is given to it by the\nlong-drawn notes of the _stornello_ which are suggested at its close.\n\n OCTOBER EVENING.\n\n Along the road, see, on the hedge\n laugh bunches of red berries;\n in the ploughed fields move homewards to the stall\n slowly the oxen.\n\n Comes down the road a beggar-man who drags\n his slow step through sharp-rustling leaves:\n in the fields a maiden raises to the wind her song:\n _Flower of the thornbush!_\n\nTwo specially charming collections occur under the heading\n\u201c_Primavera_\u201d and \u201c_Dolcezze_.\u201d One little touch in the latter may\nperhaps be given.\n\nWITH THE ANGELS.\n\n They were in flower, the lilacs and the olives:\n and she sat sewing at a bridal dress:\n nor had the air yet opened buds of stars,\n nor the mimosa folded yet a leaf,\n when she laughed out; yea, laughed, oh small black swallows;\n laughed suddenly. But with whom, at what?\n She laughed, so, with the angels, with those\n clouds of gold, those clouds of rose-colour.\n\nGirls sewing or weaving, it may be remarked in passing, occur often in\nPascoli\u2019s verse: one feels in them the pulse of the strong domestic\naffections that course through the poet\u2019s inner life.\n\nIn \u201c_Tristezze_\u201d Nature breathes different suggestions: it has the\nsweet languidness of a fine autumn day, with recollections of a gentle\nmelancholy. A good many people have written about empty nests; but the\ntouch, in the following quotation, of the feather on the point of being\nblown away, yet clinging on, is surely individual.\n\n\nTHE NEST.\n\n From the wild rose-bush, just a skeleton,\n there hangs a nest. How in the spring\n bursts from it, filling all the air,\n the twitter of the chattering housemates!\n\n Now there\u2019s but one small feather. At the wooing\n of the wind it hesitates, beats lightly;\n like to some ancient dream in soul severe\n that ever flies and yet is never fled.\n\n And now the eye turns downward from the heavens\u2014\n the heavens to which one last full harmony\n rose glorious, and died into the air\u2014\n\n and fixes on the earth, on which the leaves\n lie rotting; whilst in waves the wind\n weeps through the lonely country.\n\nWe must not close this most inadequate notice of the _Myric\u00e6_ without\nmentioning the refined tenderness of one of the closing poems, too\nlong to quote, entitled \u201c_Colloquio_.\u201d The poet\u2019s mother, a figure of\ninfinite sweetness, mute and shadowy, yet real, revisits the familiar\nhouse-places with her son; and a few incidental touches put before us\nan idyllic sketch of the home with its plants and the two housewifely\nsisters, so different in character.\n\nAs a contrast to the details of the _Myric\u00e6_ we may here quote a\npoem that appeared (December 1897) in the _Nuova Antologia_. Breadth\nof silent space has as great a fascination for Pascoli as have the\ntender details of home and country life. He had already in one of the\n\u201c_Poemetti_\u201d dwelt with longing on the northern regions whither the\nwild swans fly, where the _aurora borealis_ lights up the infinite\npolar gloom, where mountains of eternal ice rest on the sea as on a\npavement; and Andr\u00e9e\u2019s balloon expedition to the Pole especially fired\nhis imagination. The poem that bears the traveller\u2019s name was written\nwhen, after long silence, there was a report that human cries had\nbeen heard on the Sofjord. In the Italian, the first part, broken\nby questionings and doubtings has an effect of uncertainty, like the\nuneasy straining of the balloon at its rope; from it the second part\nrises with a sure, strong leap and sinks gently at the end.\n\nANDR\u00c9E.\n\nI.\n\n No, no. The voice borne faint athwart the gloomy\n air from the realms of ice, like human cries,\n was but the petrel\u2019s screech,\n that loves the lonely rocks, the storms\n unheard. Or maybe (was it not like children\u2019s\n wailing?) maybe the sea-gull\u2019s.\n A sound uplifts itself of wailful limboes\n far in remotest shade untrodden:\n that is the gulls, they say. Or divers, maybe?\n Or the skua? Perhaps the skua\u2014for when it flies\n above the icefields, from a thousand nests\n rises a strident cry; since with it draws a-near\n Death\u2019s self. Or was\u2019t vain voiceless crying\n in thine own heart? Nay, but the look-out heard them;\n and in the look-out\u2019s ear thou trustest.\n Yea, but \u2019twas, sure, the roar of breakers,\n crashing of rocks, howling of wind, the pant\n of storms far off, yet nearing,\n the sky, the sea, oh Norman seafarer!\n\nII.\n\n Andr\u00e9e was\u2019t not. Centaur, to whose swift course\n the cloud is mud, the empty wind firm ground,\n towards the Great Bear he flew.\n Followed his flight the horn\u00e8d elks at first;\n then no one more; so that there was at last\n but his great heart beating above the Pole.\n For he had reached the confines of the evening,\n and on the Polar peak immovable\n stood, as on rock black eagle.\n High overhead the ocean\u2019s star burnt on\n pendent, eternal lamp\u2014\n and in the lofty shadow seemed to sway.\n And fix\u00e8d on his heart saw he, from this\n wave, and from that, of every savage sea,\n amid the calm, amid the roar of the tempest,\n millions of eyes illum\u00e8d in the ray\n that burned above his head; and instantly\n cried he to all those eyes of that vast mirage\n _I reach my goal!_\n\nIII.\n\n And then, below him, solemn rose the hymn\n of holy swans hyperborean; slow\n and intermittent ring of unknown harps;\n the knell, far off and lone amid the wind,\n of bells, the closing of great gates,\n hard-turning with clear clang of silver.\n Nor ever sounded erst that song more loud,\n more suave. They sang, that all around,\n alone, pure, infinite was Death.\n And o\u2019er the wing\u00e8d man came scorn of days\n that rise and fall; hatred of all the vain\n outgoings that foresee the garrulous return.\n High was he on the peak; with human fate\n beneath him. Andr\u00e9e felt himself alone,\n great, monarch, God!\n Now died the hymn of the sacred flock away\n in tremulous trumpet blast.\n Then silence. O\u2019er the Pole the star burnt on,\n like the lonely lamp of a tomb.\n\nWith the \u201c_Poemetti_,\u201d published in 1897, we find ourselves in the\nsecond phase of Pascoli\u2019s work. He and his sister have left their home\nin S. Mauro, with its heart-rending associations, and are settled\nin Barga. The trouble can be contemplated from a distance, can be\nreflected upon in its general outlines, and brought into harmony\nwith life as a whole. But the poet\u2019s mind has not taken refuge in the\nreligion of the Church; he is very far from the sentiment of Tennyson\u2019s\n_In Memoriam_. He finds his comfort in the delicious consciousness of\nquiet joy known only to those who have suffered without weakness; he\nfinds his strength in the new perspective of life that is obtained by\na fixed contemplation of the insignificant place our world holds in\nthe Universe\u2014of the reality of death, which for him ends all things.\nAnd this philosophy renders him very human: it focusses his affections\nupon his fellow mortals. Love, brotherly love, alone can keep our\nconsciences at rest, and fully satisfy our aspirations\u2014such is the\nearnest cry of this man across the threshold of whose life the hatred\nof a fellow man stretched the corpse of a murdered father.\n\nThe note of this philosophy is given at once in the preface of\nthe \u201c_Poemetti_,\u201d addressed to his sister Maria. He gives a short\nindication, rather than description, of his new home with its\nchurch-towers and bells, its mountains and its rivers, its field-birds,\nits swallows, martins and rock-swallows, and then exclaims, addressing\nthem:\u2014\n\n\u201cOh yes, there was a time when we did not live so near you. And if you\nknew what grief was ours then, what weeping, what noisy solitude, what\nsecret and continuous anguish!\u201d\u2014\u201cBut come, man, think not on it,\u201d you\nsay to me.\u2014\u201cNay, let us think on it. Know that the long sweetness of\nyour voices is born of the echoes they arouse of that past grief: that\nthings would not be so beautiful now had they not been so black before:\nthat I should not find so much pleasure in small motives of joy, had\nthe suffering not been so great; had it not come from all sources of\ngrief, from Nature and from Society; and had it not wounded me soul and\nbody, mind and feeling. Is it not so, Maria? Bless\u00e8d, then, bless\u00e8d be\ngrief.\u201d\n\nAnd then, further on, after a charming picture of a martin that feeds,\nunder his eaves, the abandoned nestlings of her enemy the swallow, he\nbreaks out:\u2014\n\n\u201cMen, I will speak as in a fable for children: Men, imitate that\nmartin. Men, be content with little, and love each other within the\nlimits of the family, of the nation, of humanity.\u201d\n\nTwice the poet returns to the same subject. A collection of four short\npieces entitled \u201c_The Hermit_,\u201d compact with thought, ends as follows:\u2014\n\nIV.\n\n And the pale hermit veiled his eyes,\n and lo throughout his heart there streamed\n the sweet sleep of his weary life.\n When he awoke (he was dropping\n down broad, still writers in a drifting ship)\n he cried: Let me remember, Lord!\n God, let me dream! Nothing is more sweet,\n God, than the end of grief, but \u2019tis\n grievous to forget it; for \u2019tis hard\n to cast away the flower that only smells when plucked.\n\nIn \u201c_The Two Children_\u201d two little ones, having come to blows in heroic\nfashion at their play one evening, are ignominiously swept off to bed\nby their mother. In the dark, full of denser shadows, their sobbing\ngradually ceases, they draw nearer to each other, and when the mother\ncomes to look at them, shading the light with her hand, she finds them\npressed close together, good beyond their wont, asleep. And she tucks\nthem in with a smile. The third part takes up the parable as follows:\u2014\n\nIII.\n\n Men! in the cruel hour when the wolf is lord,\n think on the shade of destiny unknown\n that wraps us round, and on the silence awesome\n\n that reigns beyond the short noise of your brawling,\n the clamour of your warring\u2014\n just a bee\u2019s hum within an empty hive.\n\n Peace, men! in the prone earth\n too great\u2019s the mystery, and only he\n who gets him brethren in his fear errs not.\n\n Peace, brethren! and let not the arms\n that now ye stretch, or shall, to those most near,\n know aught of strife or threat.\n\n And like good children sleeping \u2019twixt the sheets\n placid and white, be found,\n when unseen and unheard, above you bends\n Death, with her lighted lamp.\n\nThe poet\u2019s thought on death is given, with the insistence of one who\nis very much in earnest, in two recently delivered lectures, \u201c_L\u2019Era\nNuova_,\u201d and \u201c_La Ginestra_,\u201d (\u201cFlower of the Broom,\u201d a development of\nLeopardi\u2019s exquisite poem); and again in two of his most beautiful\npoems, \u201c_La Pace_\u201d (published after the Milan riots), and \u201c_Il\nFocolare_\u201d (\u201c_The Hearth_\u201d).\n\nIn the \u201c_Ginestra_\u201d Pascoli expounds Leopardi as follows:\u2014\n\n\u201cAnd look at the stars. Reflect that there was a time when they were\nthought to be what they appear; small, mere atoms of light.... Instead,\nit is the earth that is small, a mere grain of sand. To believe the\nearth large and stars small; or to believe, as is the case, that the\nstars are infinite in number and size, and the earth very small; these\nare the two religions, this is the \u03c3\u03ba\u03cc\u03c4\u03bf\u03c2 and the \u03c6\u1ff6\u03c2: darkness and\nlight. Look at Vesuvius the destroyer, the glare of the lava glowing in\nthe darkness. Look at Death. Look it in the face, without drooping the\nhead cowardly, without erecting it proudly. You will feel the necessity\nof being at peace with your fellow-men. And say not that all men know\nthey are mortal, but that that has never kept anyone from doing ill. I\ntell you it is not enough to know it; you must have your soul saturated\nwith it, and have but that in your soul. Men know, too, that the stars\nare large, or rather they give an idle assent to the learned who say\nso. They know it, that is, but they do not think it as yet. Will\nthe time come when they will think it?\u201d And in the \u201c_Era Nuova_\u201d he\ncontinues:\u2014Man \u201csought illusions and found them. The brute knows not\nthat he will die: the man said to himself that he knows he will not\ndie. So they again came to be like each other.... And thenceforth Death\nbeing denied, no longer received from man his sad and entire assent.\nMan feared not to sadden his fellow, feared not to kill him, feared not\nto kill himself, because he no longer felt the Irreparable. I know the\n_Peisithanatos_ (Death-persuader) who it is. I know who persuaded man\nto violate life in himself and in others. It is he, who, in our souls,\nfirst violated Death.... This is light. Science is beneficent in that\nin which she is said to have failed. She has confirmed the sanction of\nDeath. She has sealed up the tombs again.... The proof, moved against\nher, is her boast. Or rather it will be when from this negation the\npoet-priest shall have drawn the moral essence. Who can imagine the\nwords by which we shall feel ourselves whirling through space? by which\nwe shall feel ourselves mortal? We know this and that: we do not feel\nit. The day we feel it ... we shall be better. And we shall be sadder.\nBut do you not see that it is exactly by his sadness that man differs\nfrom the brute beasts? And that to advance in sadness is to advance\nin humanity?... Man, embrace your destiny! Man, resign yourself to be\nman! Think in your furrow, do not rave. Love\u2014think it\u2014is not only the\nsweetest but the most tremendous of actions: it is adding new fuel to\nthe great pyre that flames in the darkness of our night.\u201d\n\nMany will not agree with Pascoli\u2019s method of arriving at his\nconclusions; for men\u2019s minds are infinite in number, and but few think\nalike. But all will recognise the reverent earnestness of his belief,\nand respect the man whom hatred has moulded into a fervent apostle of\nlove.\n\nTo understand Pascoli\u2019s power of differentiating character and\nhandling dialogue, we must turn, not to his Italian, but to his Latin\npoems. These are not in any sense of the word academic exercises:\nthey are instinct with life and of extraordinary vivacity. The crowd\nin which the laughing Horace finds himself wedged, in the \u201c_Reditus\nAugusti_\u201d\u2014the poetical rivalry in the tavern between Catullus and\nCalvus, in the \u201c_Catullo Calvos_\u201d\u2014the witty yet serious discussion\nbetween M\u00e6cenas, Varius, Virgil and Plotius in the \u201c_Cena in Caudiano\nNerv\u00e6_\u201d\u2014these are charming in the extreme, and have all the\npiquancy of the Horatian satire. The other two poems, \u201c_Jugurtha_\u201d\nand \u201c_Castanea_,\u201d are of a different stamp. The first is a powerful\nconception of the ravings and sufferings of the blinded Numidian king,\nin the Roman dungeon where he dies of hunger and thirst; the second is\na description of the gathering and preparation of the chestnut crops,\nwith an invocation to the tree on which alone the inhabitants of the\nTuscan Apennines depend for warmth and food in winter. The peasant\nhousehold is truly Virgilian in the conciseness and sympathy with which\nit is presented.\n\nTruly Virgilian, too, is an Italian poem entitled \u201c_La Sementa_\u201d (The\nSowing) published in the \u201c_Poemetti_.\u201d There is a simple dignity in all\nthe actions and sayings of the peasants which prevents any feeling of\nthe triviality which the poet might so easily have suggested; prevents\nat the same time that sentiment of unreality which enthusiastic and\nromantic writers on the subject are so apt to provoke.\n\nIt is perhaps in the quiet intimateness of \u201c_La Sementa_\u201d that the\nfundamental difference between the classic inspiration of Pascoli\nand that of the older poet Carducci is epitomised. Carducci is a\nborn polemist. Son of the _Risorgimento_, he passed his youth in the\nmidst of a great epic movement, stigmatizing shams and tyrants with\nthe resources which a wide vocabulary placed at the disposal of an\nexceptionally energetic and enthusiastic nature. Carducci\u2019s classicism\nis to a great extent formal. His verse imitates the Horatian metres,\nhis periods are often more Latin than Italian in their construction,\nhis women bear Latin names. And this Latin brevity, this careful\nexclusion of all superfluous words, this precision in the use of\nthe smaller parts of speech (Carducci\u2019s prepositions are a study in\nthemselves) combined with the broad imagery and ample conception that\nseem inseparable from the age of Garibaldi, provoke in the reader a\nsense of exquisite form and of impressive grandeur. The grandeur,\nhowever, sometimes degenerates into rhetoric. Pascoli is more\nreflective; he has more quiet sentiment. He lives in a quieter age,\nwhen the enthusiastic hopefulness of the _Risorgimento_ has found\nits reaction in a feeling of despondency concerning the accomplished\nreality. He is in no sense of the word a polemist. The form of his\nverse and of his period is Italian, though he has, it is true, revived\nthe Latin meaning of many Italian words. He has less grandeur than\nCarducci, but on the other hand he is never rhetorical. The Latin\nspirit has taken such complete possession of him that it has become\npart of himself; it leavens his whole work, but leaves it strictly\nindividual in form and conception, and admits the expression of a sense\nof mystery and vagueness which is rather of the romantic than of the\nclassic mind. As illustrative of the difference in conception between\nthe two poets we may compare their sonnets to \u201c_The Ox_.\u201d\n\nTHE OX. (PASCOLI.)\n\n At the narrow brook, amid uncertain mists\n gazes the wide-eyed ox: in the plain\n far stretching to a sea that recedes ever,\n go the blue waters of a river:\n\n loom large before his eyes, in the misty\n light, the willow and the alder;\n wanders a flock upon the grass, now here now there,\n and seems the herd of an ancient god.\n\n Shadows with talons spread broad wings\n in the air: mutely chimeras move\n like clouds in the deep sky:\n the sun goes down, immense, behind\n huge mountains: already lengthen, black,\n the larger shades of a much larger world.\n\nTHE OX. (CARDUCCI.)\n\n Oh pious ox, I love thee; and a gentle feeling\n of vigour and of peace thou pour\u2019st into my heart;\n whether, solemn as a monument,\n thou gazest at the field so free and fruitful,\n\n or whether, bowing gladly to the yoke,\n the agile work of man thou gladly aidest;\n he pricks and urges thee and thou repliest\n with the slow turning of thy patient eye.\n\n From thy broad nostril damp and dark\n smokes forth thy breath, and like a joyful hymn\n thy lowing rises through the quiet air;\n\n and in the austere sweetness of thy grave\n and glaucous eye, ample and quiet is reflected\n the green and godlike silence of the plain.\n\nAnother side of Pascoli\u2019s mind reveals itself in his studies on Dante.\nThe hope which _is company for me_, he writes, is to go down to\nposterity as an interpreter of Dante, as an illustrator of the great\nPoet\u2019s mind and thought. He has already published a book, _La Minerva\nOscura_, for professional Dantisti; and is about to issue a series of\narticles for the general public.\n\nPascoli is now occupied on a translation, in hexameters, of the\nHomeric poems; and will shortly publish the glottological studies and\nthe experiments by which he has prepared himself for his task. That\nhe is capable of treating Greek subjects with Greek directness and\nsimplicity, and without any affectation of Greek forms (a pitfall into\nwhich D\u2019Annunzio continually stumbles) will be seen in the poem which\ncloses this paper.\n\nTHE SLEEP OF ODYSSEUS.\n\nI.\n\n Nine days, by moon and sun, the black ship sped,\n Wind-borne, helm-guided, while the creaking ropes\n Were governed by Odysseus\u2019 cunning hand;\n Nor\u2014wearied\u2014did he yield them, for the wind\n Bore him on ever toward his country dear.\n Nine days, by moon and sun, the black ship sped,\n The hero\u2019s eye seeking unwaveringly\n The rocky isle \u2019mid the blue-twinkling waves:\n Content if, ere he died, he saw again\n Its smoke-wreaths rising blue into the air.\n The tenth day, where the ninth day\u2019s setting sun\n Had vanished in a blinding blaze of gold,\n He, peering, saw a shapeless blot of black:\n Cloud was\u2019t he saw, or land? And his grave eye\n Swam, conquered by the sweetness of the dawn.\n Far off Odysseus\u2019 heart was rapt by sleep.\n\nII.\n\n And, moving towards the ship\u2019s swift flight, it seemed,\n Behold a land! that nearer, nearer sailed\n In misty blue, \u2019mid the blue-twinkling waves.\n Anon a purple peak that stormed the sky;\n Then down the peak the frothing gullies leaped\n \u2019mid tufts of bristling brushwood and bare rock;\n And on its spurs sprang into view long rows\n Of vines; and at its feet the verdant fields\n Fleecy with shimmering blades of new-sprung grain,\n Till it stood out entire\u2014a rocky isle,\n Harsh, and not pasture fit for neighing steed,\n Altho\u2019 good nurse for oxen and wild goats.\n And here and there, upon the airy peaks,\n Died, in the clearness of the wakening dawn,\n The herdsmen\u2019s fires: and here and there shot up\n The morning swirl of smoke from Ithaca\u2014\n His home at last\u2014! But King Odysseus\u2019 heart\n Floating profound in sleep, beheld it not.\n\nIII.\n\n And lo! upon the prow o\u2019 the hollow ship\n Like angry gulls, words fly; like screaming birds\n With hissing flight. The forward-straining ship\n Was coasting then the high peak of The Crow\n And the well-circled fount, and one could hear\n The rooting of the boar-pigs; then a pen\n Of ample girth appeared, with mighty rocks,\n Well-builded, walled around, and hedged about\n With wild-pear and with hawthorn all a-bloom.\n The godlike herdsman of the boar-pigs, next,\n Upon the seashore, with sharp-edg\u00e8d axe\n Spoiled of its bitter bark an oakling strong,\n And cut great stakes to strengthen that fair pen,\n With harsh and gleaming axe-bites. Fitfully\n Amid the water\u2019s wash, came o\u2019er the sea\n The hoarse pant of his strokes\u2014that herdsman good\u2014\n Faithful Eum\u00e6us\u2014But Odysseus\u2019 heart,\n Sunk deep in slumber, heard them not at all.\n\nIV.\n\n And now above the ship, from prow to stern,\n The sailors\u2019 furious words like arrows sped\n In shuddering flight. The eager-homing ship\n Abreast the harbour of Phorkyne sailed.\n Ahead of it stood out the olive tree,\n Large, goodly-boughed; and near to it a cave,\n A cave sonorous with much-busied bees\n As they in wine-bowls and in jars of stone\n Perform sweet task of honey. One could see\n The stony street o\u2019 the town; the houses white\n Climbing the hill; distinguish, \u2019mid the green\n Of water-loving alders, the fair fount,\n The altar white, the high-raised, goodly roof\u2014\n Odysseus\u2019 high-raised steading. Now, perchance,\n The shuttle whistled through the warp, and \u2019neath\n The weary fingers grew again the web\n Ample, immortal.\u2014Yet, nor saw, nor heard\n Odysseus\u2019 mighty heart, quite lost in sleep.\n\nV.\n\n And in the ship, now entering the port,\n The worse part won the day. The men untied\n The leathern bags, and straight the winds out-whistled\n Furious; the sail flung wide, and flapped as doth\n A peplum by a woman left outspread\n To dry i\u2019 the sun upon some airy peak.\n And lo! the labouring ship hath left the haven\u2014\n The haven where, upon the shore, there stood\n A goodly youth propped on a spear bronze-pointed.\n Under the grey-green olive stood the youth\n Silent, with dreaming eyes: and a swift hound\n Around him leaped, waving his plumy tail.\n Now the dog checketh in his restless play\n With straining eyes fixed on the infinite sea;\n And, snuffing up the air o\u2019 the briny tracks,\n After the flying ship he howls aloud\u2014\n Argus his dog. Yet still nor heard nor saw\n Odysseus\u2019 heart, in balmy slumber bathed.\n\nVI.\n\n And now the ship coasted a lofty point\n Of rocky Ithaca. And, twixt two hills\n A garth there was, well-tilled, Laertes\u2019 field,\n The ancient king\u2019s: therein an orchard rich\n Where pear-trees stood, and apples, row on row,\n That once Laertes gave to his dear son\n Who thro\u2019 the vineyard followed, begging this\n And that, among the slim new-planted trees.\n Here now, ten apple-trees and thirteen pears\n Stood white with blossom in a close-set clump,\n And in the shade of one\u2014the fairest\u2014stood\n An old man, turning towards the boundless sea\n Where roared the sudden squall\u2014with up-raised hand\n Lessening the light above his wearied eyes\u2014\n Strained his weak gaze after the flying ship.\n This was his father: but Odysseus\u2019 heart,\n Floating profound in sleep, beheld him not.\n\nVII.\n\n And as the winds the black ship bore afar\n Sudden the hero started from his sleep,\n Swiftly unclosed his eyes, to see\u2014perchance\u2014\n Smoke rise from his long-dreamed-of Ithaca\u2014\n Faithful Eum\u00e6us standing in the pen\u2014\n His white-haired father in the well-tilled field,\n His father dear, who, on the mattock propped,\n Stood gazing, gazing at the lessening ship\u2014\n His goodly son, who, leaning on his spear,\n Stood gazing, gazing at the lessening ship\u2014\n And, leaping round his lord, with waving tail,\n Argus his dog\u2014Yea, and perchance his house,\n His dear sweet home, wherein his faithful wife\n Already laboured in the chattering loom.\n He gazed again\u2014a shapeless blot of black\n He saw across the purpling waste of sea\u2014\n Cloud was\u2019t or land?\u2014It faded into air\n E\u2019en as Odysseus\u2019 heart emerged from sleep.\n\nGiovanni Pascoli\u2019s sincerity of thought, truth of feeling, breadth of\nsympathy, temperateness and restraint, mark him out as a poet in the\nfull sense of the word; and place him, artistically and morally, on\na higher plane than the decadents who represent Italy to the foreign\npublic.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MAKING OF RELIGION\n\n(COME SI FORMA LA RELIGIONE)\n\nANDREW LANG.\n\n_Longmans Green and Co._[20]\n\n\nAVVERSARIO implacabile della dotta critica tedesca e degli scienziati\nche si rifiutino ad indagini che possano eventualmente distruggere\nteorie favorite, \u00e8 il signor Andrew Lang. Un anno fa, egli present\u00f2\nal pubblico inglese una traduzione del libro in cui il Comparetti,\nesaminando il poema cosiddetto epico dei Finni e le Rune delle quali\nil L\u00f6nnrot lo costrusse, trova parole acerbe per i Tedeschi che\nidearono la teoria dei _Kleine Lieder_ per i poemi omerici, e che la\nsostennero con grande apparato scientifico basato sul nulla, per mezzo\ndi deduzioni da ipotesi non provate, e, per la mancanza di criterii\nobiettivi, non dimostrabili. In un libro recente egli d\u00e0 l\u2019assalto alla\nteoria vigente sulle origini e sullo sviluppo della religione.\n\nLa fede in un Dio etico, onnipotente, cui non si propizia per\nsacrifizi di tori e di agnelli, non \u00e8 un\u2019evoluzione dall\u2019Animismo,\ndall\u2019adorazione degli antenati, che esiste tuttora fra i popoli meno\nprogrediti, n\u00e8 il concetto di un tal Dio nasce da quello astratto di\nspirito, come ordinariamente si asserisce. Tale fede, tale concetto\nsi trovano fra i popoli meno evoluti che si conoscano, ma vengono\nsopraffatti durante il progresso materiale ed intellettuale della\nrazza: in parte dal desiderio di avere un Dio pi\u00f9 trattabile, meno\nesigente; in parte dalle invenzioni della classe sacerdotale, che per\nil proprio vantaggio asseconda codesto desiderio; in parte dai miti\nche oscurano il concetto fondamentale della Deit\u00e0. Solo fra il popolo\nebraico codesto concetto fondamentale pot\u00e8 perdurare; ma perdur\u00f2 per\nopera dei profeti, ad onta delle tendenze popolari verso il politeismo\ne delle pretese della classe sacerdotale.\n\nTale la tesi del signor Lang. Per svilupparla, egli esamina prima\nle fonti da cui potrebbe scaturire, nell\u2019uomo primitivo, l\u2019idea di\nspirito; e qui non rifugge dall\u2019investigare quelle manifestazioni della\nregione X della natura umana, cui gli scienziati rifiutano in generale\ndi rivolgere l\u2019attenzione. Il Lang \u00e8 di natura alquanto scettico, ma\nsostiene che il consenso di tradizioni del passato di tutti i popoli\ne di fatti che si possono con cura verificare oggi intorno alla\ntelepatia, alla chiaroveggenza, rende non scientifica l\u2019attitudine\ndi quegli scienziati i quali si rifiutano ad indagini e deridono\nsenz\u2019altro l\u2019idea che esista una potenza per cui individui, senza la\npropria volont\u00e0 o con essa, possano acquistare conoscenza di fatti\naccaduti, o che stanno accadendo, per altri mezzi che non siano quelli\napparenti dei sensi.\n\nVagliando con cura le narrazioni dei viaggiatori di tutti i tempi, ma\nspecialmente di quelli pi\u00f9 recenti, e confrontandole colle esperienze\nsue proprie nell\u2019indovinare i fatti ignoti e passati scrutando in\nun cristallo (_crystal-gazing_, _scryer_), il Lang conclude, che la\nchiaroveggenza, esistente in certi individui e specialmente fra certe\nrazze (gli Scozzesi ad esempio) e molto evidentemente sviluppata\n(nonostante gli inganni dei \u201cveggenti\u201d) fra i popoli meno progrediti,\nfornisca esperienze vere abbastanza meravigliose per dar luogo all\u2019idea\ndi spirito ed all\u2019animismo che forma la religione attuale di molte\ntrib\u00f9.\n\nSeguendo gli ulteriori stadi dello sviluppo dell\u2019idea religiosa, il\nLang combatte fieramente lo Spencer e l\u2019Huxley, accrescendo forza\nalla propria teoria con addurre fatti osservati recentemente da vari\nviaggiatori tra i nomadi pi\u00f9 bassi dell\u2019Australia, e dalla signorina\nKingsley fra le trib\u00f9 selvagge dell\u2019Africa (Zulu, Bantu, ecc.). Egli\nprova quindi che tutte le razze primitive finora esaminate, perfino\ni rozzi _Bushmen_ dell\u2019Australia, hanno il concetto di un Essere\nonnipotente, che esisteva prima che la morte entrasse nel mondo, che\nvede ogni cosa, che punisce l\u2019adulterio, la violenza alle vergini,\ngli assalti a tradimento non soltanto contro i componenti la stessa\ntrib\u00f9 ma anche contro altre persone. E a questo Essere non si offrono\nsacrifizi, perch\u00e8, secondo le parole d\u2019un _Bushman_, \u201cnoi non gli\npossiamo offrir nulla che egli non abbia gi\u00e0.\u201d\n\nOra, \u00e8 vero che contemporaneamente a codest\u2019Essere concepito cos\u00ec\nlargamente ed eticamente, quasi tutti i popoli adorano una folla di\nspiriti, che sono gli spettri di persone morte, oppure che non sono mai\nstati uniti ad un corpo, e che vengono propiziati con sacrifizi; di\nmodo che il culto degli spiriti \u00e8 molto pi\u00f9 in evidenza che non quello\ndel Dio grande e buono.\n\nDomanda il Lang: Il Dio grande si \u00e8 sviluppato pi\u00f9 tardi da uno fra\nla folla degli spiriti e spettri di antenati affamati? Oppure \u00e8\negli fondamentale nella religione di quei popoli? Nacque egli, per\ncos\u00ec dire, prima che, per le esperienze sopra accennate, l\u2019idea di\nspirito fosse concepita; prima dunque che gli antenati e gli spiriti\nvaganti fossero adorati; prima che l\u2019Animismo divenisse la religione\napparente di quei popoli? L\u2019Autore crede che quest\u2019ultimo sia il\ncaso. \u00c8 pur difficile che lo spirito di uno stregone o di un antenato\nappartenente ad una sola famiglia sia stato assunto da una intiera\ntrib\u00f9 alla dignit\u00e0 di Essere creatore di tutto; specialmente quando\nsi rifletta che codesti spiriti sono per lo pi\u00f9 di indole cattiva o\nalmeno capricciosa, che non inculcano precetti etici, e che il loro\nculto porge l\u2019occasione a banchetti cari all\u2019uomo di ogni tempo. Di\npi\u00f9, se l\u2019Essere creatore fosse un\u2019evoluzione ulteriore del pensiero\nnon pi\u00f9 primitivo, godrebbe come prodotto recente una maggiore stima e\ngli sarebbe attribuita maggiore importanza che non agli altri Iddii.\nInvece si verifica il contrario. Il Creatore accenna fra molti popoli\na sparire addirittura. Se ne parla come di un Essere misterioso,\npotentissimo, \u201cdi cui ci raccontavano i nostri padri,\u201d ma che \u00e8 ormai\nquasi dimenticato. Codesto sarebbe un fatto assai strano nell\u2019ipotesi\nche egli fosse un Dio pi\u00f9 recente degli altri. Inoltre, la fede nel\nCreatore etico si trova con straordinaria purit\u00e0 fra i _Bushmen_, che\nnon hanno il culto degli antenati; prova lampante che fra loro almeno\nlo sviluppo supposto dallo Spencer e dall\u2019Huxley non ha avuto luogo.\n\nI _Bushmen_ sono nomadi. Darumulun, il Creatore etico, non ha dimora\nfissa, ma \u00e8 da per tutto. Non avrebbe dovuto il progresso nella\ncoltura materiale, si chiede il Lang, portare quasi logicamente un\nrimpiccolimento ed una conseguente degenerazione nell\u2019idea religiosa?\nLe trib\u00f9 nomadi prendono dimora fissa; l\u2019Essere creatore abita, non\npi\u00f9 da per tutto, ma vicino a loro, e veglia specialmente su di loro:\ndiviene un Dio tutelare. Le tombe dei morti, prima sparse qua e l\u00e0,\nrimangono davanti agli occhi dei vivi; cominciano i sacrifici ai morti\ned agli spiriti loro; e ne risulta un animismo fiorente accanto alla\nfede, mezzo dimenticata, in un Essere pi\u00f9 grande.\n\nE l\u2019Animismo, domanda ancora il Lang, \u00e8 valso poi a nulla nel formarsi\ndella Religione quale l\u2019hanno ora i cristiani? E risponde che\nesso, sovrapponendo la fede nella vita futura a quella nella Deit\u00e0\nonnipotente conservataci attraverso i secoli dal popolo ebraico, ha\naggiunto a questa un nuovo ed importantissimo elemento etico.\n\nIl Vecchio Testamento accenna appena ad una vita oltretomba: il Nuovo\nTestamento ne parla continuamente. E gli espositori del Cristianesimo\nse ne valgono quale leva potentissima nello spingere il mondo lungo la\nstrada della moralit\u00e0.\n\nIl Lang non \u00e8 dogmatico. Egli rappresenta il suo libro come _la traccia\ndi un esploratore solitario attraverso la foresta delle religioni_\nprimitive. In ogni caso il libro merita di essere studiato: esso unisce\nad una ricerca larga e coscienziosa una critica acuta, ed assale\nl\u2019attuale teoria sulle origini della Religione con tanta vivacit\u00e0 da\nscuoterne fieramente le basi.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX\n\n\n\n\n_APPENDIX_\n\n_ADDRESSED CHIEFLY TO HER FRIENDS._\n\n\n _Lo Wanderer! who hast found my poor abode\u2014\n This humble rest-house for the wayfarer\u2014\n The window-flowers glow in God\u2019s sunlight dear,_\n _The linnet\u2019s note lifteth Care\u2019s weary load,_\n _The snowy cloth its message fair hath showed\n Bidding thee freely welcome to draw near\n And, glad at heart, take of my simple cheer_\n _To help thy feet along the lonely road._\n\n _Here pause! nor lightly lift this second latch\n That leadeth to the quiet inner room;_\n _Seek not with idly curious gaze to snatch\n Hints of more personal things\u2014life\u2019s gleam or gloom;_\n _Yet Friend! who\u2019d know the dweller \u2019neath my thatch,\n Enter, and mark the pattern on the loom._\n\n (_H. O. A._)\n\n[Illustration: Isabella M. Anderton]\n\n\n\n\nBIOGRAPHICAL NOTE\n\n\nIsabella M. Anderton was born at Lower Clapton, then almost a country\nvillage, near London, in October, 1858. She was educated at Priory\nHouse School, kept by her father, where boys and girls were taught\ntogether after the manner now followed by many American schools; for\nMr. Anderton, who had thought much about the theories of his work,\nbelieved strongly in such co-education. Many of his pupils, it may be\nsaid in passing (for he has now been dead some years), have justified\nhis belief, having achieved a good measure of distinction and fame.\n\nAfter matriculating at London in 1877, she went to study German for a\nyear at Cannstadt, where she contracted a close friendship with Frau\nFreiligrath, wife of the German patriot-poet, whose children had also\nformerly been at Priory House School.\n\nReturning to Clapton in 1878, she taught for four years in her father\u2019s\nschool, till the weakness of her health, which she had overtaxed by the\nstrenuousness of her work, made it imperative for her to take a rest.\nShe therefore remained at home for a year, quietly attending lectures\nfrom Professors Burdon Sanderson and Ray Lankester, at University\nCollege.\n\nIn 1883 she went to Italy and lived for some years with a family at\nGenova, teaching the children and writing. Here she began those Italian\nstudies which she pursued with such unfailing delight during the\nremainder of her life.\n\nIn 1887 she had another break-down, and with a friend, went up to the\nApennines above Pistoia to recruit. Here, however\u2014at Prunetta\u2014her\nillness became so serious that, in response to a telegram, a brother\nand sister hurried out to her assistance. On their arrival a move was\nmade to Cutigliano, where she slowly recovered strength. During this\nvisit to the Pistoiese she came closely into touch with the peasants\nof the neighbourhood, studying their folk-lore and their ways of\nthought with keen and sympathetic interest. Her exceptional knowledge\nof Italian, and her instinct for the genius of the race, enabled her\nto go with a rare directness home to the minds and affections of her\npeasant-friends; and, of the literary results\u2014The Tuscan Stories and\nSketches here given\u2014a considerable number were contributed to \u201cGood\nWords.\u201d\n\nAfter this she left the family with whom she had been living, but\nremained in Genova, teaching and writing, till her marriage in October,\n1890, to Rodolfo Debarbieri, when they removed to Florence, in which\nfascinating city the remainder of her life was spent, in the heart of\nits literary and artistic life. Here their only child, a son, was born\nin 1891; and in course of time it was arranged that this son should be\nsent to receive his education in England.\n\nIn 1899 she was appointed to the English Chair in the Istituto SS.\nAnnunziata, where her work and influence over the pupils were highly\nvalued by all, not only for their intellectual but also for their\nstimulating moral qualities.\n\nIn 1900 she had to undergo a serious operation, most skilfully\nperformed by Professor Colzi of Florence. This, though successful for\nthe time, seems to have left a legacy of evil, and in 1902 a further\noperation became necessary. She continued her work, however, bravely\nonce more, writing on literary and artistic subjects with unfailing\nzest, and in June, 1904, seemed to her friends to have completely\nrecovered her health and strength. But the final blow fell swiftly.\nIn July illness seized her again, and carried her off in the December\nfollowing, after terrible sufferings borne with a fortitude which\none can hardly call other than heroic. No thanks can be adequate for\nthe care and kindness of her friend Dr. Oscar Marchetti, who could\nnot have done more for her had she been his own sister; nor for the\nwhole-hearted devotion of her maid Paolina.\n\nShe was followed by a distinguished company of friends,\nfellow-professors, and artists, to the Protestant cemetery of the\nAllori, about a mile and a half outside the Porta Romana\u2014a peaceful\nenclosure, with its solemn cypresses and weeping ashes, set like an\nisland amid the sunny olive-clad hills she loved so well. Here, at the\nfoot of an avenue of cypresses, she was laid to rest; and thus the\nsentiment of the prose-poem given in this volume seems to cling about\nher to the end.\n\nHer command of Italian and knowledge of the literature were\nextraordinary; and in fact she was often taken during later years\nfor an Italian, on one occasion asking a friend rather ruefully if\nit were true that she spoke English with an accent: and, by living\nwith Italians of all classes, she obtained an understanding of their\nhabits of thought and more intimate life that few foreigners possess.\nFrench and German, too, were at command, as well as Latin, and to a\nless extent Greek; one of her most valuable works being a study of\nthe character of Virgil\u2019s Dido, especially interesting as being from\na woman\u2019s point of view. It is much to be regretted that this cannot\nnow be traced, or it would have been included here. She undertook\nfor Senatore Domenico Comparetti the translation into English of his\n\u201c_Traditional Poetry of the Finns_\u201d (1898), and had many an interesting\ndiscussion with him as to the manner of its English presentment. At\nfirst he was rather inclined to resent her vigorous pruning of his\nelaborate periods, though in the end he saw that, though admissible in\nItalian, they were impossible in English. Indeed a few months ago he\nsaid with picturesque Italian politeness that he had come to prefer\nthe translation to the original. This translation, with a preface by\nMr. Andrew Lang, was published by Messrs. Longmans in 1898. For about\nten years she was Florence correspondent to The Studio, her chief\ncontributions being _Pietro Fragiacomo_ (Oct. 1899): and _Domenico\nMorelli_ (Nov. 1901). These articles she wrote, as was always her\ncustom, under her maiden name.\n\nHer work on literature and art gave her the keenest delight, as also\ndid the beauty of the city of Florence and her friendship with some\nof its most interesting residents. The fascination too of the Tuscan\nhills and plains appealed deeply to her, as did the romance of Elba\nwhere she once went for a long holiday with her brother. Rome, Venice,\nSiena, and the varied beauties of Italy\u2014perhaps these appealed to her\nthe more poignantly that her physical wellbeing seemed gradually more\nprecarious and elusive. Latterly it was a long war between her will and\nher weakness; between the _vivida vis animi_\u2014the living force of her\nindomitable spirit\u2014and the _ineluctabile fatum_\u2014the fate whose grip\nnone may escape. Yet with unquenched hope she struggled on, keeping for\nher friends a cheerful sunniness, and for those in need of help and\ncomfort a well-spring of encouragement. If the motto she once adopted:\u2014\n\n Ad Augusta per Angusta,\n\nwas not realised in a material sense, it may stand, as inscribed on\nthe marble in the Allori, as symbolical of a spiritual struggle and\nattainment.\n\nThe singular combination in her nature of English and Italian\ncharacteristics is well expressed in the beautiful words of her\nfriend the poet Angiolo Orvieto, writing just after her death in the\nFlorentine literary paper \u201c_Il Marzocco_\u201d:\u2014\n\n\u201cIsabella M. Anderton.\u2014\u00c8 morta a Firenze, ove abitava da parecchi\nanni, la signora Isabella M. Anderton, elegante e dotta scrittrice\ndi arte italiana su parecchie riviste inglesi tra le quali _The\nStudio_. Esperta della lingua e della letteratura nostra, fece inglesi\ncon efficacia e fedelt\u00e0 prose e poesie: e son degne di speciale\nricordo le sue versioni dal Pascoli\u2014di cui era ammiratrice ed\namica\u2014e la traduzione del _Kalevala_ di Domenico Comparetti.\u2014Venuta\ndall\u2019Inghilterra in Italia, ella contemper\u00f2 in una incantevole armonia\nle energiche virt\u00fa della sua stirpe e le grazie della nostra. Fu\ninglese nella operosa tenacia del volere, nella tempra metallica\ndel carattere; italiana nell\u2019elegante agilit\u00e0 dello spirito, nella\nsensibilit\u00e0 vivida e pronta, nella fantasia colorita. Fu donna nel\nsenso pi\u00f9 delicato di questa parola e nel senso pi\u00f9 alto; e seppe\nmostrare alla sventura un volto sorridente. Insegnante valentissima,\nebbe la cattedra di lingua inglese al Collegio dell\u2019Annunziata e seppe\ncattivarsi l\u2019affetto e la stima delle sue allieve, che ricorrevano\na lei per consiglio ed aiuto anche dopo lasciata la scuola. Il\n_Marzocco_, che ne ebbe qualche volta la collaborazione, si unisce ai\nmolti che in Firenze e fuori ne piangono la scomparsa.\u201d\n\n\u201c_There has passed away at Florence, where she had lived many years,\nIsabella M. Anderton, an elegant and learned writer on Italian art in\nseveral English reviews, among them_ THE STUDIO. _Well skilled in our\nlanguage and literature, she turned both prose and verse into strong\nand faithful English: worthy of special mention being her versions of\nPascoli\u2014of whom she was an admirer and friend\u2014and her translation\nof the_ KALEVALA _of Domenico Comparetti. An Englishwoman settled in\nItaly, she blended in an enchanting harmony the nervous energy of her\nrace and the grace of ours. She was English in her energetic tenacity\nof will, finely tempered as a blade of steel; Italian in her agile\ngrace of spirit, in her vivid and ready sensibility, in the glowing\ncolours of her imagination. She was a woman in the truest and highest\nsense of the word; and knew how to meet adversity with a smiling face.\nA most excellent teacher, she held the Chair of English Letters at the\nCollegio dell\u2019Annunziata, where she fairly captivated the affections\nand esteem of her pupils who went to her for counsel and advice after\nhaving left the school. The_ MARZOCCO, _to which she was a contributor,\njoins with many in Florence and elsewhere in mourning her loss._\u201d\n\n\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] This is actually as the woman told it. I can only suggest there is\nsome lacuna which my story-teller did not know how to fill up.\n\n[2] _We retain the unusual spelling \u201cDominiddio,\u201d which is evidently\nintended to indicate the pronunciation of the Tuscan peasants._\u2014ED.\n\n[3] _Cf._ The Story of The Three Sisters, in the Arabian Nights.\n\n[4] \u201cLet us go, young men; let us go, young men, to those nice cialde,\nO\u2014\u2014 h.\u201d\n\n[5] Beppe\u2019s home is more fully described in \u201cA Tuscan Farmhouse,\u201d p.\n106.\n\n[6] The house is small, but great its restfulness.\n\n[7] Sacred to Jupiter, the patron of hospitality. Oh, thou, whoever\nthou mayst be, who, being an honest man, art perchance fleeing those\nworst of enemies, thy neighbours, enter this lonely house and rest.\n\n[8]\n\nFriends, enemies; Relations, serpents; Cousins, assassins; Brothers,\nknives.\n\n\n[9] For description of the marriage, see \u201cA Wedding in the Pistoiese,\u201d\np. 87.\n\n[10] That Capoliveri was a Roman town seems to be proved by the\nmanuscript of a Goth, quoted as travelling in these parts in about 530\nA.D. He tells us that the right name of the place is _Caputliberum_,\nfor that Roman exiles deported to this village, without any\ndifficulty, obtained the liberty of walking outside the walls within\nthe jurisdiction of the city. It must have been a sort of _Domicilio\nCoatto_. The author of the manuscript is called by Ninci and Lambardi\n_Celeteudo_ or _Celteuso_.\n\n[11] The copper mines, mentioned by Aristotle, are no longer open. That\nthey were worked by the Etruscans was first proved by Raffaello Foresi,\nwhen, in 1865, he made known the discovery of various bronze objects.\nThese were found by one of the Foresi peasants near the entrance into\nthe ancient copper mines above Portoferraio, together with a mould\nfor receiving the melted bronze. Finely-worked bronze ornaments were\nfound about the same time during an investigation made at Foresi\u2019s\nsuggestion, associated in a sepulchral cavern with skulls of Etruscans\nand Ligurians.\n\n[12] \u201cStoria dell\u2019Isola dell\u2019Elba.\u201d Giuseppe Ninci. Portoferraio, 1815.\n\n[13] qui in portoferraio nel MDCCCII fu recato pargoletto vittore\nhugo qui nacque la sua parola che pi\u00f9 tardi lava di fuoco sacro dovea\ncorrere le vene dei popoli e forse tre anni vissuti in quest\u2019aura cui\ndanno atomi il ferro ed il mare afforzando il corpo infermiccio di lui\nserbavano l\u2019orgoglio dei suoi natali alla francia la gloria del suo\nnome al secolo all\u2019umanita un apostolo e un genio immortale.\n\n[14] napoleon the great passing by this place in MDCCCXIV. took in\nthe neighbouring field a ploughshare from the hands of a peasant and\nhimself tried to plough but the oxen rebellious to those hands which\nyet had guided europe headlong fled from the furrow.\n\n[15]\n\nnapoleon I. having conquered empires reduced kings to vassalage\novercome by the snows of russia not by arms in this hermitage through\nhim transformed into a palace dwelt from the 23 august to the 14\nSeptember 1814 and having tempered afresh his immortal genius on the 24\nfebruary 1815 hence darted forth to amaze anew the world at his daring.\n\nThe municipality of marciana with grateful and reverent soul to so\ngreat a name decreed the erection of this memorial the 18 february 1863.\n\n[16] 1897.\n\n[17] The sky; formed, according to the ancient Finnic legend, by the\nwondrous smith Ilmarinen. In the \u201cSong of the Sampo\u201d he boasts that he\nhas made it so well that \u201cno hammer-marks remain; no pincer-marks are\nseen.\u201d\n\n[18] The reader will recognise the allusion to cantos xxi. and xxiv. of\nDante\u2019s \u201cInferno,\u201d of which the former describes the lake of pitch in\nwhich the barrators were tortured, and the latter the terrible valley\nin which the sacrilegious Vanni Fucci and his like were tormented with\nserpents.\n\n[19] Compare, for instance, the Italian and Latin versions of the\nfollowing verse, taken from a short poem on a laurel branch which the\npoet, having plucked on the Appian Way, presented to a lady friend who\nbore the name of Daphne; and compare these again with the well-known\nHoratian ode \u201cInteger Vit\u00e6\u201d:\u2014\n\n\u201cIo son, Daphne, la tua greca sorella: Che vergin bionda sul Peneo\nfuggia, E verdeggiai pur ieri arbore snella Per l\u2019Appia Via.\n\nEn soror, Daphne, tua qu\u00e6 fugaci Jam pede ad Peneum pudibunda adibam;\nAppi\u00e6 et nuper virui tenella Margine laurus.\n\nInteger vit\u00e6 scelerisque purus Non eget Mauris jaculis neque arcu Nec\nvenenatis gravida sagittis, Fusce, pharetra.\u201d\n\nSee also \u201cSei Odi Barbare di Giosu\u00e9 Carducci, con la versione Latina di\nAmedeo Crivellucci.\u201d Citta di Castello, 1885.\n\nIt must be observed in this connection that Carducci is very apt to\nchange a descending Horatian rhythm into an ascending Italian one,\nbeginning his line with an unaccented and rising to an accented\nsyllable. In this way he obtains much movement and swing.\n\n[20] Reprinted by permission, from \u201cLa Perseveranza\u201d Milano, Marted\u00ec,\n20 Marzo 1900.\n\n\n\n\n TRANSCRIBER\u2019S NOTE:\n\n\u2014Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.","title":"Tuscan folk-lore and sketches, together with some other papers","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":56649}