Chapter XI: Part 11

'Down in the cellar was another spirit awaiting her, and the moment she got down they took her, the one by the head and the other by the feet, and laid her into a coffin [270] which stood there all ready on a bier. [271] One at each end, they took it up, with the woman in it, and walked round and round the cellar with it, chaunting the "Miserere," and she was too frightened to call out, much more to attempt to move.

'By-and-by they set the bier down, and as she heard nothing more she concluded the spirits were gone; still she durst not move till some few rays of daylight began to peep through; then she summoned up courage to get out of the coffin.

'When she did so she saw it was all of solid gold, as well as the bier. There was gold enough to have made her rich to the end of her days, but she was so frightened that she wasn't able to enjoy it, but died at the end of a month; for riches that are got in ways that are not straightforward never profit anyone.

'That's the story as it's told; but I don't believe those things, mind you.'

8

'Ah! I remember, too, when I was quite a girl and lived with my father and mother in a house near Piazza Barberini, I remember one day my little sister Ghisa coming running up out of the cellar crying out there was a spirit which had stood waving its hand, and beckoning to her.

'And when the others went down to see what it was all about, they did find some human bones in a corner of the cellar, and no one knew how they got there. But that didn't prove that the child had actually seen a ghost.'

9

[The above story of the golden coffin, it will be observed, was told as of a particular district in Rome. Another time, it was told me of a village in the Campagna; the narrator said she knew the name well, but could not recollect it at the moment. In other respects, there were few differences of detail; but the countrywoman was more robust and courageous than the town woman, and this is how she got on.]

'She was always finding half-pence about the ground where she worked. One day she found a silver piece; as she went to pick it up she saw "One" standing by. "Come with me!" he said; and the countrywoman, not at all afraid, went with him. He led her by solitary ways till he came to a lone empty cottage, when he left her. Quite undaunted, she walked in. There was a large empty room in the midst, all lighted up with ever so many lights.

'"Don't touch, don't touch!" screamed an anxious voice. "Touch! touch!" shouted a more gloomy voice. At last she did touch.'

['Touched what?' asked I; 'the lights, or the floor, or what?'

The narrator was posed by the question.

'Oh, I don't know what she touched. It must be supposed she touched something.']

'Instantly all the lights went out, and she stood in the strange place in the dark. Still she was not frightened. She had the courage to strike a light. By its means she saw there was now a large coffin in the midst of the room. She went straight up to it and opened it. It was full of money! Waiting till daylight, she took home with her as much as ever she could carry. But she kept her own counsel, and never told anyone, and when she wanted money she went back there and took it.

'But if she never told anyone, how did anyone know the story?'

10

'This one now is quite true, for Sora Maria (you know who I mean) told me of it, and she knew the woman as well as her own sister.

'This woman lived near the church of S. Spirito de Napoletani--you know it?'

'Yes, in Via Giulia.'

'Exactly. Well, she used to take in washing to make a little for herself more than what her husband gave her. But he didn't like her doing it, and was very angry whenever he saw her at it. But as he was out all day at his work, she used to manage to get through with it in his absence pretty well.

'One day the water would not boil, all she could do. First she got excited, then she got angry. "It isn't that I care," she said; "but if my husband comes home and sees what I am doing he'll be so angry! What will he say! What shall I do! I would give my soul to the devil only to get it boiling in time!"

'Scarcely had she said the words when blu, blu, blu! the water began to bubble up in the pot, boiling furiously all of a sudden, and though it was now so short a time before her husband came back, all the work was done and out of sight, and he perceived nothing.

'In the night came a paino, [272] and stood in the doorway of the bedroom and beckoned to her; and as she looked she saw that every now and then flames and sparks flew about, out of him.

'At last she could stand it no longer, and she woke her husband and told him all. The husband could see nothing, and tried to quiet her, but she kept crying out, now, "Here he is, here!" and now, "There he is, there!" till at last he was obliged to call the friars of S. Spirito de' Napolitani to her to exorcise the spirit; and it was very difficult, because she had promised to give her soul to the devil; but it had been thoughtlessly done, and in the end the apparition was got rid of.'

[It so happens, however, that the church of S. Spirito de' Napolitani is served by secular priests, and not friars.]

11

'Here's another thing I have heard that will do for you.

'There were two who took a peasant and carried him into the Campagna.'

'What! two ghosts?'

'No, no! two fellows who had more money than they knew what to do with. They took him into the Campagna and made an omelette very good, with plenty of sweet-scented herbs in it, and made him eat it.

'Then they took a barrel and measured him against it, and then another, till they found one to fit, and killed him and filled it up with money, and made a hole in the earth and buried it.

'And they said over it, "No one may disturb you till one comes who makes an omelette with just the same sweet-scented herbs as we have used, and makes it just on the top of this hole. Then, come out and say, 'This gold is yours.'"

'And, of course, in the ordinary course of things, no one would have thought of making an omelette with just those same herbs, just on the top of that hole. But there was one who knew the other two, and suspected something of what they were going to do, and he went up and hid himself in a tree, and watched all that was done, and heard the words.

'As soon as they were gone he came down and took some nice fresh eggs, and just the same sweet-scented herbs the others had used, and made an omelette just over the hole where he had seen them bury the barrel with the money and the man in it.

'He had no sooner done so than the man came out all whole and well, and said: "Oh, how many years have I been shut up in that dark place" (though he hadn't been there half-an-hour) "till you came to deliver me! Therefore all the gold is yours."

'Such things can't be true, so I don't believe them; but that's what they tell.'

12

'And don't they tell other stories about there being treasures hid about Rome?'

'Oh, yes; and some of them are true. It is quite certain that ----' (and she named a very rich Roman prince) 'found all the money that makes him so rich bricked up in a wall. They were altering a wall, and they came upon some gold. It was all behind a great wall, as big as the side of a room--all full, full of gold. When they came and told him he pretended not to be at all surprised, and said: "Oh, yes; it's some money I put away there; it's nothing; leave it alone." But in the night he went down secretly and fetched it away, [273] and that's how he became so rich; for his father was a money-changer, who had a table where he changed money in the open street, and my father knew him quite well.'

13

'Then there's the ----' (another rich family). 'They got their money by confiscation of another [274] family, generations ago. That's why they're so charitable. What they give away in charity to the poor is immense; but it is because they know how the money came into the family, and they want to make amends for their ancestors.'

[These treasure stories are common everywhere. In Tirol, especially, they abound, and are of two kinds. First, concerning treasure hidden in the earth, arising out of the metal mines that were formerly worked there, and the carbuncles which are still found; and the second, precisely like these, of money walled-up in old houses and castles. A countryman, who saw me sketching the old ruin of Monte Rufiano, on a height not far from the banks of Lake Thrasimene, told me a story about it, just like a Tirolese story, of treasure hidden ever so deep under it, and guarded by twelve spectres, who went about, carrying torches in procession, on a Good Friday.

Senhor de Saraiva tells me there is a great variety of such stories in Portugal, where the treasures are generally said to have been hidden by the Moors, and are supposed to be buried under a gigantic depth of rock. A place was once pointed out to him, where there were said to be two enormous jars, one full of gold, and the other of boiling pitch. If, in digging, a man came upon the right one, he would be rich enough to buy up the whole world; but if, by ill luck, his spade first reached the other, the pitch would overflow and destroy everyone on the face of the earth; so that no one dared to make the attempt. The people believe that such localities may be revealed to them in dreams. But they must dream the same dream three nights running, and not tell it to anyone. If they tell it, they will find the money all turned to charcoal. Brick boxes of charcoal have frequently been found buried under Roman boundary stones in Portugal, and in this, he thinks, lies the origin of this latter fancy.

It is remarkable how many odds and ends of history remain laid up in the memories of the Roman people, like the majolica vases and point-lace in their houses. A great favourite with them is the story of Beatrice Cenci, which they tell, under the name of 'La bella Cenci,' with more or less exaggeration of detail.

'Do you know the story of "Sciarra Colonna?"' said an old woman, who seemed scarcely a person likely to know much about such matters.]

1

SCIARRA COLONNA.

There were two of the Colonna. One was Sciarra; I don't know the name of the other. They were always fighting against the pope of their time. [275] At last they took him and shut him up in a tower in the Campagna, and kept him there till they had starved him to death; and when the people found him afterwards, what do you think?--in his extremity he had gnawed off all the tips of his fingers.

When these two Colonna found they had actually killed a Pope, they got so frightened that they ran away to hide themselves. They ran away to France, to Paris, and at last, when all the money they were able to carry with them was spent, they were obliged to take a place as stablemen in the king's palace, and they washed the carriages and cleaned down the horses like common men. But they couldn't hide that they were great lords; the people saw there was something different from themselves about them, and they watched them, and saw that they waited on each other alternately every day at table, and you could see what great ceremony they were used to. Then other things were seen, I forget what now, but little by little, and by one thing and another, people suspected at last who they really were.

Then some one went and told the king of France, and he had them called up before him.

They came just as they were, in their stable clothes, wooden shoes [276] and all.

The king sat to receive them in a raised seat hung all round with cloth of gold, and he said:

'Now, I know one thing. You two are hiding from justice. Who you are I don't know exactly for certain. I believe you are the Colonna. If you confess you are the Colonna, I will make the affair straight for you; but, if you will not say, then I will have you shut up in prison till I find out who you are, and what you have done.'

Then they owned that they were the Colonna, [277] and the king sent an ambassador to the Pope that then was, and the thing was arranged, and after a time they came back to Rome.

2

DONNA OLIMPIA.

The vices of the rich are never forgotten by the people, and the traditions that still are current in Rome about Donna Olimpia [278] are such that I have had to refuse to listen to them. But I feel bound to mention them here, because it is curious that they should so live on for more than two hundred years (the traditions of Sciarra Colonna, however, are six hundred years old). They have, doubtless, rather gained than lost in transmission. Cardinal Camillo Pamfili, Donna Olimpia's son, presents one of those rare instances of which history has only five or six in all to record, in which, for the sake of keeping up the succession to a noble or royal house, it has been permitted [279] to leave the ecclesiastical state for married life. [280] The singularity of this incident has impressed it in the memory of the people, and her promotion of it has contributed to magnify, not only the fantastic element in their narratives, but also the popular feeling against her; thus she is accused of having had a second object in promoting it, namely, to get the place in the pontifical household thus vacated filled by a very simple [281] nephew, and thus increase her own importance at the papal court. The pasquinades written about her in her own age were such that Cancellieri [282] tells us 'spies were set, dressed in silk attire, to discover the authors of such lampoons (motti vituperosi).'

THE MUNIFICENCE OF PRINCE BORGHESE.

[If the Romans remember the vices of their princely families, they are proud of storing up the memory of their virtues too; and the following narrative was told me with great enthusiasm.]

Liberality is a distinguishing characteristic of the Borghese family. It was always a matter of emulation who should get taken into their service, and no one who was once placed there ever let himself be sent away again, it was too good a thing to lose.

There was a man-servant, however, once who gave the Prince, I think it was the father of this one, an insolent answer, and he turned him off.

No one would take that man. Wherever he applied, when they asked him, 'Where have you lived?' and he answered, 'in casa Borghese,' everyone answered, 'Oh, if you couldn't live with Borghese, I'm sure I've nothing better to offer you!' and the door was shut in his face. It wasn't in one place or two, but everywhere, Borghese's character is so well known in Rome. As he couldn't get a place, however, he was reduced to near starvation, and he had a wife and six children, all with nothing to eat. Every article of furniture went to the Monte di Pietà, and almost every article of clothing; and yet hunger stared them in the face.

Then the man got desperate, and he went out one night and waited for Borghese in a lonely street in the dark, with a knife in his hand, and said, 'Your purse!'

Borghese thought he had a gang behind him, round the corner, and handed him his purse. But the man only took out three pauls and gave it back, and he looked so thin and haggard that Borghese could not but notice it, dark as it was, though he had forgotten his face.

'That is not a thief, he is some poor fellow who wants relief,' said Borghese to his servant. 'Go after him and see what he does, but take care not to be seen,' and he walked home alone. In less than half an hour the servant came back. He had seen him spend the three pauls in food; had seen him take it home to his family; had seen them scarcely covered with rags; had seen the room denuded of furniture; had heard the man say, as he put the food on the table, 'Here is wherewith to keep you alive another day, and to-morrow I die in sin, for I had to steal it.'

Then Borghese called up the steward (Maestro di Casa), and told him to go to the house and find out who the man was, and leave them what was wanted for the night.

The steward did as he was told, and left a scudo that the man might get a supper without eating stolen food, but without saying who sent him, for he had learnt by his inquiries that he was the servant whom Borghese had sent away.

The next day Borghese sent and clothed all the family; furnished their place again for them; put the children to schools, and gave the parents ten scudi a month. He wouldn't take the man back, having once had to send him away--for that was his rule--but he gave him a pension for the rest of his life.

'POPE JOAN.'

'You know, of course, that there was once a Papessa? They have put that in the books, I suppose?'

'I know there is such a story, but learned writers have proved it was a mere invention.'

'Well, I daresay it isn't true; but there's no one in Rome who has not heard of it. And what makes them believe it is this. [283] Outside of St. Peter's somewhere there's a statue of her all among the apostles and saints; and they say it's because a Pope must have a statue, and they didn't dare to put hers inside the church, so they put it up outside. And if it isn't a Papessa, what is a woman's statue doing there, for it wasn't the Madonna, that's certain?'

'Oh! that's a statue of Religion, or the Church. [284] There never was a woman-pope.'

'Ah, well! you read books. I dare say you know best; but, anyhow, that's what they say. And, after all, who knows!'

GIACINTA MARESCOTTI.

There was a prince Marescotti, [285] who had two daughters, Cecilia and Giacinta. From her childhood Cecilia had always been gentle and pious, and everyone said, 'When she grows up she will be a nun.' Giacenta was proud, handsome, and passionate, and everyone said, 'She will be a leader of society, and woe betide whoso offends her.'

But their father, good man, [286] knew them better, and one day he announced to them the choice of a state of life which he had made for them; for the pious, gentle Cecilia there was a great lord coming from abroad to make her his wife; but the proud, passionate Giacinta was to enter a convent.

The one was as dismayed as the other at the time, though the event showed he had chosen right. Cecilia, who loved quiet and repose, tenderly entreated her father to let her off the anxieties and responsibilities of becoming the head of a great family, while Giacinta made a great noise [287] at the idea of her beauty and talents being laid up hidden in a nun's cell. Nevertheless, in those days long gone by, girls were used to obey. [288] Cecilia married and proved herself an exemplary wife and mother, and carried respect for religion wherever she went.

Giacinta, on the other hand, took all her worldly state into her convent with her; her cell was furnished like the drawing-room of a palace, and she insisted on having her maids to wait on her; the other nuns she scarcely spoke to, and treated as the dust under her feet.

One day the bishop came to visit the convent. 'What a smell!' [289] he said, as he passed the cell of Giacinta Marescotti.

'A smell, indeed! In my cell which is not only the sweetest in the convent, but which is the only one fit to go into!' exclaimed poor Giacinta in deep indignation. 'What can you possibly mean by "a smell!"'

'A smell of sin!' responded the bishop; and it was observed that for a wonder Giacinta made no retort.

'A smell of sin,' said Giacinta to herself, as she sat alone in her elegant and luxurious cell that night. The words had touched her soul and awakened a train of thoughts latent and undisturbed till then. Always hitherto she had ambitioned the loftiest, most refined objects of research, and thought she knew the secret of attaining them. The bishop's words spoke to her of there being 'a more excellent way' yet. They cast a light upon a higher path than that which she was treading, and revealed to her that those who walked along it, lowly as they might seem, could afford to look down upon hers.

She saw that those who despised distinctions were grander than those who courted them, to become, in the end, their slaves; that those who aspired to celestial joys were nobler than those who surrounded themselves with the most exquisite luxuries of earth. [290]

From that day, little by little, [291] Giacinta's cell grew nearer and nearer to the pattern of the House of Nazareth. The mirror, the cosmetics, and the easy couch made way for the crucifix, the discipline, and the penitential chain. [292] From having been shunned as a type of worldliness, she became to her whole order a model of humility and mortification. [293]

PASQUINO. [294]

1

'No, I can't say I remember any pasquinades, not to repeat; but I know what happened once when they tried to stop them.

'There had been so many one time that the Government put a guard all round about Pasquino to watch and see who did it, but for a long time they saw no one.

'One night, at last, a clownish countryman came by with a bundle of hay on his back, drivelling and half silly. "Let me sit here a bit to rest; I'm so weary with carrying this load I can't go any farther; but I won't do any harm."

'The guards laughed at the poor idiot's simplicity in fancying they could expect such as he to be the author of the witty, pungent sort of wares they were on the search for, and said with contemptuous pity, "Yes, yes; you may sit there!" And the stupid old countryman sat down at the foot of the statue.

'"Heaven reward you for your kindness!" he said, when he got up after half-an-hour's rest.

'"Don't mention it; go in peace!" returned the guards, and the man passed out of sight.

'Next morning, high over head of Pasquino floated a gay paper balloon.

'"The balloon! the balloon!" screamed the street urchins.

'"The balloon! the balloon!" shouted a number of men, assembled by preconcerted arrangement, though seemingly passers-by attracted by the noise.

'The clumsy clodhopper of overnight was an adroit fellow disguised, and he had attached the string of the balloon to the statue.

'To seize the string, pull down the balloon, and burst it was quick work; but out of it floated three hundred and sixty-six stinging pasquinades, which were eagerly gathered up.'

2

'Many a time a simple exterior is a useful weapon; but when a man who is really simple pretends to be clever he is soon found out. For another time there had been a pasquinade which so vexed the Government that the Pope declared whoever would acknowledge himself the author of it should have his life spared and five hundred scudi reward.

'One day a simple-looking rustic came to the Vatican, and said he was come to own himself the author of the pasquinade. As such he was shown in to the Pope.

'"So you are the author of this pasquinade, are you, good man?"

'"Yes, Your Holiness, I wrote it," answered the fellow.

'"You are quite sure you wrote it?"

'"Oh, yes, Your Holiness, quite sure."

'"Take him and give him the five hundred scudi," said the Pope.

'An acute Monsignore, who felt convinced the man could not be the author of the clever satire, could not refrain from interposing officially when he found the Pope really seemed to be taken in.

'"They have their orders," said the Pope, who was no less discerning than he.

'A chamberlain took the man into a room where five hundred scudi lay counted on the table, and at the same time put on a pair of handcuffs.

'"Halloa now! What is this? It was announced that the man who owned himself the author of the Pasquinade should have his life free and five hundred scudi."

'"All right; no one is going to touch your life, and there are the five hundred scudi. But you couldn't imagine that the man who wrote that satire would be allowed to go free about Rome. That was self-evident--there was no need to say it."

'"Oh, but I never wrote a word of it, upon my honour," exclaimed the countryman.

'"I thought not," said the Pope, who had come in to amuse himself with the fellow's confusion. "Now go, and another time don't pretend to any worse sins than your own."'

[The 'Pasquino' statue was not only the receptacle of the invectives of the vulgar, it often served also to mark the triumphs of the great. The first time it was put to this use was in 1571, on occasion of the triumph of M. A. Colonna, when the parts wanting were restored, and it was clad in shining armour. On various occasions, as a new pope went in procession from the Vatican to perform the ceremony called 'taking possession' of St. John Lateran, it was similarly risanato del suo stroppio ordinario (healed of the usual lameness of its members), and made to bear a sword, a balance, a cornucopia, and other emblematical devices, which are given at great length by Cancellieri.

The opinions of Winkelman, and others, concerning the great artistic merits both of this statue and that called 'Marforio,' do not belong to our present aspect of it. Sprenger, 'Roma nuova,' says that besides these two there was another statue which used to take part in this satirical converse, namely, that of the Water-seller, with his barrel (commemorative of a well-known, though humble character), opposite the Church of S. Marcello, in the Corso, which the present rulers, ignorant of Roman traditions, removed. The Romans, however, clamoured against its destruction, and it is now replaced round the corner, up the Via Lata.]

CÈCINGÙLO.

'There was one who would have done much better for you than Pasquino; that was Cècingùlo, [295] at least that's the nickname people gave him. There was no end to the number of stories he could tell.

'In days gone by, [296] he used to sit in Piazza Navona of an evening when people had left work and had time to listen, and he would pour them out by the hour. Now and then he stopped, and went round with his hat, and there were few who did not spare him a bajocco.'

'Did you ever hear him yourself?'

'No; it was before my time, but my father has heard him many's the time, and many of the stories I have told you are the tales of Cècingùlo. How often I have said to him, "Tell me one of Cècingùlo's tales, papa!"' [297]

THE WOOING OF CASSANDRO. [298]

'Did you ever hear of Sor Cassandro?'

'No, never.'

'Do you know where Panìco is?'

'I know the Via di Panìco [299] which leads down to Ponte S. Angelo.'

'Very well; at the end of Panìco [300] there is a frying-shop, [301] which, many years ago, was kept by an old man with a comely daughter. Both were well known all over the Rione.

'One day there came an old gentleman, with a wig and tights, and a comical old-fashioned dress altogether, and said to the shopkeeper--

'"I've observed that daughter of yours many days as I have passed by, and should like to make her my wife."

'"It's a great honour for me, Sor Cassandro, that you should talk of such a thing," answered the old man; and he said "Sor Cassandro" like that because everybody knew old Sor Cassandro with his wig, and his gold-knobbed stick, and his tights, and his old-fashioned gait. "But," he added, as a knowing way of getting out of it, "you see it wouldn't do for a friggitora to marry a gentleman; a friggitora must marry a friggitore."

'"I don't know that that need be a bar," replied Sor Cassandro.

'"You don't understand me, Sor Cassandro," pursued the man.

'"Yes, I understand perfectly," answered the other. "You mean that if she must marry a friggitore, I must become a friggitore."

'"You a friggitore, Sor Cassandro! That would never do. How could you so demean yourself?"

'"Love makes all sweet," responded Sor Cassandro. "You've only to show me what to do and I'll do it as well as anyone."

'The friggitore was something of a wag, and the idea of the prim little Sor Cassandro turned into a journeyman friggitore tickled his fancy, and he let him follow his bent.

'The next morning Sor Cassandro was at Panìco as soon as the shop was open. They gave him a white jacket and a large white apron, and put a white cap on his head, with a carnation stuck in it. And the whole neighbourhood gathered round the shop to see Sor Cassandro turned into a friggitore. The work of the shop was increased tenfold, and it was well there was an extra hand to help at it.

'Sor Cassandro was very patient, and adapted himself to his work surprisingly well, and though the master fryer took a pleasure in ordering him about, he submitted to all with good grace, and not only did he make him do the frying and serving out to perfection, but he even taught him to clip his words and leave off using any expression that seemed inappropriate to his new station. [302]

'There was no denying that Sor Cassandro had become a perfect friggitore, and no exception could be taken to him on that score. As soon as he felt himself perfect he did not fail to renew his suit.

'The father was puzzled what objection to make next. He knew, however, that Sor Cassandro was very miserly, so he said, "You've made yourself a friggitore to please me, now you must do something to please the girl. Suppose you bring her some trinkets, if you can spare the price of them."

'"Oh, anything for love!" answered Sor Cassandro; and the next day he brought a pair of earrings.

'"How did she like my earrings?" he whispered next night to her father.

'"Oh, pretty well!" replied the father. "You might try something more in that style."

'The next day he brought her a necklace, the next day a shawl, and after that he brought fifty scudi to buy clothes such as a girl should have when she's going to be married.

'After all this he asked for the girl herself.

'"You must take her," said the father, and Sor Cassandro went to take her. But she was a sprightly, impulsive girl, and the moment he came near her she screamed out--

'"Get away, horrid old man!" [303] and wouldn't let him approach her.

'"Leave her alone to-night, and try to-morrow. I'll try to bring her round in the meantime."

'Sor Cassandro came next day; but the girl was more violent than ever, and would say nothing but "Get away, horrid old man!"

'Finding this went on day after day without amendment, Sor Cassandro indignantly asked for his presents back.

'"You shall have them!" cried the girl, and the clothes she tore up to rags, and the trinkets she broke to atoms and threw them all at him.

'But for the rest of his life, wherever he went, the boys cried after him, "Sor Cassandro, la friggitora! Sor Cassandro, la friggitora!"'

I COCORNI.

This story of Sor Cassandro led to others of the same nature, but without sufficient interest in the detail to put in print, though they seemed to illustrate the fact that an imaginative people will rapidly turn the most ordinary circumstances into a myth. For instance, one concerned a family named Cocorni, who seem to have been nothing more than successful grocers, the Twinings of Rome, and here is a specimen of the language used about them:--'When his daughter was old enough to marry, Cocorni would hear of no proposal for her. "No," said he; "no one marries my daughter but he who comes in a carriage and four to fetch her." And it really did happen that one came in a carriage and four and took her away;' as if it were such a great matter that it implied something supernatural.

THE BEAUTIFUL ENGLISHWOMAN.

There was a beautiful Englishwoman here once, beautiful and rich as the sun. [304] Heads without number were turned by her: but she would have nothing to say to anyone who wanted to marry her. Some defect she found in all. She was very accomplished, as well as rich and beautiful, and she drew a picture, and said 'When one comes who is like this I will marry him; but no one else.' Some time after a friend came to her, and said:

'There is So-and-so, he is exactly like the portrait you have drawn, and is dying to see you.'

'Is he really like it?' she inquired.

'To me he seems exactly like it; and I don't see he has any defect at all, except that he has one tooth a little green.'

'Then I won't have anything to say to him.'

'But, if he is exactly like the portrait you have drawn?'

'He can't be, or he wouldn't have any defect.'

'But he is exactly like it, and so you must see him; if it's only for curiosity.'

'Well, for curiosity, then, I'll see him; but don't let him build any hopes upon it.'

The friend arranged that they should meet at a ball, and the one was as well pleased as the other; but not wishing to seem to yield too soon, she said:

'Do you know, I don't like that green tooth you've got.'

And he, not to appear too easy either, answered:

'And, do you know, I don't like that patch [305] you have on your face.'

The next time they met, neither he had a green tooth, nor had she a patch; for, you know, a patch can be put on and taken off at pleasure, and this happened a long long while ago, in the days when they wore such things.

She then said:

'If you've put in a false tooth I'll have nothing to say to you.'

'No,' answered he; 'you have taken off your patch; and I've taken off my green tooth.'

'How could you do that?' she asked.

'Oh! it was only a leaf I put on to see if you were really as particular as you seemed to be.'

As they were desperately in love with each other, the next thing was to arrange the marriage secretly. His father had a great title, and would never have consented to his marrying her, because she had none. But she had money enough for both; so they contrived a secret marriage. And then they bought a villa some way off, and lived there.

For thirteen years they lived devoted to each other, and full of happiness; and two children were born to them, a boy and a girl. It was only after thirteen years that the father discovered where the son was, and when he did, he sent for an assassin, [306] and giving him plenty of money, told him to go and by some device or other to bring him to him and get through the affair. The assassin took a carriage and dressed like a man of some importance, and said that some chief man or other in the Government had sent for him to speak to him. The husband suspected nothing, and went with him. As it was night he could not see which way they drove, and thus he delivered his son to his father, who kept him shut up in his palace.

The assassin went back to the villa, and by giving each of the servants fifty scudi apiece, got access to the wife, and murdered her, and then took the children to the grandfather's palace.

'Papa, that man killed mama,' said the little boy, as soon as he saw his father.

The husband seized the man, and made him confess it.

'Then now you must kill him who hired you to do it,' he exclaimed. 'As you have done the one, you must do the other. He who ordered my wife to be killed is no father to me.'

So the assassin went in and killed the father, but when he came out the husband was ready for him, and he said:

'Now your turn has come,' and he shot him dead.

[I have not had the opportunity of sifting this story, but it manifestly contains the usual popular exaggerations.]

THE ENGLISHMAN.

[That a rich Englishman should fall in love with a beautiful but poor Roman girl, and marry her, is no impossible incident, and may have happened more than once; but it is very curious to watch how it has passed into the mythology of the people.

The idea of a 'Gran Signore' coming on a visit from a land where all are rich is the first fantastic element of the tradition. The idea that all English people are rich is very common among the Roman lower classes, and is not an unnatural fancy for people to take up who have seen no specimens of the creature but such as are rich. There is one old woman whom I have never been able to disabuse of the idea. I shall never forget the blank astonishment with which she repeated my words the first time I broke it to her that there were poor people in England, and she has never thoroughly grasped it.

'Io pensava che in Inghilterra tutti erano ricchi--tutti ricchi--' (I thought everyone--everyone in England was rich) she always says, as if in spite of me she thought so still.

That such an one should be won by the charms of a beautiful Roman girl, and should carry her off to that unknown land bright with gold but devoid of sun, and that in the end the fogs and the Protestantism should prove unendurable to the child of the South, are not bad materials for a fairy story.

I have met with such stories several times.

One old woman assured me, that when she was a child her father had let an apartment to the very man, and that he took the room for a month, and though he spontaneously offered ten times as high a price as the owner could ever have asked, he never slept there. He had secretly married a Roman girl who was imprisoned for breaking the law by marrying a Protestant, and he opened her prison doors with his 'wand,' that is, he bribed the jailer to admit him to pass all his time in prison with her; ultimately he carried her off to England, but she soon died there.

Another pointed out to me a shop where in former days had been a butcher, whose daughter had charmed a rich Englishman, who carried her off to his own country, and married her there. But this was a very tetra (sad, gloomy) story, for after many years she came back looking like the ghost of herself. She had gone away a blooming girl, the pride and the admiration of the whole neighbourhood; she came back prematurely grey, hollow-eyed, and thin as a skeleton.

She said it was the climate had disagreed with her, and further than that she would say nothing. But who knows what she may not have had to go through!

Bresciani has made the same tradition the groundwork of one of his most interesting romances.]

THE MARRIAGE OF SIGNOR CAJUSSE. [307]

There was a rich farmer [308] who had one only daughter, and she was to be his heiress. She fell in love with a count who had no money--at least only ten scudi a month. When he went to the farmer to ask her in marriage he would not hear of the alliance, and sent him away.

But the girl and he were bent on the marriage, and this is how they brought it about. The girl had a thousand scudi of her own; half of this she gave to him, and said: 'Go over a certain tract of the Campagna and visit all the peasants about, and give five piastres to one and ten to another according to their degree, that they may say when they are asked that they all belong to Signor Cajusse. Then take papa round to hear what they say, and he will think you are a great proprietor, and will let us marry.'

Signor Cajusse, for such was his name, took the money and did as she told him, and then hired a carriage and came to her father, and said: 'You are quite mistaken in thinking I'm too poor to marry your daughter; come and take a drive with me, and I will show you what a great man I am.'

So the farmer got into his carriage, and he drove him round to all the peasants he had bribed. First they stopped at a farm. [309]

'Good morning, Signor Cajusse,' said the tenant, who had been duly primed, bowing down to the ground; and then he began to tell him about his crops, as if he had been really proprietor.

After this he proposed to walk a little way, and all the labourers left their work and flocked after him, crying, 'Good day, Signor Cajusse; health to you and long life, and may God prosper you!' and they tried to kiss his hand.

Further along they came to a villa where Cajusse had ascertained that the real proprietor would not come that day. Here he went straight up to the casino, where the servant in charge, who had been also duly bribed, received him with all the honours due to a master.

'Welcome, Signor Cajusse,' he said, and opened the doors and shutters and set the chairs.

'Bring a little of that fine eight-year-old wine,' ordered Cajusse; 'we have brought a packet of biscuits, and will have some luncheon.' [310]

'Very good, Signor Cajusse,' replied the servant respectfully, and shortly after brought in a bottle of wine handed to him for the purpose by Cajusse the day before. When they had drunk they took a stroll round the place, and wherever they turned the labourers all had a greeting and a blessing for Signor Cajusse.

When the merchant saw all this he hardly knew how to forgive himself for having run the risk of losing such a son-in-law. He was all smiles and civility as they drove home, and the next day was as anxious to hurry on the match as he had been before to put it off. As all were equally in a hurry to have it, of course it was not long before it was celebrated. With the girl's remaining five hundred scudi a handsome apartment was hired to satisfy appearances before the parents, and for a few days they lived on what was left over.

They sat counting their last two or three scudi. 'What is to be done now?' said Cajusse; 'that will soon be spent, and then how are we to live?'

'I'll set it right,' answered the bride. 'Now we're married that's all that signifies. Now it's done they can't help it.'

So she went to her mother and told her all, and the good woman, knowing the thing could not be altered, talked over the father; and he gave them something to live upon and found a place for Cajusse, and they were very happy.

THE DAUGHTER OF COUNT LATTANZIO. [311]

Count Lattanzio had a daughter who was in love with a lawyer, but the count was not at all inclined to let her marry beneath her station, and he took all the pains imaginable to prevent them from meeting; so much so that he scarcely left her out of his sight. One day he was obliged to go to his vineyard outside the gates, and before he left he gave strict injunctions to his servant to let no one in till he came back at 21 o'clock. [312]

It was an hour before 21 o'clock, and there was a knock at the door.

'Is the Count Lattanzio in?'

'No, he won't be in just yet.'

'Ah, I know, he won't be in till 21 o'clock; he said I was to wait. I'm come to measure him for a pair of new boots. [313]

'If he told you to wait I suppose you must,' said the servant; 'otherwise he had told me not to let anyone in.' And as he showed him in he thought he was a rather gentlemanly bootmaker.

Soon after there was another knock.

'Is the Count Lattanzio in?'

'No, he won't be in for some time yet.'

'Ah, never mind; he said I was to wait if he hadn't come in. I'm the tailor, come to measure him for a new suit.'

'If he said you were to wait I suppose you must,' answered the servant; 'but it's very odd he should have told you so, as he particularly told me to let no one in.' However, he showed him in also. Directly after there came another knock.

'Is the Count Lattanzio at home?'

'No, he won't be in for some time yet.'

'Never mind; I'm the lawyer engaged in his cause before the courts. He said I was to wait if he wasn't in.'

But the servant began to get alarmed at having to disobey orders so many times, and he thought he would make a stand.

'I'm very sorry,' he said, 'but master said I wasn't to show anyone in.'

'What! when I've come here with my two clerks, on particular business of the greatest importance to your master, do you suppose I'm going away again like that, fellow?'

The servant was so amazed by his imperative manner that he let him in, too.

Twenty-one o'clock came at last, and with it Count Lattanzio. Having given orders that no one should be let in, of course he expected to find no one. What was his astonishment, therefore, when, as he opened the drawing-room door, a loud cry of 'Long live Count Lattanzio!' [314] uttered by several voices, met his ear.

The shoemaker was the bridegroom, the tailor the best man, the lawyer and his two clerks were the notary and his witnesses. The marriage articles had been duly drawn up and signed, and as the parties were of age there was no rescinding the contract.

Count Lattanzio sent away the servant for not attending to orders; but that made no difference--the deed was done.

BELLACUCCIA.

There was once a pleader [315] who sat writing in his room all day whenever he was not in court.

One day as he so sat there came in at the window a large monkey, and began whisking about the room. The lawyer, pleased with the antics of the monkey, called it scimmia bellacuccia, [316] and caressed and fed it. By-and-by he had to go out on his business, and though he was in some fear of the pranks the monkey might be up to in his absence, he had taken such a fancy to it that he did not like to send it away, and at last left it alone in his apartment.

When he came home, instead of the monkey having been at any mischievous pranks, the whole suite of rooms was put in beautiful order, and out of very scanty materials in the cupboard an excellent dinner was cooked and laid ready.

'Scimmia bellacuccia! is this your doing!' said the lawyer, and the monkey nodded assent.

'Then you are a precious monkey, indeed,' he replied, and he called it to him and fed it, and gave it part of the dinner.

The next day the monkey did the work of the house, and the lawyer sent away his servant because he had no further need for one, the monkey did all much better and in a more intelligent way.

All went well for a time, when one day the lawyer had occasion to visit a friar he knew at St. Nicolò da Tolentino, for in those days there were friars [317] there instead of nuns as now. He did not fail to tell him of the treasure he had found in his bellacuccia, as he called his monkey.

'Don't let yourself be deceived, friend!' exclaimed the friar. 'This is no monkey; it is not in the nature of a monkey to do thus.'

'Come and see it yourself,' said the lawyer. 'You will find I have over-stated nothing of what it can do and does every day.'

Some days after this the friar came, having taken care to provide himself with his stole and a stoup of holy water. Directly he came into the lawyer's apartment he put on his stole and sprinkled the holy water.

The monkey no sooner saw the shadow of his habit than it took to flight, and, after scrambling all round the room to get away from the sight of him, finally hid itself under the bed.

'You see!' said the friar to the lawyer.

But the lawyer cried, 'Here bellacuccia; come here!' and as the monkey was by habit very docile and obedient, when he had said 'bellacuccia' a great many times, it at last forced itself to come to him, but stealthily and warily, showing great fear of the monk.

When it had got quite close to the lawyer, and he was holding it, the friar once more put on his stole, sprinkled it with holy water and exorcised it.

Instantly bellacuccia burst away from the lawyer, and, clambering up to the window, broke away through the upper panes and disappeared, leaving a smoke and a smell of brimstone behind. But it was really a man who had been put under a spell by evil arts, [318] and when thus released by the monk's exorcism he went and became a monk, I forget in what order, but I know it was one of those who dress in white.

THE SATYR.

1

There was once a great king who had one only little daughter, and this daughter was always entreating him to take her out hunting.

'It is not proper for little girls to go out hunting,' he used to say; but it was no use. She went on begging all the same, and at last her importunity gained the day, and he took her with him. But in the forest she got separated from him and lost herself, and he, full of the ardour of the chase, forgot the care of her, and, when he came to think of her, she could no more be found.

She wandered about the forest crying for her father, but her father came not; and instead of her father a selvaggio [319] found her, and fell in love with her, and took her to his den and married her, and she had two children.

When ten years had passed, and there were no tidings of her, the queen, her mother, died of a broken heart. [320]

But the selvaggio loved her dearly, and did everything in his power to give her pleasure. When he found she could not eat the raw game which he brought her, he would go into the towns and steal cooked food and bring it to her, and when he could not get that he would go ever so far to find fruits and roots. Everything, he did to please her, but it was no use, she could not love him.