YALE UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY

Bought with the income
of the
HENRY W. FARNAM FUND

The Evening of the Festival.

AMONG
ITALIAN PEASANTS
Written and Illustrated by
TONY CYRIAX
With an Introduction by
MUIRHEAD BONE

NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY

PREFACE
I remember once, in company with a distinguished critic, leaning
on that balcony at Settignano which spreads out before one the
whole Tuscan plain ; but though the day was lovely and the year at
the spring, my friend ventured to make a grimace, explaining that
too many maiden ladies had wept over this view for it to move him
now. I did not know then the sketches of Tony Cyriax, and so had
nothing wherewith to comfort him, and, in fact, I knew only too
depressingly what he meant, and how wellnigh impossible it is to
see Italy in a fresh, candid way. Imagine, then, the pleasure in
making the acquaintance of the artist these pages introduce to
the public, for I think she possesses this gift of an untouristlike
vision in a quite definite degree.
If we consider how well we know in advance what an artist means
by his sketches of Italy, we must confess when these pages have
been well studied, how little we could have anticipated the drawings
of Miss Cyriax. In place of the well-thumbed repository most of us
find it, her Italy is a vivid, hard, strange new place, peopled by
workmen and peasants, who have a fascination about them that the
picturesque could never give. They are a living people, who go
about their tasks quite oblivious of this foreigner among them,
who must surely have been disembodied to seize such an interior as
that of the group round the table, the unwinking eye of the lamp

vi PREFACE
keeping company with the man turning over his Coniere for the
hundredth time, too sleepy to give up, wistful to extract the pinch
of marrow his eye noted some time back. How perfectly it gives
the long-drawn-out ennui of the Italian peasants' night ! Or ' After
the Funeral'— is it not perfect in its way for humour and character?
The quarrel which has broken out at last, as every one knew
it would, is expressed with the singleness of heart and the
freshness of insight which we associate with only the great artists.
It is a disarmingly small sketch, but it is a masterpiece of simplified
character, exactly right in its putting down. We are all yearning
for the genuine naif. This artist is brimful of it.
It is true that she tells us nothing we did not know about Italy,
but Tony Cyriax has the great merit of telling us for the first time
that these things can be expressed in art, and that their effect is to
create stroke by stroke, imperceptibly almost, the real Italy which
we in our pictures are always, somehow or other, leaving out. She
sees the 'Young Italy' which never dies, wringing a living out of
their picture-like but flinty soil only by incredible patience and
hard work. We all turn aristocrats when we cross the Alps. There
is a rare temper displayed throughout these sketches, breathing a
noble democracy and sympathy which entitles Miss Cyriax to be
considered a new personality in art.
Muirhead Bone.

CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGB
I. SAN LORENZO I
II. THE DANCE AT THE INN 15
III. THE VILLAGE 28
IV. THE RIDGE OF HOUSES 38
V. CHARCOAL BURNERS 50
VI. THE POLICE COURT 65
VII. RAIMONDO 83
VIII. CAVALLERI 95
DC. LIME BURNERS IO9
X. THE FESTIVAL OF THE MADONNA 120
XI. THE MOUNTAIN I38
XII. CORNIGHE I55
XIII. HAYMAKERS 173
XIV. HAILSTONES 187
XV. BIRDS OF PASSAGE 194
XVI. SAN LORENZO AGAIN 220
XVII. THE LAST DAYS 238
XVIII. AMERICA 257

vfi

COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS

The Evening of the Festival
Riccardo and Rosina
Raimondo and Bigi by the Fontana
Silkworms
The di Marchesis at Dinner

Frontispiece
facing page 4
84 96
17°

BLACK AND WHITE ILLUSTRATIONS
An Evening at San Lorenzo „ 8
Bortolo Stirring the Polenta „ 12
Sunday at the Inn „ 32
Cristofolo Crossing the Ridge of Houses „ 40
The Mourners „ 48
An Altercation „ 100
Ghita „ 130
Loads of Hay ,. 174
Filip's Niece ,, 200
Nocturnal Visitors „ 236
Teschini Makes a Speech „ 244

LI

0 can giovanotti,
Domani dobbiamo partire;
A costa di morire,
In America voglio andar.
Quando sard in America,
Quando sard in America,
Quando sard in America,
L'amante la qui sterrd.
Quando avrd qui stato,
Quando avrd qui stato,
Quando avrd qui stato,
In Italia riturnerd.
Quando sard in Italia,
Quando sard in Italia,
Quando sard in Italia,
L'amante la sposerd.
Quando avrd sposato,
Quando avrd sposato,
Quando avrd sposato,
In America turnero.

Oh, dear boys and girls,
To-morrow we must part;
Rather than starve here,
I must go to America.
When I am in America,
When I am in America,
When I am in America,
I leave my darling here.
After I have been there,
After I have been there,
After I have been there,
I will come back again.
When I am back in Italy,
When I am back in Italy,
When I am back in Italy,
My darling I will wed.
But after we are married,
But after we are married,
But after we are married,
I must go back to America.

xii

CHAPTER I
SAN LORENZO
Early one morning I stood with Rosina, waiting by the fontana.
It was five o'clock and we were late, too late to get as far as the
church in time for the service. That was why we waited at the
fontana, for the procession would pass there and we could join in
at the rear.
The priest was going to bless the fields at the Campo Santo above
San Lorenzo. To-morrow the ceremony would take place on the
farther side of the village, and the next day somewhere else, and so
on for the rest of the week, till all the fields had received their
blessing. It was March. Trees were budding and in sheltered places were
the first spring flowers. The almond trees were in blossom. Water
rushed down the mountain and tumbled into the lake below. Our
hearts were full of hope for the summer.
The sun was not yet very high above Monte Moro across the lake.
It was still in shadow with white mist clinging to it in places. On
our side the air was clear, and the sunshine, pale and cool, made the
morning lovely.
Some women were washing clothes in the large tanks of the
fontana, and we spoke with them. Rosina always had a lot to say,
and there was plenty of time, the procession had only just started.

2 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
We could hear the chanting, but a hillock and olive-trees screened
the singers from our sight. At that place the mountain was one
vast slope down from the rampart of crags at the top to where we
stood, and then it broke and fell down to the lake in a muddle of
precipices, hillocks, and gullies, all at different heights and
angles. The chanting came nearer. It was a mournful minor sound,
rising and falling like a wail. It made me think of death. The
procession came into view round the corner. The priest headed it
with two boys carrying the book and censer and darkly clad figures
followed, walking two and two. They looked so tiny in the vast
place — so pitiful, and the song was so sad. It had nothing of the
joy of fertility or of hope in it. Sadly and slowly they came.
The women who had been washing hid behind the pillars, and
Rosina and I joined in at the rear of the procession. It went on
down the road, and then turned up a little grassy path leading to
the Campo Santo. We stood or knelt amongst the nameless graves
whilst the priest recited the prayers. Some of the old women fingered
their beads, and heads were bent in devotion. Then the priest
read from the book which a boy held open, and then he sprinkled
the holy water and prayed. The other little boy swung the censer
and puffs of incense rose up in the still morning air.
Then there was a stir and the procession reformed to retrace
its steps back to the church. The same sad Litany was chanted
again, and they went on singing until once more in the twilight of
the church.
Rosina and I did not walk farther than the gate of San Lorenzo,
where we turned in and went back to the farm. I felt saddened

SAN LORENZO 3
and forgot about the lovely morning. Neither of us spoke, both
listening to the distant singing.
At last I said: 'Whatever does it mean?'
'Signora,' answered Rosina, 'we pray that the crops shall not
be spoilt by the hail. In these parts we have great hailstorms which
ruin the harvest . . . and then we starve.'
San Lorenzo was a large farmhouse built on a piece of level
ground at the top of a precipice. It was a halfway house between
the town on the lake shore below and the little village higher up,
but it was much nearer the village. For many years Rosina had
had a licence and sold wine. But a year ago she had given it up.
No one, however, paid much attention to that, and Rosina gaily
served those she could trust not to tell. The villagers came very
often to drink or to talk, and there was continual coming and going
and lively altercation. I often sat in the kitchen listening to
peasants talking, or to hear what Rosina had to say about them
when they were gone. But on this particular afternoon we were
discussing Riccardo, her youngest son.
He was washing up. Rosina, as usual, had been abusing him,
and I had taken his part. She looked at him critically.
'And you really think,' she said, 'that Riccardo is a good boy?'
'Of course I do, but he is young, and you can't expect him to
work all day.'
'But he doesn't work, he dawdles. Look at him now. He has
been two hours washing up those dishes, I could have done it all
myself in twenty minutes. But Riccardo, can't you hurry— your
father is wanting you in the field.'

4 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
Riccardo turned back to his work, but did not hurry. He washed
each plate with deliberation, rinsed and placed it on the side table
to dry. His mother, in a state of exasperation, had been calling him all
the names she could think of.
He had merely turned his head round, saying in a most idiotic
manner, ' He-he ! '
It was the last straw, and Rosina, furious, had slipped off her
wooden-soled shoe and had given his shoulders some hard thuds
with it.
Poor little Riccardo. Life was one succession of tasks done
unwillingly. If it wasn't his mother urging him on indoors it was
his father calling outside. It was Riccardo here, Riccardo there.
and Riccardo himself somewhere else, sublimely doing nothing.
He never played or did things for his own amusement, he just
loafed. I thought Riccardo a little stupid, but a dear boy. He was only
twelve. 'If you think,' went on Rosina, 'that he really is good and
capable, why not take him to England as your servant? We should
not expect any wages for him, it would be sufficient if you fed and
clothed him. We are so poor we cannot buy proper food and seldom
eat meat. The children do not grow up strong. It is polenta — for
every meal polenta.'
- She had grown quite pathetic. Riccardo had finished washing
up, and was scrubbing the sink.
'No, Rosina, I do not want a servant, nor can I take Riccardo
to England. But I do believe there is -good in the boy. Why don't

Riccardo and Rosina.

SAN LORENZO 5
you send him away from home for a bit? You know you can't
manage him, perhaps he would get on better amongst strangers.'
'He does not know how well off he is at home, signora. But
some one is calling.'
She went to the open door and returned for a glass and a measure
of wine. I went out to see whom she was serving.
A fair-haired peasant had just drained the glass, given it to
Rosina, and risen to his feet. He was a big, strong fellow. He bent
down for his load, a large truss of hay carried on the back, and kept
in position by an attached stick held over the right shoulder. With
bim was a small boy, also with a little load.
We stood watching them go. The man did not walk, but went
with a slow, springy run.
'Rosina,' I said suddenly, 'that must be very heavy  '
'Giuseppe!' she shouted, 'how much hay have you?'
'Seventy-five kilos,' he shouted back.
'He has carried it up from the town.'
'But impossible — it is too heavy,' I called.
He swung round, and so bent was he I could hardly see his face.
'Signora !' he shouted, "what can a poor man do?' If the load
had let him he would have shrugged his shoulders.
I knew the road, which zigzagged from the town below to the
village above us. It went up, up, up at an uncomfortably steep
angle with only a few yards of level walking just below San Lorenzo.
In places it was shockingly bad and there was very little shade. No
horse and cart could travel up it. Oxen wagons could, and donkeys.
The whole walk took quite two hours.
I.P. b

6 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
I stood thinking of Giuseppe, waiting for him to come into sight
on the piece of road above the fontana.
The sun had dipped behind the mountain edge, and I walked
round the house into the narrow gorge. A little stream rushed down
over stones and the grass was dotted with primroses. The steep
terraces were fringed with laurel bushes, and one thousand feet
below, nearly under foot, was the lake, dark peacock in the evening
shadow. It was always very peaceful there.
Up on the mountain I could hear the children calling the goats
home. A man passed along the ridge above me. It was Renzi Gheco
going to the spring to fill his water-bottle. Dear grubby Gheco,
he was not beautiful and his figure was that of a large-sized three-
year-old child. He sometimes came in of an evening and would
sit by the fire, playing the accordion with an expression of ecstatic
fulfilment. He did not play well. What chords of his soul were stirred
by those sounds, I do not know, but I felt it was something so holy
that it must not be joked about, even in his absence.
We all liked Gheco, he was a good-natured fellow, honest but
very simple. His cottage was on the other side of the gorge from
San Lorenzo, and there he lived with his mother and their servant.
La Macuccia was the Mrs Malaprop of the country-side, and to
the funny things she said was coupled the most horrible voice a
human being was ever cursed with. It might be described as a
rasping croak, but such a description still leaves the worst to the
imagination.

SAN LORENZO 7
For two whole hours that morning she had shouted at Bortolo
over the wall. The flow of words had been astounding, and her
voice rose and fell without a pause for Bortolo to put in a word.
He, poor tried man, by nature tolerant and polite, so far forgot
himself as to try to outshout her when her remarks became too
outrageous. My irritation at the interminable clatter had been mitigated by
amusement at Bortolo's ineffectual repartee.
At last he retreated and came indoors, hot and agitated.
' Oh, what a woman ! ' he had said.
'What is it all about?'
'Signora, there is a path through her fields to the Campo Santo.
The procession passed along it when the priest blessed the fields.
It is my duty to see that the path is kept tidy and the grass mown.
I cut it this morning and carried the grass home. La Macuccia says
the grass belongs to her. But it is my reward for keeping the place
in order. She is crazy. Ecco.'
'I never understand one word of what she says,' I answered.
'I never listen,' said Rosina. 'She never stops when once she
starts, and there is no opportunity for an answer. Hasn't she got
a beautiful voice?'
She had. I could hear her now talking to the servant.
I walked back to the house. Rosina was at the door.
'Have you seen Riccardo?' she asked.
I hadn't.
'He ought to have come long ago to milk the cow. Ah, there
he is. Riccardo, make haste.'
He came running to me and flung his arms round my neck.

8 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'Lovely signora,' he cried, 'give me just one kiss, and I will be
happy.' He had such an enchanting smile.
When at last Castelli Bortolo came in from work we sat round
the fire and talked. He took great pains to make himself understood,
for my knowledge of Italian was limited, but I soon found that his
was also. A great many of his words and expressions were neither
in the dictionary nor the grammar.
Rosina would come to my rescue.
'My husband is ignorant,' she would say, 'he talks the dialect
to you. When he says " el piru " he means " la forchetta." Ecco.'
It was very confusing.
Amongst themselves the peasants always talked the dialect.
To me they talked what they thought was Italian, but it was nothing
better than dialect diluted with Italian. Rosina, who had formerly
been in service in some of the large towns, was one of the few who
could talk Italian well.
It was not very long before I began to study the dialect. At
first Bortolo thought it beneath the dignity of a lady to learn the
language of the poor, but as I persisted he grew interested, and
taught me what he could. I wrote down the strange words, and in
time I could understand and make myself understood. But I never
stopped marvelling at the dialect. It had a small vocabulary, but
the words were a jumble from everywhere. The greater part of
them were abbreviated Italian words or disfigured derivations. I
never knew words could deteriorate so. But not all the words were
Italian. Many were Latin, others like French, Rumanian, German,

An Evening at San Lorenzo.

SAN LORENZO 9
and Russian. The more I studied the dialect the more interesting it
became. Bortolo had been four years in California, but he showed no trace
of any Americanism. Had he not told me I would not have guessed
it. The returned emigrants of other nationalities I have seen have
always something American about them. Not so Bortolo; he went
and returned the same good old Bortolo.
He would tell me of the life in California and the gold mine, and
the long journey with a three days' delay in Paris. And how
frightened he had been of the traffic, especially of the motors, so that
he had never walked farther than the end of the block. He had
felt much safer indoors.
He liked to air his English on me; but his vocabulary was limited,
and the few words he remembered epitomised those four years of
his life. He could say : eight hour an' no more, job, boss, all de
sam', maybe, big, dog, bread and cheese, beans, drink, go 'ome,
sleep, shoot, and, of course, dollar and cent, both of which he only
used in the singular.
One evening he said 'Wammair.'
I was stupid and couldn't understand. The whole family waited
breathless to know whether the mistake was his or mine.
'Wammair,' repeated Bortolo, 'if two men were looking at some
thing and you were passing, what would you say?'
At last I guessed. 'What's the matter !'
Bortolo was delighted. 'I am so glad you understand, but in
America we say " wammair." There is a difference between English
and American, as you doubtless notice,' he added loftily, for the
benefit of the listeners.

10 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
But usually there were no listeners. Riccardo had been over
powered with sleep long ago, and was fast asleep on Paolino's
shoulder. Paolino was fast asleep too. He was the elder son, a
miniature Bortolo in every way.
Little Pina was asleep with her head on the table, Rosina never
dreaming of putting her to bed before she fell asleep. Halfway
through the evening she would awaken her and insist on the sleepy
child saying good-night. Often as not she stubbornly refused, and
Rosina would cuff her until she was sufficiently awake to see her
error. Then she would go whining up to bed, Rosina following with
a candle and an enormous warming-pan. When she came down,
she would usually go to sleep herself, leaning on the table.
It was ten o'clock and I said I must go to bed. Bortolo would
not hear of it — it was too early.
'But aren't you tired?' I asked. 'You have been picking olives
all day, I am sure you get up very early.'
'I got up at four, signora.'
Rosina raised her head from the table and tried to open her eyes,
but the lamp dazzled them.
'Signora,' she said with closed eyes, 'think of it, he never sleeps
more than five hours. And I, I can sleep eight or even nine.'
She dropped her head on her arms.
'And do you never sleep in the day?' I asked. 'Do you work
from four until eight at night?'
'Yes, signora, I sleep, perhaps, if it is hot after dinner  '
He lit my candle and stood holding it.
'Signora Antonia, a favour.' He bowed like a nobleman.
'Well?'

SAN LORENZO

n

'When you get upstairs, signora, and I know you will have one
window open, would you mind opening the one on that side instead
of the one here?' He pointed to the walls.
'But why? I open that one because of the draught. The other
window is just by my head, and I might catch a chiU.'
'But it is from this window that you will catch the chill. The
mountain air is unhealthy — and that window opens more towards
the mountain. If I, signora, slept with that window open, I would
be dead or catch a cold.'
'And you really believe the air is different on the other side of
the house?'
'Signora, there is a great difference.'
'But you know I've had that window open all the time  '
'I have thought of it every night/
'  and both of us keep as well as can be.'
'You are both as strong as soldiers.'
Rosina had roused herself and was shaking Paolino and Riccardo.
Yawning and stretching they went off to bed in a half-dazed con
dition. Bortolo handed me the candle and bade me good-night.
As I went up he turned to Rosina and said confidentially : —
'These English seem able to stand anything.'
Then he took up the newspaper and put on his spectacles.
Rosina had the habit of treating Bortolo as if he was a fool. She
was quicker than he was, and his slowness irritated her. He was
a refined, thoughtful man, perhaps too lenient of others' failings to
be quite just. I never heard him speak ill of any one or swear, unless
occasion demanded. Rosina was quite different. She was impulsive

12 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
and easily shouted, and when in a fury her tongue would get the
upper hand and her words became foul and unreasonable. But
that did not happen often and the coarseness that was always there
lay hidden. She was very capable and her advice was worth listening
to. If anything was wrong among her set in the village, they would
come to Rosina, and she knew exactly what ought to be
done. Perhaps Bortolo was too easy-going and contented. His soul
was wrapped up in the fields. He gloried in the growth and vigour
of his plants; working early and late.
He seldom came indoors except to snatch a meal and also to cook
it. For the men usually prepare the polenta. It is made of maize-
meal sprinkled into boiling, salted water, and it is so stiff to stir
and in such a large cauldron, that it is man's work to prepare it.
When cooked it is tipped out of the cauldron on to a board, and stands
there very much like a bright yellow suet pudding. Rosina would
cut it into slices with a thread. I think Bortolo had polenta for
every meal. In the morning he broke it into his soup, at midday
it was cooked and eaten in large quantities with a scrap of meat or
fish, for supper he broke it into his soup again, and if he was ever
hungry in between whiles, he would eat it cold. Rosina shared
any tit-bits with the children. He would protest if she put anything
'nice' on his plate. The only thing I ever saw him eat with pleasure,
besides polenta, was green vegetables.
Paolino was his constant companion, but he did not seem to
care so much for his other children. Riccardo was a continual source
of annoyance to him, he could not understand that love for loafing.
It was an annoyance, too, to Rosina, and I'm sure Riccardo made

Bortolo Stirring the Polenta.

SAN LORENZO 13
her suffer, but there is no doubt that she loved him more than all
the others. Riccardo was the apple of her eye. Neither seemed
to care so much for little Pina. Perhaps it was difficult to love her.
She was a trivial little thing with a tiny nose.
I was awakened by a roaring sound. I sat up in the dark and
listened. A door banged. The windows rattled.
It was the wind roaring down the mountain-side. I quickly
closed the window.
In the dim light without I could see trees bowed down, lashed
by their own branches. Olive-trees stood like ghosts, white with
upturned leaves. The long grass bent and lifted.
I was very frightened. I had never experienced such wind
before. The house staggered as each blast tugged it; it creaked
and groaned. Each moment I expected we should be blown along
the grass and dropped down the precipice beyond. Nothing seemed
impossible as it blustered round the house.
My door flew open.
Almost immediately Rosina, in fluttering nightdress, rushed
into the room. She opened my window and closed the outside
shutters. Then she hastened away.
I felt still more frightened. My room was now dark. It was like
a prison and I felt out of contact with what was going on without.
The noise was terrific. I would have opened the shutters if I had
dared, but if the house were blown inside-out Rosina would say it
was my fault. My room was really rather sheltered, it was the other
side which got the full force of the gale.
I sat up and listened, expecting I don't know what. I firmly

14 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
made up my mind never to stay on a mountain again if I should
survive the night. . . .
Then came a prolonged crash that dominated everything. I
thought it was a boulder that had tumbled down from above and
smashed the wall. But the wall remained standing and nothing
happened. I heard voices, but Rosina did not come to my room, so I con
cluded nothing serious had happened after all.
I went on listening to the wind, which seemed a little less awful
after the crash, or was it really less wild? Yes, the gusts were less
violent — and with the same abruptness with which it had begun,
it died down to a gentle breeze.
I opened the window and saw the calm stars above. The lake
was in a turmoil. The sound of waves came up to me, an echo of the
stormy air.

CHAPTER II
THE DANCE AT THE INN
I was sitting on the trunk of the olive-tree that had fallen against
the house and had frightened me so last night. Bortolo and Paolino
had been chopping off the smaller branches.
It was a lovely calm morning. Everything was peaceful and
Sunday-like. A man and woman had called in for a glass of wine and gone on
to the town.
Riccardo had not returned. Rosina was getting anxious, but she
did so every day at about half-past nine, and remained in a state
of agitation until Riccardo arrived, usually at eleven or even half-
past. He carried the milk down every morning at five-thirty, and
in all reason ought to be back by nine o'clock. What he did during
those two hours I never rightly knew, but I am afraid he loafed on
the quay or by cafe doors, listening to men talk.
Rosina came out to look up the path again and make a gesture
of despair. 'I told him to be early. The dinner will never be cooked if he
does not bring the meat soon.'
Presently she came out again.
'Signora, they are dancing at the village to-night. Would you
like to go ? '
'Yes, I think so. Where is it to be?'
15

16 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'At the house of Nino. It is the inn.' '
'And you think I shall go dancing in an inn on Sunday night?'
'But why not?'
I could think of no reason.
'Tell me, Rosina, will there be nobody who has had too much
wine ? '
'You need have no fear,' she answered, 'at Campia. they are all
good boys, bravi ragazzi, it will be all right. I will go with you.
If you do not like it we can come home. Riccardo and Paolino will
come as well. Bortolo will look after the house.'
We arranged to go. I had become accustomed to follow Rosina's
advice, for it had been invaluable. She knew what to do and when
to do it.
At last Riccardo came down the path.
'Ugly creature,' she greeted him, "did I not tell you to hurry?
You will be late for mass. Here is the signora waiting for her letters.
You deserve to be beaten.'
'There is no post,' said Riccardo, entirely unperturbed, and went
in to put down the baskets. Then followed the inevitable loud-
voiced altercation. Rosina looked at the purchases and asked the
prices. Riccardo could only remember them when driven very hard,
and the butcher's ticket was invariably in the pocket he had forgotten
to search. In ten minutes it was over, and he came out smiling.
'Lovely signora,' he cried, capering towards me, blithe as a
kitten, 'give me a kiss and perhaps I will give you a letter.'
' No, no, give me my letter,' and I caught his arm and felt in his
pockets. There was nothing in them.

THE DANCE AT THE INN 17
'Come, my letter,' I said.
With a mischievous look he unbuttoned his coat, and there,
between his braces and his heart, was a letter for me. I took it.
'The kiss, signora?'
'No, you can't have kisses always,' I answered, 'you know you
ought to have given me my post at once.'
His smile faded, and he lounged against the house, hands deep
in pockets, shoulders up, and sulked until Rosina found him. She
soon sent him off to get ready for mass, and I could hear them talking
in the bedroom.
Bortolo had gone on, but the others were waiting. Pina strutted
like a peacock in her best dress, and Paohno was ill at ease. He
thought his new shirt was rather too blue, and kept his coat tightly
buttoned. At last they started, Paolino and Pina holding my little girl's
two hands. Riccardo brought up the rear, still sulking. Rosina
and I were left at home.
'What is to be done with a boy like that, signora, he refused
absolutely to wash his neck. I beat him with a stick, but it was no
good and there was no time — I had to let him go, signora, like that.'
She sighed. 'He is a great sorrow to his parents.'
1 had walked through the village several times, but the outside
had given me no idea of what its inner life might be. There were
no windows low enough to catch a glimpse of a room and the gardens
were walled in. Very few houses were on a level with the road.
Steps led up to most of them, and these without doubt had stables
on the ground floor, as the all too frequent manure heaps testified.

1 8 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
Dark tunnels and crooked passages led to courtyards at the back
and more manure heaps and other houses, for the place seemed a
perfect maze of planless construction. At least it seemed so to me,
who had not ventured far off the road. There was a Uttle piazza, and
the church stood at one end on the very edge of the cliff, and a new
wide road led back along the edge behind the houses and joined the
street again. The other road led up the mountain.
Children had fled into doorways at my approach, and the few
grown-up inhabitants who had not followed them, had saluted me
with such polite indifference that I felt completely out of touch
with them. It was an uncomfortable feeling.
Apparently no one was in the least interested. No head poked
out of a window, nor round a door. But I felt that I was watched
even if the eyes were invisible.
It is rude to stare, and they showed good taste to spare me.
But I guessed they were human, and I knew enough of village life
in remote places to know that the appearance of a stranger would
be a subject for conversation.
Of course I had been seen and criticised. It was Rosina with
her customary directness who told me of it. She said : —
'They are beginning to ask whether the signora has only one
dress.' Bless their hearts !
'Signora, I know that you have beautiful clothes, and many
clothes, because you have shown them to me. But why do you
always wear the same dress?'
Why indeed? It had been colder than I had expected, and it
was my only thick dress. But Rosina was not pleased. She had

THE DANCE AT THE INN 19
probably been boasting to her friends that I was a great signora
of fabulous wealth from across the seas; to have me walk about in
an old dress did not at all fit in with her tale.
So when I dressed for the dance I put on a white blouse, a washing
one, of course. I had been to peasant dances before, not in Italy,
but in Sweden. At the end of the evening I have always found a
very grubby spot where my partners had held me. If that was so
in Sweden it would no doubt be the same in Italy too, perhaps
more so.
It was pitch dark when we started for the village, and I held
Rosina's arm or I would have stumbled on the road. On the way she
told me unnerving stories of a devil who beset the road — and in
whom she did not believe, but some did, and I was quite pleased to
reach the village.
It was dark except where a window shed its dim light into the
street. The people we passed were blurred shadows. At one of the
first houses a door stood open, and at the end of a long passage was
a lamp-lit room and the sounds of an accordion. I expected Rosina
to go in here, but she kept on. We passed the mountain road and had
almost reached the piazza when she suddenly turned to the left into
one of those dark tunnels. I could neither see her nor the end of
that black gulf.
I hesitated, and remembered the story of the devil. Where was
she taking me? I suddenly wondered whether I had not been silly
to come. At the bottom of my heart I was actually a Uttle afraid of
these peasants, whose thoughts and habits were remote and incom
prehensible to me.
'Signora, come on,' called Rosina, 'take courage.'

20 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
Her voice reassured me, and I foUowed. The tunnel sloped
upwards, it was very long. I hardly knew when I was out of it, for
opposite was a waU and only a Uttle streak of sky over our heads.
Before us was a house dimly Ughted up.
'This,' said Rosina, 'is the house of Nino.'
I stood looking, fascinated by the frightful din.
I caught sounds of shouting, loud voices, snatches of song, and
uproarious laughter.
I concluded that we should not be able to stay long !
Rosina was mounting the steps.
The room was large and entirely empty except for two men
sitting at one of the tables, which had been pushed against the walls.
They were Gheco and a wooden-legged man. They talked quietly
over their wine.
The noise came from the kitchen, which was a Uttle room three
steps up, packed with men aU talking at once. Some were seated
at a table eating and the others crowded round, laughing and
shouting. As we came in some of them burst into song : —
'TripoU, bel suol d'amore,
Ti guinga dolce, questa mia canzon.'
We spoke a few words to Gheco and sat down in a far corner and
waited. Rosina ordered some wine.
At last four men came out of the kitchen and walked leisurely
across to four chairs which had evidently been occupied by them

THE DANCE AT THE INN 21
already. They were the musicians. Sylvestri Giacomi, captain of
the quartet, came first with his mandoline; then Di Marchesi
Giacom, a huge fellow with a bass ceUo. After him the two Antonios
with guitars. The elder of these was called Toni, the self-taught
village organist, and the other was Tona, funny Uttle Tona with a
blind eye.
They sat down and began to tune up.
The kitchen emptied and the room ruled with men, nothing but
men, and aU with black slouch hats on, worn rakishly or over eyes
like assassins on the stage. It was not a shouting rabble that came
into the room, but a sober, quiet crowd, which sat on tables or stood
about, patiently awaiting the music.
And they did not wait long. Giacomi struck up a joUy polka,
and it was so unexpectedly weU played that for some minutes I was
absorbed in watching the players.
Some one asked me to dance, but I shook my head.
I didn't reaUy know what I ought to do. Why were there no
other girls? Did they resent the presence of a foreigner? I did
not wish to offend any one. Nor did I want to dance in soUtary
grandeur, as for Rosina, she was much too stout.
My would-be partner did not understand me, and Rosina leant
forward to hear what I was saying.
'Tell him,' I said, 'that I do not wish to dance before the other
girls come.'
A curly-haired fellow standing close by answered me in English.
'De women come direckly dey put away de supper. I go call
dem.' Outsiders dropped in and the waUs were Uned with spectators.
i.p. c

22 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
The curly-haired man, who was caUed Raimondo, returned with two
girls. Others soon followed, and we danced.
Who could sit still when that music played? Toni and Tona
twanged the guitars in perfect time, never taking their eyes off the
dancers. Giacomi was more serious, whilst Giacom grappled man
fully with the bass, which he had only just learnt to play.
I danced with many partners, and several times with the same
ones. I had expected that Gheco would have asked me for one of
the first dances, for he knew me and the others didn't. But he was
too modest to take an advantage like that. However, we danced
several times together later in the evening. I also had the wooden-
legged man for a partner and he danced amazingly weU. His black
eyes were Umpid like a weU in the woods — they were most extra
ordinary eyes.
At the end of a dance my partner would shake hands with me,
saying, 'Thank you,' then, still keeping my hand, would lead me to
my chair, and say thank you again, adding, 'excuse me.' The
excuse was for dancing badly and for any fault in manners that
might have been made.
Partners never conversed between the dances, and there was no
attempt at what we would call sitting out or at flirtation.
In between whiles Rosina brought several of her friends to me.
'This is Bertoldi Lucia, the wife of Toni, who is playing the
guitar.' She was a dark, unkempt creature, with an interesting
face. In her arms was a grubby baby asleep. Another of her children
sat on the curb of the fireplace, another was the dark beauty over
there — and the tall young man with the crooked nose. There were
several more children, six in aU, and I forget how many had died.

THE DANCE AT THE INN 23
'This is Giacomina.'
In spite of her years I could see a young soul shine in her eyes.
She loved dancing, and we danced together at once.
'Giacomina's husband is in America,' went on Rosina, when we
came back, 'and has been there six years. She has three children.
That is her son, Costante, dancing with the taU young man with the
crooked nose. Here comes her sister, Julietta. Her husband's also
in America, he left five years ago, when Pierrino was a baby. His
name is Umberto, and is the brother of Teresina, who is Nino's wife,
(we are in their house now), and Nino is the brother of Giacomina
and JuUetta, and the sister of Teresina is that red-haired
woman, you know, who married Giacom, who plays the bass
ceUo.* I couldn't foUow.
'Bertoldi Gaetano over there is also a brother of Giacomina and
Nino.' I had danced with Gaetano. He was a merry little feUow. He
had spoken a few EngUsh words, and had told me that he too had
been several years in America.
Giacomina spoke to me.
'Signora,' she said, 'you are enjoying yourself?'
'Yes, yes, very much.'
She went off, teUing others what I had said, and every one
seemed very pleased.
I felt amongst friends.
My fears were all gone. I was as keen on the whole thing as
they were. Dim was yesterday, dimmer stiU to-morrow. Forgotten
were heavy loads and empty larders. As far as they were concerned,

24 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
the whole world was enclosed in those four waUs. Nothing mattered
whilst they danced.
A woman with an enamel basin full of water was splashing it
over the floor, to lay the dust. Whilst dancing we had ground a
considerable amount of red powder out of the tiled floor. Gaetano
was refiUing glasses.
There were many onlookers. Some sat on the forms which stood
against the wans, leaning their arms on the tables, others sat on
the tables themselves. AH the women were bareheaded, but every
man wore a hat, whether he danced or no. Some spoke and laughed,
others were immovably intent. Old men and old women were there
who had danced in this room long ago, and there were children who
ought to have been in bed. Two of the girls were real beauties, the
one Catina, Giacomina's daughter, stood by her lover, Conrado,
whilst Ghita, who had no lover, was trying to keep her young sisters
in order. They were cheeking her.
A smaU man came and stood with his back to the table by me.
He leant against it, watching criticaUy. His face was quite serious,
only his eyes gUttered with amusement.
'Rosina,' I whispered, 'who is that?'
'That? It is Nino, Bertoldi Nino.'
'Doesn't he dance?'
'I think so, would you like to dance with him?'
'Yes, if he asks me.'
'Nino!' Rosina caUed out, 'the signora wishes to dance with you.'
How could she be so tactless !
Nino looked round smiUng and explained that he danced badly,
'but — of course — if the signora wished it  '

THE DANCE AT THE INN 25
I did wish it, and we danced. He shut his mouth tight and said
nothing, but the look in his eye, being translated into English,
expressed 'what a lark!'
Rosina told me that Nino had been in America with her husband.
Nearly every one seemed to have been in America. I spoke EngUsh
to him, but he shook his head. He knew even less than Bortolo.
Rosina interrupted.
' Signora, this is Teresina, the wife of Nino.'
She offered me a glass of wine.
'Teresina,' went on Rosina, bent on muddling me stiU further,
'is the sister of Agnese, who married Giacom, who  '
But I didn't Usten.
Teresina nudged Nino.
'Ask the signora if she is enjoying herself.'
I assured her that I was.
She smiled all over. 'Then we are contented.'
I danced again with the wooden-legged man and with Raimondo.
But there is an end to all things. The last dance was played, and
the players rose. The room was full of people standing.
Rosina and I left at once, leaving the others to talk and finish
their wine. It was nearly eleven o'clock.
Riccardo and Paolino joined us at the door, and we plunged
together into that dark tunnel which seemed fearful no longer.
Riccardo took my arm and we walked on in front, Rosina and
Paolino a few yards behind. We passed through the viUage, the
accordion was stiU playing, and we caught sight of dancers through
the open door.
We walked on gaily enough. Rosina was trying to find out how

26 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
I Uked it aU, telling me that every one had said I was a signora
molta simpateca.
Two blurred figures came towards us, clothed in long cloaks.
They were not like anything I'd seen on the road before, and it was
not until they were quite close that I saw who they were. Riccardo
should have known. Rosina being in the rear could not see
them. After all, it was nothing very extraordinary, only two pohcemen.
Rosina stopped and looked after them.
'PoUce,' she whispered hoarsely, "poUce.'
'It is too late to do anything now  ' said PaoUno.
She stood bolt upright in the road and thought.
Riccardo's hand had tightened on my arm.
'Police,' he echoed, in awed voice.
'Madre mia,' groaned Rosina, 'we can do nothing. Signora,
think of Nino — supposing  '
'Rosina, do teU me what it's about.'
She looked back again before going on.
'Signora,' she answered, 'it is prohibited to dance at inns.'
Good Heavens !
'We don't know — perhaps they have gone home. Let us hope
the musicians have — in any case it is past ten o'clock.'
'Past ten o'clock?'
'Yes, signora, ten o'clock is closing time. Let us hope for the
best. Whatever put it in their heads to come up — at this time of
night? It is incredible.'
The rest of the way we walked in sUence. Rosina thought of
Nino, and I that the whole thing had been unlawful from beginning

THE DANCE AT THE INN 27
to end. I was tired, and bidding Rosina good-night I went straight
upstairs. The sight of my room and my things brought me back to realities.
How entirely they had been forgotten whilst I danced. . . .
A cool breeze blew in through my window.
I could hear Rosina telling Bortolo downstairs.
'This has been a most remarkable evening,' I thought.
I found it stiU more remarkable when I took off my blouse and
found that it was perfectly clean.

CHAPTER III
THE village
Next morning Rosina and I were talking in the kitchen when Nino
came. She was fanning the charcoal fire with a large piece of torn
cardboard. He began talking to her at once in the dialect, and I was unable
to foUow. But I could see something was wrong, for they both got
very excited and gesticulated freely. Nino seemed aged since
yesterday, doubtless he had a sleepless night, and his frequent use
of the word 'poUce' told me the rest.
This is what had happened. When the poUce came up the viUage
street they passed the house where I had heard the accordion. Bigi
was standing at the door, and tried to persuade the poUce to come
in, but they would not do so. To dance in a private house is quite
lawful, and they had somehow got wind of the dance at the inn.
Whilst they paused to answer Bigi, Julietta caught sight of them
standing in the bar of Ught from the passage. She was higher up the
street, and ran as fast as she could to Nino's house. 'Boys,' she
shouted at the door, 'boys, run, the police !'
There was a rush for the door, every one scuttUng up a back path
leading to the mountain road.
Nino blew the lamp out.
Then the poUce came, and finding the door open, marched in.
28

THE VILLAGE 29
Standing in the middle of a pitch dark room, apparently doing
nothing, were Nino, Teresina, Gaetano, and the old father.
Now the door of an inn must always be locked after closing time,
which is ten o'clock. So the police had not come up in vain. Nino
was to be summoned for having the door open. And there would
. be a fine to pay, thirty lire at the very least — more Ukely it would
be fifty. An enormous sum for poor Nino as his white face told me.
And what put it into the heads of the poUce to come up? They
themselves said that some one had been to the police station and
given information that there was to be dancing at the inn.
One could but guess who had done such a thing, and Nino thought
he knew. That same morning a man, very much the worse for liquor,
had come to the inn and had had words with Nino, had insulted him,
and Nino had refused to serve him with more wine. The man's wife
had come, and taking up the quarrel, scolded Nino most unjustly
and went off in a tearing rage. After dinner she had gone to the
town. In all probability it was she who had revenged herself by
informing the poUce.
It was bad enough, but it might have been worse. They might
have been caught dancing, and the police knew, and every one knew,
that they had danced. But it couldn't be proved.
Dancing is only aUowed in a licensed house which has two pubUc
rooms. We saw a good deal of Nino during the following weeks, whilst
he was waiting to be summoned to court. He came nearly every
day to pour his troubles into Rosina's sympathetic ears, and when
he was not there, she would sigh over her work, and say, 'Poor Nino,
poor Nino.' She was sorry for him, and so was I. He grew thinner

30 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
and paler every day, and it was hard to see him and not be touched
by it.
'We are aU so sorry,' said Bortolo, 'because Nino is a man who
works hard and always has bad luck.'
'And when the haUstorm comes, signora,' went on Rosina, 'it is
always his fields that are most spoilt. Last year when we gave up
our Ucence it was transferred to Nino ; we aU thought it would be a
good thing and bring in a Uttle money. Now he is to be fined ! '
'But surely they wiU make a coUection for him?' I asked.
Bortolo shook his head. 'No, signora, it is not the custom here.
In America, yes, they pass the hat round. But here every one
would look the other way. It could not be done.'
'He has other troubles too,' said Rosina. 'He was in America
two years with Bortolo, as you know, and he saved all his money and
sent home enough to pay off the family debts. The money he sent
home afterwards was to be put in the bank for him. Signora, he
sent 3000 lire in aU, and when Nino came back he found hardly a
penny left. His father had drawn it out and spent it. That is all
very weU, but the father is now making his wiU and wishes to leave
all his property to his daughters. But Nino thinks that as he has given
his father so much money, he, too, deserves a share. It is only just.
But the old man has a hard heart. Nino and Giacomina are like their
mother. She was soft-hearted and suffered much. Gaetano is more
like his father, things don't go deep into him. When they were all
children they were so poor they didn't know what a halfpenny looked
like. It is true, signora. Even now you seldom see butcher's meat in
Nino's house, perhaps a frittura on Sunday, but otherwise polenta
and cheese, polenta and cheese, and polenta and cheese. Sometimes

THE VILLAGE 31
a rabbit or a bird Nino has shot. Ah, they are not extravagant,
and he does not spend his money in wine. But he works always,
and always. He knows everything about the work and how to
make and mend things. Bortolo is continuaUy going to him for
advice.' Rosina paused to chase three hens from the kitchen, flapping
her apron at them.
'Signora, last year he insured his vines and after the haUstorm
wrote to the company. But he did not do so in time, for the com
pany did not receive his letter within twenty-four hours of the
storm, which is one of the rules. They refused to pay him a penny.
So he lost money on that.'
' How did it come about that he is blind in one eye ? '
'When he was a Uttle feUow,' she answered, 'he stuck a penknife
into it. And you have noticed the bald patches on his head? It
was an accident, boiUng water was spUt over him. He nearly died.
Poor feUow, he is unhappy too, because Gaetano is returning to
America. We are aU so fond of Gaetano, he is so joUy.'
'Nino does not seem to have been very fortunate.'
'No, signora, poor Nino, two of his children are dead, and they
only have that one Uttle boy.'
.........
I often went to the inn. Teresina made exceUent lemon-squash,
and she would let me sit in the kitchen, which was a fine place for
watching the customers in the pubUc room.
She would sit knitting stockings, and snule at me now and then,
but she was very shy of talking. She was so sure I would not under
stand her. If Nino was there she would ask him to say things to me

32 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
for her. He was always ready to talk and very anxious to be under
stood and to understand me. And he was always interesting. His
Uttle four-year-old son would sit on his knee and when he was not
talking Nino would kiss his head and stroke him. Both Nino and
Teresina adored Battisti, but he was a stubborn little chap. He
absolutely refused to speak to me or even to say good-morning.
In vain his father threatened and his mother attempted to bribe
him. It was impossible to make him do it.
On Sunday afternoons the place was always fuU of men, and Nino
would be playing cards which bored him. It was part of his duty
as 'innkeeper to make up a fourth, then the guests would remain
longer and drink more wine. But if they sat a long time and ordered
nothing, Nino himself would caU for a quart. After aU, it was his
own house, and one cannot be inhospitable. . . .
Besides cards, the men would play murra. This is a game in
which you shout and bang the table, and is so noisy it can be heard
right down the street. I wondered that it might be played in an inn.
Four men take part in it, two on a side, the sides sitting opposite
each other at a table. A man from each side raises his right hand
and together they bang their hands on the table in rapid succession.
For each bang they hold out a different number of fingers and shout
a number. The one who has caUed the right number of fingers of
both hands added together has won a point. He marks the score by
holding out a finger on his left hand. Then he plays with his two
adversaries alternately until he loses. Fifteen points wins the game.
Murra is caUed instead of ten, when all fingers are spread out.
It is quite simple, but one must be smart. Your hand must be
on the table at the same moment as your adversary's ; if you are

Sunday at the Inn.

THE VILLAGE 33
before him he wiU count your fingers and caU the right number,
and you wiU be at a disadvantage if you put out your fingers before
the last moment. His eyes never leave your hand. You, too, must
watch him or he wiU cheat. It is best to remember his score as weU
as your own.
They bang the table in such quick succession that you can hardly
see to count the fingers. And the more exciting it is, the louder
they shout and the harder they bang, and during the short respite
when some one scores a point, they all swear.
I never saw women play this game of murra, and only very seldom
did I see a woman take a hand at cards. And I never saw any
gambUng. The only other game played in the village was La Balla,
which is also only a man's game. It is played in the street on
Sundays after the afternoon service. The viUagers watch the game
with great interest, sitting in groups on doorsteps or on the road or
standing in a knot at the turning where the players scuffle for the
baU. Careful people close the wooden shutters or the windows might
be smashed, and the smaller chUdren are kept out of the way.
Half-way between the piazza and the turning, a sort of drum is
placed in the middle of the road. It is like a large tambourine. A
spadeful of sand and a few stones keep it in place. The player who
is to hit the ball stands here, the others face him up at the turning.
They have taken off their shoes and are ready.
The hitter steps backwards.
'BaUa,' he caUs out, and running forward bounces the baU on
the drum, and hits it up the street with the palm of his hand as hard
as he can. The street is very narrow and a Uttle crooked, and the
bah does not always go straight. Sometimes it faUs on a roof and is

34 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
a long whUe dropping or never drops at aU, or it goes higher stiU and
faUs into a backyard. But usuaUy it hits a waU and rebounds up
the street to where the players await it. Those of the opposite side
try to hit it back towards the drum, the others try to get it higher
up the street. The baU may touch the waUs or roof of a house, but
it must not touch the ground. There is an exciting moment whilst
the bah is being hit backwards and forwards. When at last it falls
to the ground the place is marked with a leafy twig and the score
is called out.
Then the man at the drum takes another short run and hits the
ball again. This time it must touch the ground beyond the leafy
twig if his side is to win; if the baU comes on the near side he loses,
and must give up his place to an opponent.
The baUs are hard and small, the size of golf baUs. They have
more than half a dozen to play with, so that they may not
wait whilst boys are searching for lost baUs. But there are other
interruptions. The viUage fountain is at the turning, and cattle are brought
to drink at the trough, and goats and sheep. FUip's oxen take a long
time to meander up the road and back again, and of course the game
must be stopped for every passer-by.
They play it until it is too dark to see. Then the younger men
try to get up a dance. UsuaUy five or six club together and form
a company, as they caU it, and agree to divide the expenses. They
ask permission to dance in one of the rooms which have a smooth
brick floor — and there are not many such floors in the village, and
the musicians are asked to play, and are given as much wine as they
choose to drink during the evening, in return for their services. The

THE VILLAGE 35
table is pushed on one side or Ufted into the passage, and chairs
placed for the players.
AU the girls are expected to come to a dance, and as many on
lookers as like may crowd the waUs, but it is not good form for a
man to come and dance the whole evening unless he has arranged
with the company to take a share in the expenses, or been invited
by them. This keeps the room from getting too crowded, but if it
is large and there are plenty of girls, the company will let every one
dance and they never mind a man dancing once or twice. Girls very
frequently dance together, and so do men.
At seven o'clock the room empties and they aU go to their respec
tive homes for supper, but before long they are back again and
keep up the dance until ten or eleven o'clock. No one thinks of leaving
until the players rise and make for the door. Often as not they are
entreated for one more dance, but when they do go, every one else
does. The company, however, remain behind to square accounts.
They add up the cost of wine, the hire of the room, and the
paraffin lamp. The sum is divided equaUy amongst them and they
pay up at once to the man who had undertaken to fetch the wine.
Members of the company often bring wine or liqueurs to treat their
friends, but this is at their own expense, and has nothing to do with
the company's expenses.
I once waited with Rosina whilst they squared accounts. Renzi
Gheco was one of the company and had asked to walk home with
us. No villager Uked to walk down that devil-infested road in the
dark, and if we had not waited for him, I am sure Gheco would have
walked home with a Ughted candle in his hand. I don't mean a
lantern, but just a candle which would go out at every gust, and

36 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
spatter wax on his clothes. I never saw him leave San Lorenzo after
dark without taking a candle from his pocket, or else borrowing one
from Rosina. I never understood whether he carried it to enable
him to see, or whether he thought it would frighten the devU away.
Perhaps it made him think of the candles in church, and gave him
a feeUng of divine protection.
On this occasion we waited for a quarter of an hour whilst the
company struggled with mental arithmetic. There were four of them
and the sum to be divided was 3 Ure 60 cents. But it took a good
deal of argument to agree even on that point. I remember the room
cost one Ure and the rest was for wine and the lamp. Then 3 lire
60 cents had to be divided by four. Raimondo, who was quick,
upset the other three's calculation by announcing the right sum
before they had half done it, which threw them out completely, and
instead of doing the sum again they began to argue that Raimondo
was wrong. Raimondo tried to prove he wasn't, and they all talked
at once. Then one of them had a quiet think, and came to the con
clusion that the amount was 85 cents, which made Raimondo do the
sum again. By this time Gheco suggested 95 cents, whereat Raimondo
shouted they were aU crazy, and did the sum out loud for them.
But Gheco, who wouldn't own defeat, explained that he had arrived
at that sum, because he had added it aU up from the beginning and
had found that 3 lire 60 cents was wrong. So they were back again
at that point.
Of course it was amicably settled at last to the satisfaction of
every one but the man who still insisted his share was 85 cents.
He was quite dejected over that haUpenny, and no one had any
sympathy for him.

THE VILLAGE 37
We walked down with Gheco, and he left us at the path that led
to his cottage.
'Gheco seems very happy,' I said to Rosina, after he had gone.
'Ah, signora, he has his love,' she answered, 'his ApoUonia.'
ApoUonia was La Macuccia's servant.
'But I thought Tona was courting her,' I said, remembering
having witnessed a deUcious flirtation between them in La Macuccia's
kitchen. ApoUonia had been sewing, and Tona, perched up on the
bench by the fire, was curling his little moustaches, and his one eye
looked at her with embarrassing appreciation. ApoUonia was
giggling. La Macuccia, sflent for once, sat knitting at the window,
and Gheco seemed quite out of it. Perhaps he was jealous and
repented having asked Tona to help him in the fields. But it was
aU right now. ApoUonia had accepted Gheco, and Tona had with
drawn from the field, vanquished. But it stiU remained to be seen
what ApoUonia's relatives would say about it.

i.p.

CHAPTER IV
THE RIDGE OF HOUSES
Riccardo had become very gloomy of late. He dawdled more than
ever, and took to sitting by the fireplace, brooding. Threats and
blows had no effect on him. Sometimes he would rouse himself and
behave like a mad thing, caper about, puU Pina's hair, and pinch
my Uttle girl until she shrieked. Then he burst into wild song, and
ended up with an idiotic 'he-he !'
I thought he was iU, and told Rosina so. She shook her head.
'I do not know what the matter is, but he is not iU,' she said.
Paohno giggled.
'Riccardo is in love,' he explained, 'he has proposed to Albina
and been rejected. You know Albina, that girl with the plaits?
He walks up from town with her. She only laughs at him.'
I'm afraid we also found Riccardo's broken heart rather amusing.
'When I was that age,' said Rosina, 'I thought of other things.'
I looked at her and wondered.
She went out and stood at the door caUing him : ' Riccardo,
Riccardo, imbecile, fa prest. . . .'
What a Uttle nuisance Riccardo was. The whole place was
poisoned by that shouting. If the ohve-trees could have spoken,
they would have said ' Riccardo.' In his more amiable moments he
pestered me for kisses, and continuaUy touched or embraced me.
38

THE RIDGE OF HOUSES 39
I wondered if he was so stupid. He was very cunning. I began
to understand why he dawdled, there was reason in it. He was
never aUowed to be idle. It was never ' you may run and play when
you've done this.' As soon as one task was completed he was put to
a new one. After supper he had to wash up, whereupon he feU asleep
over the fire. First thing in the morning he carried the milk down to
the town. To dawdle was the way to save himself from being over
worked. Of course he carried it too far, and I am not trying to
defend him, but I mention it as a principle to which most boys in
Campia resorted. They were aU shouted at and driven to work. I
would have felt more sympathy for Riccardo if he had shirked his
work or run away in order to do something else. But he never did
anything else. He was just round the corner, hands in pockets,
loafing or perhaps sitting in the swing, but not swinging. He quite
preferred to sit in the swing, if it meant forcibly ejecting one of the
Uttle girls. His favourite place was by the kitchen fire, and he would
sit and gaze at the ashes if there was no fire, and take no notice
whatever of the repeated caUs.
Bortolo so loved work that he expected his boys to do so as weU.
Paohno worked very hard and willingly, but Riccardo — what a
disappointment he was. Rosina did not treat him very judiciously.
One minute she was whacking him mertilessly, the next she was
spoiling and petting him. No wonder Paolino thought it a Uttle
unjust. He had to do his own work and haff of Riccardo's as
well. There was Rosina, calling him again, dweUing with great weight
on each word : —
'Riccardo — brutta figura — ignorante — viUano — ma perche . . . .'

40 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
She said a lot more, but I walked off to the Ridge of Houses.
The path skirted the top of the Uttle gorge where the water trickled
and wound in and out amongst oUve-trees, past Gheco's cottage
and up on to the ridge.
Gheco's wheat was growing tall, and flowers blossomed every
where. It was a lovely day and the weather had been sunny for
over a month. Rain was badly needed. Bortolo looked at the sky
every morning and predicted no rain. He always knew what the
weather would be, and I only once remember his making a mistake.
On that occasion a thunderstorm drenched me. He would say at
seven o'clock in the morning, 'It wiU rain after dinner' — and it
would. I felt a sudden jar as I caught sight of La Macuccia. She was
on the path, leading a goat which wanted to browse amongst Gheco's
wheat. I hoped she would not detain me long, but I was disappointed.
She had a great deal to say, and I could just about understand one-
fifth of it. It made no difference to her flow of words if I said, 'I
do not understand,' she went on just the same. Latterly I had
adopted the habit of saying 'Yes, yes, how very nice,' whenever she
expected me to put in a word, and we usuaUy got on famously Uke
that. To-day she told me a long yarn about ApoUonia, and stopped
abruptly when I said 'How very nice.'
'But I am telling you, signora, that he is dead. . . .*
'Dead — who is dead?' I asked in consternation.
'It is the father of ApoUonia — she has gone home — he died last
night — we had a message — it wiU be several days before she returns
— I am alone and have Uttle opportunity for conversation — she took

Cristofolo Crossing the Ridge of Houses.

THE RIDGE OF HOUSES 41
some clothes with her and her hat. . . .' and so on, in that screechy
voice. At last I escaped and went up to the Ridge of Houses.
It is an open, flatfish place, covered with heaps of stones and
a precipice on two sides of it. There is hardly any shade, and only
a few young cypress-trees grow there, but a gentle breeze fans the
ridge even on the hottest day. The view is wonderful. You can see
right across to the plains.
But there are no houses. The heaps of stones are all that remain
of a Uttle viUage, which stood there long ago until the days of the
Plague. Then the pestilence came and kiUed off every single inhabi
tant. No one was left, and no one took their place, and the houses
stood empty a very long time, until they feU to ruin. The name is
forgotten. Perhaps Gheco's cottage stood on the outskirts, and of course
the fontana belonged to it, the one where the women wash clothes,
which is close by. The church is said to have stood a Uttle below,
on Nino's land, where silver candlesticks and other rehcs have been
dug up.
Campia nearly shared the same fate. The Plague claimed its
victims there too, and the stricken inhabitants dragged a barrel of
wine into the piazza, and bade every one drink and keep up his heart.
Whether they kept up their hearts, I do not know, but it is certain
they did not keep away the Plague. They died, one after the other,
and in the end there were only three left. These three were men,
and the descendants of two of them, Bertoldi and CasteUi, are very
numerous in the viUage at the present day. The third's descendants
seem lately to have died out.

42 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
I saw Nino at work close by, and went to see what he was at.
He had a Uttle cotton bag containing maize and bean seeds mixed
together. He took a handful and scattered them on the ground. Then he
broke up the soU with a pick.
'Is that the way you sow seeds?' I asked, perhaps a Uttle
surprised. 'Is it not a good way?'
'In England,' I answered, 'we dig up the soil first.'
'Perhaps it would be better, but I have no time to do that. I
have too much land.'
He took his long-stemmed pipe from his upper waistcoat
pocket, and fiUed it from a Uttle leather bag kept in his trouser
pocket. We walked back to the gate which opens on to the Ridge of
Houses. In the shade lay a large water-bottle and his coat and some
of his tools. He looked back at the vines.
'It simply won't rain, ostia,'1 he said.
'The vines look fine,' I said.
'Yes, signora, there wiU be many grapes this year— but of course
— when the hail comes . . .' he shrugged his shoulders. 'Every
year it comes, in July or August, and the crops are ruined . . .'
'But not always}' I asked.
'Every year, signora, it haUs not only once, but sometimes twice,
and what isn't destroyed by the first storm is done for by the second
. . . but sometimes it is not so bad, it depends on the wind. Last
year only one-third of the crops were spoUt down here, but up at the
lThis is a bad oath.

THE RIDGE OF HOUSES 43
fields by Campia everything was devastated. The storm is usuaUy
worst up there. You should see it, the grapes are torn from the
vines and strewn on the ground, whole bunches of them, and the
leaves are wrenched off, and the plants stand naked. They aU
suffer, the oUves and the maize too. In ten minutes it is aU spoUt.
Goddam,' he added fiercely in EngUsh.
I Ustened haU incredulously.
'You don't beheve it, but it is quite true. You see,' he went
on, reUghting his pipe, 'it isn't that the soU is bad, it's very good,
and the plants are strong and healthy and we aU work hard and
ought to do weU. But then the hail comes — and aU our work has
been in vain.'
'And the Government, does it do nothing for you?'
'Nothing, signora.'
'Nor any one else?'
'No, signora.'
'WeU, what happens?'
'One year in ten we have a good harvest, and then we make a
Uttle money. But the other years  '
' But you make so much that you have enough to eat ? '
'No, signora.'
'But, Nino, what do you do?'
He became very serious.
'When it is a bad year there is no money and no wine,' he said
reminiscently, in a low tone. 'So we eat polenta and drink water.
We don't die, because that is sufficient to keep us ahve. The shops
in the town give us credit. That is how we run into debt, and are
forced to go to America. . . . And when it's a bad year like that,

44 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
signora, we cannot work more than four days a week because we
have not the strength to do more. . .'
He waited for me to speak, but as I didn't, he said : —
'Signora, it is quite true.'
'Look,' he continued, pointing with his pipe up the terraced hill
side, 'my land begins at the road and runs right down to the barn
below. It is good land, and I have many plants, and I have still more
lands beyond the viUage. And I work always, always. But I cannot
make it pay, I cannot make both ends meet, and if the crop fails
again this year, I too must go to America.'
'And did you Uke being in America?'
'Signora, there is money in America, but it is much better to
Uve in Italy.'
'But this is dreadful, Nino. I suppose there is nothing to be
done when the hailstorm has been, but what do you do?'
'Swear, signora,' and he laughed, 'swear when we see the fields,
swear when we think of the storm, just swear. We can do nothing,
and have a lazy time because there is no harvest to speak of. Do
you see that tree there, and the marks on the bark? That was done
in the storm of '81. I can just remember it, and the winter that
foUowed. ... It was a great storm, and the crops were entirely
ruined. We knew of no America then and we nearly starved. The
plants never properly recovered. You see, it is not only the harvest
which is spoilt, the plants suffer so, often the damage is permanent.'
He picked up his water-bottle and swung his coat over his left
shoulder. ' You are going to Campia ? ' I asked.
'It is dinner time.'

THE RIDGE OF HOUSES 45
'But it is hardly eleveri o'clock.'
'Dinner is at half-past eleven.'
' And how long have you been at work ? '
'Since four o'clock, signora.'
He went up the path to the fontana, but stopped.
' Do you hear them calling ' ? he asked.
'Yes,' I answered, 'they cannot have found Bernardo yet.'
'No, they wiU hardly find him alive. Good-bye.'
Bernardo was an old man in very iU health. Last Sunday night
at ten o'clock he had walked out of his home and had never returned.
Ever since his relations had been searching for him, but not a trace
could they find. This was the fourth day, and they were beginning
to lose hope.
I watched Nino until he was out of sight. The mountain folk
aU walk slowly and have short, thick legs.
I had arranged with Nino that he should sit for me, as I wanted
to draw him. He came in his midday rest, and sat from one until
three or even four o'clock. He did this readily enough, and I do
not doubt he would have done it for no remuneration whatever, for
I had a difficulty in getting him to accept a twopenny packet of
tobacco and a drink of beer for an afternoon's sitting. He preferred
beer to wine, beheving it to be more strengthening. A good model
is valuable, and he was always punctual. Neither did he ever faU
me, always letting me know if he was unable to come.
Nino was very talkative, and when Rosina was in the kitchen
they would keep up a running conversation. I rather liked this,
for when Nino sat sUent he would get more gloomy and dejected
every minute — thinking of his fine and the police-court. But

46 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
sometimes he would become a Uttle too animated, gesticulating and
laughing, so that it was impossible to draw him. I had already
admonished him several times one afternoon, but Rosina would go
on talking and he would not sit stiU. At last in a state of desperation
I said : —
'ViUano!' It was an epithet that Rosina frequently used for
Riccardo. There was a dead sUence.
'Signora,' said Nino at last, taking his pipe from his Ups, 'my
shoulders are strong enough to bear even that.'
'It is a dreadful thing to say,' admonished Rosina, 'and I don't
expect you know what it means, or you wouldn't say it.'
'But in EngUsh we say " you villain," and it isn't anything bad.'
She explained what it meant. A viUano was a rude, boorish,
clumsy feUow, without any manners whatever, a clown, in fact.
It was a word I oughtn't to use. It would be better to caU him
ignorante or insolente.
'Oh, Rosina,' I sighed, 'I don't know what would happen if I
called an EngUsh model insolent ! What a language yours is. Only
the other day, when I was walking up from the town, I overtook
Nino and Teresina. They wanted to carry my bag, and kept chasing
me about so as to take it, which is fatiguing on that road. I didn't
want either of them to carry it, as they were loaded themselves. At
last I got angry, and cried with great vehemence, 'Per la Madonna!'
The effect was marvehous. Teresina skipped about three yards
backwards down the steep road and was completely cowed for the
rest of the walk, Nino jumped a whole yard into the air with surprise,
and they both looked as if I'd presented a pistol at their heads  '

THE RIDGE OF HOUSES 47
'But, signora, it is an awful swear word.'
'How am I to know that? I've heard Nino say it hundreds of
times, and it doesn't seem to me very different from saying 'Per
Bio ! '
' Ah, per Bio every one may say — but per la Madonna . . . / '
"And ostia and sacramento are bad words too?'
'Signora, you must never say them.'
'But Nino can't say a sentence without shpping an " ostia " into
it. How many times has he said it this afternoon? His language
is dreadful.' 'When one uses a word often,' said Nino, 'it loses its meaning.
I don't think of the Host when I say " ostia." Besides, the priests
say it is not blasphemous to use these words, unless we prefix an
adjective. For instance, to say " Porca Madonna " is wicked.'
'I should think so ! And what does " orca cane " mean?'
'It doesn't mean anything. It is a way of changing a wicked
expression into something harmless. It stands for " sporca came,"
referring to the flesh of Christ. In just the same way you hear
people say " porca madosca " and " osteria " or " sacramesco." It
aU means nothing.'
Our further conversation was interrupted by the arrival of three
very hot individuals. They were the viUage priest, Renzi Giuseppe
the giant, and his nephew, Renzi Francesco. They caUed for wine
and went into the parlour. We aU foUowed them, for it was evident
something had happened. They aU shouted at once in the most
excited fashion, and Giuseppe gesticulated so violently that I kept
weU out of range.
It took Rosina quite a long time before she could make head or

48 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
tail of them. She leant against the door-post, Ustening, but saying
nothing. After about half an hour they grew a Uttle calmer, and we
began to understand.
Bernardo had been found — dead, yesterday afternoon, and they
had just buried him. Giuseppe and Francesco, who were related to
him, had been paU-bearers. The priest had read the service, and here
they were at San Lorenzo to slake their thirst. It was intensely hot
and the perspiration streamed down their faces.
Bernardo had been found, yes, at the bottom of the Ridge of Foxes,
with a great wound in his head. A girl had passed there and seen
him. A message had been at once sent to the poUce and the doctor,
but although they had word in the town before five o'clock in the
evening, they never came until this morning ! The body had to be
left out there aU night, the poUce must see it before it is moved
away. It was dreadful for the relations. The poUce come up soon
enough if they think they are likely to summon any one — but for a
poor dead man and bereaved f amity — not they ! They think they
can treat us anyhow, but we have feehng as weU as other people.
What's more, they are legally obliged to come at once. When we
asked to-day why they had not come, we were told to mind our own
business ! And one of the poUce actuaUy asked Francesco why he
did not take off his hat to him ! Francesco answered that he had
saluted him once, and considered that sufficient ! . . . And Bernardo?
The doctor said he had only been dead two days. It was yesterday,
Friday, that he was found — and he disappeared on Sunday. Think
of it. We went up and searched the top of the ridge and there we
found a Uttle place where he must have sat hidden. It was right in
some bushes, and we could see where he had sat and where he had

•

The Mourners.

THE RIDGE OF HOUSES 49
leant back. His hat was there and his zoccoli. For three days he
must have sat there, from Sunday night until Wednesday — without
food or drink. . . . There is no water nearer than the viUage fountain.
Such hot days too. ... It was dreadful to think of. . . . And we
passed there in our search, caUing his name, and he must have heard
us, it is certain that he did, but he did not answer. . . . Poor old
man, hidden and alone in that familiar spot, preparing himself for
the fatal leap. . . .
They went on discussing it, and presently some one produced a
pack of cards. The breviary was put on the side-table, and Nino
made a willing fourth. They played cards for four hours and drank
a great deal of wine.
I am afraid the priest was too fond of the bottle. He was not
a man I respected. On the few occasions that I had conversed with
him, he disgusted me with his vulgarity. His words always had a
double meaning, and his insinuations were unpriestly. Most of the
viUagers held him in contempt. No doubt he himself knew how
badly he filled his position and what a sham it was. His very weakness
drove him to seek consolation in wine and a woman whose husband
was in America.
His ardent wish had been to become a soldier — but they made
a priest of him. It was very much to be regretted !

CHAPTER V
CHARCOAL BURNERS
Castelli Cristofolo was Bortolo's first cousin, and he very
frequently came to San Lorenzo. Sometimes he was on his way to
the town with an old white donkey and would come in for a glass of
wine, but more often he only went down the garden, where he had
a strip of land. He was a spirited, talkative old feUow. His gestures
seemed almost too energetic for one so ancient. He was thin and
bony, and his close-cropped hair and moustaches were snow white.
Anetta, his wife, was a placid old lady, so gentle, I thought her.
They had four chfldren. The eldest girl was married to Renzi
Giuseppe, and had a very numerous farmly. The second, the beautiful
Maria, married Di Marchesi Stefen. Dominica, the third daughter,
had been many years from home. She went into service in a distant
town, and for six years nothing was heard of her. Her relations
thought her dead. However, one day a letter came. She was not
only ahve, but doing well, and had saved money. The six years
had been spent in France and London, and she had also learned to
speak a Uttle Spanish and German. She was an interpreter in a
Florentine Hotel. That summer she paid a visit to Campia, and
finding her old home very tumbledown she had a new house
erected on the site. Lately she had married a wealthy grocer in
Florence, and was quite a grand lady. No doubt I would see her, for
she was coming to Campia in July. 5°

CHARCOAL BURNERS 51
Bigi was the only son. I saw him often at the dances, but he
never danced nor spoke to me. So I had to study him from a distance,
for he interested me. He had a deUberate way of moving which was
puzzling. It was as if he were half stunned or had suffered a shock
and never recovered. Rosina spoke as if she were very fond of him,
but I never saw Bigi at San Lorenzo.
One day she told me they had quarreUed. It was about her
eldest daughter Selina, who had gone to Cannes last September.
Some relations had offered her a good position in a shop there. Bigi
had not Uked Selina going — that was aU.
' Selina is only eighteen and far too young to marry,' said Rosina,
vigorously wiping a dish, 'so I thought it would be a good thing to
send her abroad as I had the opportunity. Perhaps . . . when she
comes back and still cares for Bigi . . . something may come
of it.' 'And Bigi?' I asked.
'Ah — Bigi was very angry about it. But I only did as any
mother would have done in my place . . .' said Rosina, on the
defensive against her conscience. 'Do you know, they don't even
write to each other? There's true love for you 1' and she slammed
the dish down on the table.
'Have they quarreUed?' I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders.
Selina wrote affectionate letters to her parents, which Rosina
showed me with pride. Sometimes they contained money.
I imagined SeUna to be a joUy girl, fuU of life and charm. There
was a photo of her taken together with Bigi in the bedroom. They
stood side by side, perfectly naturaUy, laughing. Bigi looked fatter

52 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
and very handsome. SeUna was perfectly lovable. It was such a
pleasing picture, that a later portrait sent from Cannes came rather
as a shock. It was conventional, and SeUna stood resting her gloved
hand on a pedestal. She was serious and glum. The bloom of the
mountains had aheady worn off, and I am afraid it wiU not be quite
the same Selina who wiU return next year. • • •
Cristofolo and Bigi were burning charcoal, and I was looking
forward to see them at work, and to make a sketch. But just when
everything was ready for the first stack to be Ut, Bigi had an
accident. The wood was being stacked in two places, and it was at the
farther place Bigi feU. A Uttle path led to it across the face of a
chff . There was a dizzy drop below, and Cristofolo, who was showing
me the way, turned and offered to hold my hand. I declined the
hand but I felt afraid. The path was very narrow and went down hiU,
in places it had given way and been patched with faggots. Right
down at the bottom I could see the road winding along the edge
of the lower cUff, which rose straight out of the lake.
The path led to a Uttle circular platform poised at a corner of
the chff. The stack stood in the centre with two feet of path all
the way round it, and a waU of brushwood to keep the wind off, and
a curtain of sacking across the farther opening. On three sides the
mountain went sheer down, on the fourth it went straight up. The
path went on for a few yards round the corner into a dry torrent
bed. Bigi, carrying billets down from higher up, had shpped and
roUed down the torrent bed, apparently to destruction. Only one

CHARCOAL BURNERS 53
thing stood between him and death, and that was a sapling, the
only obstacle standing on the whole stretch.
Cristofolo, poor old man, saw his son faU, and clasping his hands
in dismay, watched Bigi tumble and sUde over the stones, and the
stones tumble and bounce over him. The billets were scattered.
Down went Bigi for fifty feet, when Fate bumped him against that
Uttle tree and he stopped. . . . The stones went on roUing down to
the bottom.
Cristofolo peered down, muttering. He was certain Bigi was
dead. But Bigi was only dazed, and presently gave a sign of Ufe.
His father was too old to chmb down to him and too weak to think of
helping him up, so he ran along the path in great agitation caUing
on Nino, whose lands were close by. Nino was hoeing. It did not
take him long to bring the injured man to a place of safety.
In the afternoon I went to see Bigi. The house was on the
mountain road, and I entered the waUed-in courtyard by a massive
green gate. A stairway outside the house led up into the kitchen,
which was over the stable. Anetta was there and caUed to Bigi,
who came at once and sat down on the big wooden chest. She put
a hard pillow at his back.
He had a deep cut below his left eye which was bandaged up,
his right arm was swoUen and stiff, his back ached, and he was
bruised aU over. He was in great pain, but tried not to show it. I
had not expected to find him such a Spartan.
The priest had bandaged him up, he told me, and the wound
below his eye might have to be sewn.
'Then why have you not gone to the hospital?' I asked.
'The priest will sew it up,' he answered.
I.P. E

54 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'But surely, Bigi, if it is so close to your eye, it would be best
to go to a doctor,' I objected, 'the priest cannot be as skUful as a
doctor — and an eye is important.'
'What you say is quite true,' he admitted.
'Then why not go at once? You could ride down on the donkey.
A thing like that ought to be seen to at once.'
'The priest would not Uke it,' Bigi said, hesitating. 'I wiU see
what he says to-night when he comes in. Perhaps I might go to
the doctor to-morrow, but I could not go without asking him first.'
'Bless me, Bigi,' I said, 'I do beheve you are afraid of the priest !'
Bigi was one of those who dared openly denounce him.
'Oh, the priest,' he answered, 'I think precious Uttle of him as
a man and as a priest — but as a doctor he is valuable. But what
a tyrant! If I sent for a doctor without first asking his advice, he
would not come near me, nor doctor me next time I was iU or had
an accident. One must choose between him and the doctor. If a
case is very bad he sends us to the hospital, but if he can patch it
up he does so himself.'
'But you know he makes mistakes sometimes,' I ventured,
remembering some of Rosina's stories.
'There is no doubt he takes too much responsibility,' answered
Bigi, painfuUy changing his position, 'and we would much rather
have a doctor. But where is the doctor? Down in the town. Do
you think he wiU come up this long stony road if he can help it —
for a peasant? He says he cannot find the time — or some other
excuse; or he promises to come and doesn't arrive until next day
or the day after. It is a proverb in the viUage that a man has time
to die three times before the doctor comes. So you see there is no

CHARCOAL BURNERS 55
choice. It is better to call in the priest than wait for the doctor.
If we are weU enough to go to the hospital it is aU right, for we are
weU looked after there.' He paused and moved again, checking his
desire to swear at the pain. ' We've given up trying to get the doctor
to come,' he went on wearily, 'you know he is obhged to come if
sent for — but that doesn't seem to worry him. They think we are
such a set of duUards in the village that they can treat us anyhow.'
I had heard that last phrase many times, and found that it covered
a great deal of injustice. As one was poor, these things had to be
put up with, but they were never forgotten.
No doubt the priest was very efficient, and I did not want to
undermine his reputation. But I was very much astonished to find
he had such power over the viUagers. If he had been good or benev
olent or pious or even Uked, I should have understood it better,
but he was nothing of the sort. There were very few who did not
speak iU of him behind his back or admonish him pubhcly. As for
generosity, there was not a viUager to whom he did not owe money
— for wine ordered and consumed, but not paid for.
As he spent so Uttle of his time in prayer and meditation he was
able to occupy the greater part of the day farming some land which
he had bought above the viUage. At sundown I often watched him
cross the piazza on his way home, sometimes carrying a load of
wood. He cut rather an odd figure. He wore his clerical knee-
breeches and long black stockings and a white shirt. Round his neck
was a gaudy coloured scarf tied in a loose, untidy knot. On his
head was a remarkable old straw hat with a wide brim. The moire
pious villagers ground their teeth with rage at the sight of such a
spectacle, whUst the more humorous exchanged glances.

56 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
One day the priest took it into his head to drive a pig to market
in the town. He did not trouble to put on his coat, but went as
he was, in the gay scarf and the straw hat. The local papers put in
a paragraph and ridiculed him.
How that hurt the viUage pride !
No wonder folks thought they were all fools in the vUlage— who
else could tolerate such a priest?
Plots were again hatched to get rid of him. The elders sent a
petition to the bishop and even had an audience with that great
personage. They urged that the vUlage children were under a bad
influence, that they were growing up depraved and impious, and
that even the Uttle ones swore, and had no respect for the church or
for the priest, who set such a bad example. The bishop gave assur
ances, but nothing was done beyond another reprimand for the priest.
The bishop did not want to remove him for the simple reason that
he did not know where else to send him. He did not wish such
depravity to be introduced into another community; Campia was
already spoilt by his bad example — it had had twenty-two years of
it — so it did not matter so much if he stayed there or not — besides,
no one influential Uved there.
So the priest remained, and the viUagers grew more and more
dissatisfied, except, perhaps, a few. These were mostly women who
were accustomed to consider a priest too holy to be criticised.
Three days later Cristofolo was at San Lorenzo, rather dis
consolate. The charcoal burning could no longer be put off, and he
would have to do it alone. Bigi was stiU on the sick Ust and his
two sons-in-law were busy elsewhere. To-morrow, perhaps, they

CHARCOAL BURNERS 57
might help him, but to-day and to-night he would be alone. He
didn't Uke being alone at night.
Rosina was sympathetic and then she had a brilliant idea.
'Signora Antonia,' she caUed, 'signora, here is a chance for you.
You always say you want to paint the sunrise. Why not sit up with
Cristofolo by the charcoal? You can take that sack of yours and
rest in it if you are tired. Cristofolo won't mind — wiU you ? '
Cristofolo was very willing, rather incredulous but thoroughly
amused. Rosina tried to convince him that I would come, and made
ah the necessary arrangements with her usual aptitude. Cristofolo
wandered off to kindle the stack.
It was quite a long way off, over the Ridge of Houses, and then
down to a place on the face of the chff far below the viUage. Two
gorges lay between it and San Lorenzo.
It was sundown when I arrived, and put down my sleeping sack
by the hut Cristofolo had built himself.
Bigi was there. He had come down partly on a donkey and
partly on his feet. His father was not a very experienced charcoal
burner, and he wanted to see that the work was begun properly.
Bigi ought not to have come, his back was so painful he could
hardly walk. His head was still bandaged and his arm in a sling,
but he stood there as straight as a pole, as restrained and serious
as usual. He was just about to start for the village, but waited to have
a talk with me, whilst Cristofolo went off to get some wood from
the farther place.
We were in a Uttle open space surrounded by bushes and trees,
cut into two by a lower and upper terrace. The ridge was hidden,

58 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
but the crags above stood clear against the evening sky. Below,
the ground feU away steeply. It was getting dusk.
Bigi sat down on a stone at the edge of the lower terrace. Behind
him a pole propped up the branches of a fig-tree.
Every now and then the smoke from the stack blew across.
'You are better?' I asked.
'Yes, I get slowly better,' he answered.
We began to talk of Rosina.
'Signora,' said Bigi, smiUng and looking at me with his un-
bandaged blue eye, 'I always want to dance with you, but I cannot
ask you to if you sit close to Rosina. I wanted to mention it, as I
do not wish you to think I had been rude . . . but you know,
I have a quarrel with Rosina, and do not Uke to go near her.'
'As soon as you are weU enough, we must have a dance,' I
answered, 'in spite of Rosina.'
'You see, I shall never forgive Rosina,' he went on, 'and I told
her so at the time. I told her I would never speak to her again if
she sent SeUna away.'
'You cared very much for SeUna?' I asked.
'Signora, for six years we had been friends, SeUna and I, ever
since she was a Uttle girl. I was nearly always at San Lorenzo and
I was always welcome. It was taken for granted that we should
marry.' ' Then why did SeUna go away ? '
'It was Uke this,' said Bigi, nursing his swoUen Wist, 'Rosina's
relations from Cannes came to stay with her. It was a woman who
was Rosina's cousin, with her son. They are wealthy people and the
son took a fancy to SeUna.,'

CHARCOAL BURNERS 59
He paused.
'Now you know Rosina weU enough by now to know that she is
fond of money. It just pleased her to think SeUna should marry
a rich man, and her cousin spoke a great deal of the thousands of lire
her son would inherit. So the two women plotted together and
arranged that SeUna should go to Cannes — so as to get her away from
me, I suppose — that would make it more Ukely that SeUna should
favour the young man.'
' And what did Selina wish to do ? '
'She went to Cannes . . . but she has refused the young man.
Signora — if you had seen the cousin, a coarse woman with a bad
reputation. I do not understand how Rosina could send her daughter
away with her. ... I went to Rosina and told her what I thought
of the whole business and she said the most insulting things to me —
words I can never forgive. I told her that if she sent SeUna away,
I would never speak to her again . . . and I have not been to San
Lorenzo since.'
'Rosina speaks first and thinks afterwards,' I said, 'but I see
you have great cause to be angry with her. But you know, I beheve
she is very fond of you — when I told her of your accident, her eyes
fiUed with tears.'
Bigi laughed.
'No doubt,' he answered, 'now that her other plan has failed,
she has a place in her heart for me again. But I have no quarrel
with Bortolo. At the time he came to me and told me how sorry
he was, and that it was not of his doing.'
'Rosina told me,' I remarked, 'that SeUna was sent away because
she was too young to be married. She is only eighteen.'

60 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'Signora, I am twenty-eight.'
We sat silent for a whue. I understood now. SeUna had not
Uked the rich young man, but the world was tempting and Cannes
was the chance of a Ufetime. She would earn good wages there.
But Bigi would never forgive her for going. Did she love him, I
wondered. Perhaps she was not sure of it herself. Probably Rosina
had insisted on the journey, and Rosina with a broomstick in her
hand had the best of the argument, and poor Uttle Selina had no choice.
She cried bitterly when she left. Bigi's sorrow was tearless.
I looked up at the crags and sighed. What a pity it was. Here
was Bigi's Ufe quite spoilt, and he was such a nice feUow. It was
too bad of Rosina. She admitted he would make an exceUent husband,
and if he was not rich he was weU connected. Hadn't his sister
married a wealthy grocer? I think Rosina had moments when she
repented. 'The quarrel is only between me and Rosina,' he went on, "my
people aU go to San Lorenzo and the boys often . . .' he stopped
suddenly. I turned to look at him. He was gone.
There was a crash.
He had fallen backwards on to the slope below and was shpping
down it. I sprang to my feet, but in the dim Ught I could not dis
tinguish him. Down he crashed over the undergrowth and through
the bushes — was he never going to stop? He had not uttered a cry
nor made a sound . . . perhaps he was terribly injured ... or
dead . . . perhaps his neck was broken. I stood waiting in fear.
At last he came to a stop by some large bushes and there was a
long silence. I stooped to scramble down to him when the bushes

CHARCOAL BURNERS 61
below rustled. SUently he scrambled to his feet, and standing stiU
for a moment he burst out laughing I
'Bigi,' I said, 'aren't you hurt?'
'No, no,' he answered, stiU laughing, 'I don't think so.' He
pushed his way slowly up the slope and clambered on to the
terrace. He stood up and looked at me, and we both burst out
laughing. 'It was the pole,' he explained, a little ashamed at the indignity
of it, 'I leant against it and it gave way. I'm not hurt at aU. I
just sUd down on my back, head first, and protected myself with my
sound arm. ... Do you know,' he said, stretching, 'I think it has
done my back good ! It feels easier.'
We had another laugh, then he picked up his coat and limped
slowly home.
Cristofolo came with an armful of wood. We coUected leaves
and grass, which he needed for mending possible vent holes in the
stack, and we clambered on the slopes, talking. I often found it
difficult to foUow what he said, because he talked the dialect so
indistinctly, having lost aU his teeth.
I expected he would sit up by the stack untU fairly late, but was
mistaken. He said it was bedtime, and taking me to the hut, told
me that I was to sleep there. But I shook my head and repeated
what Rosina had already told him about my sleeping sack. He
shrugged his shoulders.
It was a nice Uttle hut buUt against the side of the upper terrace.
The stone waUs were five feet high and a rough gabled roof covered
it. Inside, stretching from side to side, was a bunk, filled with dried
maize plants — scartorz he caUed it — and a few sacks for covering.

62 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
In a corner by the doorway a little fire smouldered, the smoke finding
its way out anywhere. There was no door.
He then took me a Uttle way up the path where an overhanging rock
made a kind of shelter. On the stony ground he had spread some
sacks, and near by, on a natural shelf, was his alarm clock, a lantern,
and a water bottle. This was where he was going to sleep, he told
me, the baita, as he caUed the hut, was for me.
I thanked him for his kindness but told him that having brought
my sack and in no way wishing to upset his arrangements, I preferred
to sleep in it. From the hut I would be unable to see the sunrise.
Cristofolo didn't beUeve in my sleeping sack.
He walked back and tended the stack, patting it with a long
handled spade. When dayhght was quite gone he lit the lantern,
and wishing me good-night, retired to his rock shelter.
I unroUed my sleeping sack on the upper terrace, choosing a
spot under some trees which the smoke seemed to avoid. Creeping
in I sat and Ustened to the night sounds.
The fuU moon had risen above Monte Moro beyond the lake.
After a long whUe Cristofolo came to give the stack another pat,
but his real object was to see what I had been up to. He found the
baita empty and the signora in her sleeping sack on the bare ground.
He thought I was asleep. Muttering inaudibly he decided to take
possession of the baita and went back to the rock shelter to fetch his
things. I was very pleased to hear him do this, as I hated to think
of the old man sleeping in that hard place. He muttered and coughed
for a long time afterwards, but finaUy he went to sleep, and I felt
very much alone.
We were too far away to hear the sounds of people and houses,

CHARCOAL BURNERS 63
nor did I hear a dog bark. But crickets were calUng aU about me
and mice rustled over the leaves. In the shadows myriads of fire
flies danced and darted and the moon saturated everything with
peaceful Ught. This was indeed fairyland.
Sometimes the stack would give a mysterious crackle and the
smoke blew about and scented the air, but the breeze scarcely moved
the leaves against the sky.
I lay down and looked at the stars through the fohage above.
A sweet sound came from the top of the tree and thriUed me. Two
nightingales were there, and sang the whole night through, another
sang on the tree by the baita. I heard them in my sleep, and when
I awoke, and I hear then when I think of them now.
At two o'clock I woke up. The moon had traveUed far across the
sky but still shone in patches on the terraces. The air was a Uttle
fresher, it was a perfectly serene night. The nightingales were stiU
singing. I felt very happy and very safe.
I crept out of the sack to have a look at the charcoal stack. Two
large vents were glowing in it, so I went to the baita where Cristofolo
was fast asleep.
' Cristofolo,' I caUed, ' Cristofolo — Cristofolo ! The stack needs
tending.' 'Campanile !' he ejaculated, and sprang up with his usual energy.
'Truly,' he said, when he got to the stack, 'there are two holes.
Per Dio, signora, is that why you caUed me ? '
'Yes,' I answered, afraid that I had done the wrong thing. 'I
thought it ought to be seen to.'
'So it does,' he answered, chuckling, 'it was very necessary. I
overslept. WeU — I never . . .'

64 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
It was evident that he was profoundly astonished. And why?
Because the signora had condescended to wake up a poor man whose
charcoal was spoiling. The few 'ladies' he had come in contact
with would never have lowered themselves to do such a thing —
they would not have cared. They would have kept him in his place
¦ — he was only a peasant and probably a fool. But this EngUsh signora
— campamle ! — he would have something to teU them in the village
to-morrow. . . .
I am afraid these cogitations kept Cristofolo awake for the rest
of the night. He was very much upset. He muttered and coughed
in his baita long after I feU asleep.
I awoke before sunrise. A grandson had already brought
Cristofolo's breakfast, and there were sounds of hoeing.
I sat by the baita and ate the food I had brought while Cristofolo
sat and talked to me. He had slept badly, he said, the nightingales
had kept him awake.
Presently Di Marchesi Stefen came to relieve his father-in-law.
He was an expert charcoal-burner. He rarely spoke, but watched
and worked, which is the routine. He never hurried nor hesitated,
but each movement was graceful, deft, and sufficient. It was fascina
ting and restful to watch him. He, too, found it interesting to
watch me — so we dodged each other's glances until it was time for
me to go back to San Lorenzo.

CHAPTER VI
THE POLICE COURT
Rosina and I had decided to go down to the town on the day Nino
was to appear in court. I had also another reason for going. It
was to see whether the shops were as devoid of fruit and vegetables
as Riccardo made out. I had become a little suspicious, and began
to think he said there was nothing because he did not want the
bother of carrying things up. And it was as I suspected, both shops
were weU stocked.
The court opened at nine and we arrived in very good time.
Nino was earher still. In fear of being late he had started off absurdly
early and passed by San Lorenzo whilst we were stiU at breakfast.
He was extraordinary cheerful. After weeks of gloomy dejection
it was good to see. At last the suspense would be over and he would
know the worst. At any rate he was ready for a tussle with the
authorities ; in fact, he would rather enjoy it. The lawyer had
promised to defend the case (for 10 Ure paid in advance) and there
was every reason to hope that the fine would not be so large. Besides,
how unjust to summons the poor feUow for having his door open I
How could it be shut if some one had just come in? The lamp really
had been out, whatever the poUce had said to the contrary, and
eleven o'clock was long past closing time. Hadn't the place been
empty of guests? It was absurd altogether. How could a door
65

66 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
always be locked if there was only one door; a body had to go in
and out ? The poUce were ready to take out a summons for anything.
Madre mia, what a world it was !
Thus argued Rosina as we walked down the road between terraces
of vines and oUves and around nasty precipitous corners. She had
long ago forgotten the real facts of the case, the joUy dance and the
scuffle up the back path. She was most indignant at the way Nino
was being treated.
The mountain side was lovely in the morning sun. The plants
refreshed after the heavy showers. Rosina prophesied a record year.
Indeed it looked Uke it. The fruit seemed more mature lower down,
and some of the villas near the town had strange southern plants in
the gardens, but we saw Uttle of them/ for the road was waUed in.
We passed Riccardo, who was on his way home, and presently came
upon FiUp with his oxen wagon. He was standing in the road
listening. Had we, he asked, noticed if any carts were coming down? We
were quite sure we had not — we had heard nothing. In these parts
you hear the carts a long way off, the locked wheels screech over
the stones. He took our word and concluded it was safe to continue.
The road was far too narrow for two wagons to pass each other. So
he prodded the near ox with his goad, and the wagon rumbled
on. Rosina crossed herself and said a short prayer at both the Uttle
wayside chapels, but she took no notice of the big church we passed
on the outskirts of the town. We went through several narrow
streets to an inn kept by Nino's mother-in-law. Here Rosina changed
her shoes, putting on a beautiful pair of new boots which she had

THE POLICE COURT 67
brought with her in the basket. They were too good to wear on the
mountain road and a great deal too tight. She was very elegant,
a Ught blouse and a fawn skirt, tightly laced and very hot. A black
lace scarf was on her head, and she carried a Uttle fan. There was
something very pleasing about Rosina.
She took me to the house of the Signor godfather, as she caned
him, but he was out. It was he who sent the newspaper to Bortolo
every day when he had read it. Pina was his godchUd. He was a
lonely bachelor, Rosina said, Uving with a niece and her husband
who neglected him. It was she, Rosina, who looked after his clothes
and made his shirts. She often spoke of the Signor godfather and of
the interest he took in Pina. I never heard a word of any of the
other chUdren's godparents. She was a Uttle proud of this Signor
godfather, perhaps because he was above her station in life.
Quite lately he had spent a week at San Lorenzo, a pompous,
thick Uttle man. My conversations with him never got beyond pohte
and unnecessary phrases. He had spent most of his time sitting just
outside the door, in cogitation, but he put in a good deal of time
with Pina, trying to improve her mind. They got on fairly weU
together, but I think he found Pina a Uttle disappointing. She was
only six years old, a Uttle too young to profit by pompous discourse.
The Signor godfather not being at home, Rosina left the shirts
with a neighbour. We walked round the shady courtyard and looked
at the roses. I wondered at the dilapidation of the waUs. One gets
the impression that nothing is repaired until it faUs. But I do not
think that is altogether true, the insides of the houses I always
found spick and span, and much brighter than the exterior had led
me to expect. The roses climbed high up the two houses in wild

68 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
confusion, and long stems curved down and brushed us. Pigeons
fluttered on the waU, bright spots against the blue sky, which seemed
very high overhead.
Rosina pointed to two windows on the first floor of the one house
which, she said, was the poUce court. As it was nine o'clock we walked
up the stairs. Halfway we halted, other people were waiting too.
The magistrate had not yet come.
We saw Nino for a few minutes and his two witnesses, Renzi
Faustino and Silvestri Girolomo, aU in their Sunday best. They
had come to prove that Nino's lamp had been out when the police
had come. Girolomo was a dark, hairy, lean man, his gestures remind
ing me of a goat. Faustino was fair and incUned to be stout, a jolly
looking rogue. I never saw him at San Lorenzo, because he had
quarreUed with Rosina about a pig.
The magistrate kept us waiting three-quarters of an hour, but
when he did come he set to work without any preliminaries whatever.
It was a much less formal affair than I had anticipated and was
conducted with good humour.
The room was just an ordinary room with Ught washed waUs.
At the farther end sat the magistrate at a long table. At his right
sat the chief of police, on his left the clerk. None of them wore a
uniform. Close to the table were two doors, one on either side.
Just behind the officials were the high windows we had seen from
the courtyard.
At the opposite end of the room was the little door by which
we had entered, and in front, about four feet from the waU, was a
wooden barrier with an open gate. This space was for the pubUc
as weU as for those directly connected with the cases. No seats of

THE POLICE COURT 69
any description were provided. Just on the other side of the barrier
were a couple of chairs and here sat the round Uttle lawyer.
On the wall was a large notice saying that aU were equal before
the law.
The magistrate picked the top blue paper off the pile before him
and read out the first case, the name of the accused, the accuser,
and the witnesses. They stepped out from behind the barrier with
bared heads.
The witnesses, of which there were usually two, were taken
through the door on the left. They were not allowed to hear the
preliminary evidence. In most cases the plaintiff was a poUceman
and usuaUy the same one — a very efficient but unpleasant-looking
constable. He came in from the door the witnesses were taken through, and
gave evidence very smartly in a mihtary, stiff attitude which con
trasted unfavourably with the peasants easy, graceful movements.
There was quite a party behind the barrier, a coUection of culprits,
witnesses, and sympathetic friends. As an audience they were
wonderfuUy responsive, foUowing everything with interest, amused
at the humour, horrified at the fines. There was a good deal of
whispering amongst them even to strangers. They aU felt equal, not
so much before the law as before the magistrate and his assistants.
They were symbols of the signori, the ruling class. And if it wasn't
the magistrate who made the taxes and oppressed the people, he was
a part of the same machinery. I did not understand the conditions
sufficiently to judge whether the magistrate was a just man or no,
but I am very certain the peasants did what they could to hood
wink him, and he had to contend with a good deal of shameless lying.

i.p.

70 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
The first case was a man accused of carrying a long-bladed knife
in the street. It was late at night, and he had been in altercation
with two other men. It was a grave offence. The law forbids you
to carry a pointed knife with a blade longer than an inch. Such
knives must be kept indoors. This law was made to put a stop to
the stabbing so frequent in Southern Italy, but these people of the
north don't readUy use a knife in that way.
The next culprit had sung loudly in the streets at night. He
pleaded gmlty, but defended himself with such wit that the magis
trate himseff laughed heartily and the unpleasant-looking poUceman
snnled. He was dismissed with a caution.
Then two miserable wretches were brought from the witness
room, where they had been in custody. You would know them for
cadgers anywhere, small, underfed, badly shaped creatures. They
had stolen faggots. The plaintiff was a burly, weU-fed farmer, and
had caught them red-handed. They were sent to prison for three
days. The next defendant kept a caf6. The poUce raided it after closing
time and found it not only open but full of people.
Defendant explained that he was only having a party, his friends
and relations were there. They were his uncles and cousins. You
may stand your friends drinks after closing time if you lock the
door and take no money in payment. The magistrate, however,
was not incUned to beUeve that this man was so generous to his
' uncles and cousins,' and fined him two Ure and costs. When a caf6
or inn proprietor is convicted for the third time he loses his Ucence.
The magistrate would do a good deal of arguing for each case
in a conversational sort of way, together with the chief of poUce and

THE POLICE COURT 71
the clerk. And sometimes the round little lawyer would join in and
glance back over the barrier for our applause.
This time a woman came forward. I knew her weU by sight.
She had come to San Lorenzo with her daughter and ordered some
wine. Rosina served them in a constrained way so that I asked about
them when they were gone. The woman was from the town and had
a bad reputation. I had doubtless noticed the sign of 'The Sun,'
she kept that cafe. Among the vulgar it was caUed the caf6 of the
Palpitating Heart. She, Rosina, did not Uke to mix with such
people — no.
MeanwhUe the proprietress of the Palpitating Heart stood before
the table, fashionably dressed in a real shantung blouse. She carried
a beautiful leather purse and wore aU her jewels and was ever so
striking and handsome. She threw herself dramatically on the
pity of the magistrate. The door had been wide open, after closing
time, yes, it was true, but the pubhc room had been dark and empty.
The light the poUce had seen through the door was from upstairs,
from her daughter's bedroom. She herseff had been out, had just
run across the road to give a message to her aunt — she hadn't been
gone a minute — and forgot to shut the door — it was an oversight.
She defended herseff energeticaUy, sometimes indignant, some
times pathetic. We aU felt her a wronged woman, an unfortunate
widow, when she was fined two lire and costs. There had been a
previous conviction.
The next to come forward was a weU-dressed lad of about
eighteen. He had carried a gun without a Ucence, and had been
shooting birds in close time. There was no excuse for him whatever,
said the magistrate, his parents were weU-to-do, and could easily

72 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
afford a licence, a matter of about fifteen lire; moreover, he had
previously been fined for the same offence. This bright youth had
nothing whatever to say for himself and the magistrate gave him a
joUy good talking to. In the end he was fined the maximum penalty,
105 Ure and costs. We looked a little fearfuUy at a youth who could
afford to incur such a fine.
Then came a man who had sold diseased orange plants, and after
him came a lanky wretch who had committed several small thefts,
and was in custody. He had ordered dinner in a cafe and slunk off
without paying, taking a bottle of wine with him.
The lawyer defended him and made a spirited speech, bouncing
up to the very table just to thump it. The defendant had formerly
been a poUceman and had a good character. For the moment he was
out of work and had no money — and there was the temptation. . . .
But it is wrong to steal so he was sent to prison.
I noticed that the persons found guUty were either fined or else
sent to prison. It was never optional.
The very last case was Nino's.
He stood before the table holding his hat, outwardly calm,
inwardly boiUng. Three times he attempted to interrupt the poUce-
man's evidence, and three times the round Uttle lawyer caUed him
to order. Wasn't he to make a speech afterwards to put all that
right? Girolomo was the first witness. He was standing in the street,
he said, when the police appeared. What was he doing there?
What does one do on a Sunday, signor? One stands about, (but
not at eleven o'clock Girolomo !). He was doing nothing. He saw
the police come, and wondering what they could want at such an

THE POLICE COURT 73
hour, he foUowed them to Nino's house and saw them open the
door. The lamp had been out.
Faustino told the same tale. The police, however, insisted that
the lamp had been burning.
The magistrate was a Uttle perplexed and turned to the chief
of poUce with a question.
'For my part,' the chief of poUce answered, 'I always believe
what my men say.'
Then up jumped the lawyer Uke a rocket and held a lengthy
oration. He tried to prove that the lamp was out, and being out
that the inn was closed, and went through aU the arguments which
Rosina had already thrashed out. There is no doubt that his words
had weight, for the magistrate was lenient, and Nino was only fined
four Ure and costs.
He was pleased. Of course it was a lot of money, but nothing
to what he had feared. It had certainly been worth while to engage
the lawyer, even if it cost ten Ure and the witnesses cost about as
much. He had to pay them each a day's wages and treat them to
dinner. The costs would amount to about fifteen Ure. He was off
now with the witnesses to dinner at his mother-in-law's.
'Good-bye,' he caUed to us, 'you wiU come to-night to say fareweU
to Gaetano and the others? There is to be dancing.'
¦ •••••*
After supper Rosina and I walked up to the village to say good
bye to Gaetano, the Cominellis, Conrado and Agostino. They were
to leave on the morrow for America via Paris and Havre, to exchange
the sunny out-door life for working under a foreman in a coal mine.
We went to ComineUi's house fully expecting that the dance

74 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
would be there. Mrs ComineUi had a passion for dancing and ever
since the poUce raid at Nino's we had danced at her house.
ComineUi seemed just a Uttle out of place in the viUage. He
was from Southern Italy, very different from the mountain men.
The other inhabitants were so homogenous, probably because the
famiUes had married and intermarried for generations to such an
extent that they were Uke one large fanuly.
ComineUi was short, fat, and puffy, and ogled with big brown
eyes. He was handsome in an effeminate way, but he was not a
bad feUow, and I modified my opinion of him when I heard he had
given his wife a thrashing on one occasion ! She was fast, and carried
on a Uttle too freely with other men. Not with men in the viUage,
but with soldiers or others she picked up in the town. Most of the
mothers in the viUage were secretly pleased that she was off to
America ; if it was any one who taught the young girls tricks it was
Mrs ComineUi. Her husband had formerly been a custom-house
soldier, and there were beautiful photos of him in uniform in their
bedroom. On his marriage he set up as a photographer in the village,
but it could not have been a remunerative profession in a place of
two hundred souls, added to which his efforts were not remarkably
good. What other work he did I do not know, except that his wife
owned a tiny scrap of land which he farmed, and she had inherited
some money on which they had Uved. But it was nearly gone now,
hence the journey to America. It was said that they were extrava
gant. When they left Rosina tidied up the house, which was left in
her care, and we found an odd coUection of things in the cupboard.
We found a tin of Plasmon. Rosina looked at it suspiciously and then
gave it to Lucia for her chUdren. Lucia probably threw it in the

THE POLICE COURT 75
fire. Plasmon, who had ever heard of Plasmon? No doubt one of
these mixtures the upper classes indulge in. Bah ! she wasn't going
to set up for being a lady !
The bedroom upstairs was wall-papered. It came as a real shock
to me after the pleasant colour-washed waUs in the other houses.
Great big red flowers on a yeUow ground. Rosina had all along
been secretly hoping that I would take the ComineUi's house when
they were gone — but I quite dashed her hopes on that score ! I
stood in the middle of the bedroom, and told her what I thought of
that waU-paper, and how impossible it would be to Uve with it. She
pointed in answer to the windows, to the most glorious view. To
look back into the room was Uke cutting into another world.
My strongest reason for not taking that house was the smeU from
the courtyard next door. It was the house of Bertoldi, Toni, and
Lucia. They were the most charming people, but the courtyard
was horrible.
The Cominellis were busy tidying up. Lucia was helping in a
neighbourly way and her daughter Ghita was rocking the baby in
the dimly-Ughted kitchen. The luggage had been sent on in advance,
so there was no packing to be done.
The farther room was quite dark, and there was no sign of any
dance. 'No, no, signora,' said Mrs ComineUi, 'we are not dancing here
to-night, but at Nino's.'
I was thunderstruck.
'But this is absurd,' I said, 'isn't it enough that he has been
summoned, and hasn't he this very day been convicted at the poUce
court ? '

76 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'It wiU be quite safe, signora,' said Rosina, 'no one will ever
imagine that we dance on a week-day. As for the poUce, they are
hardly Ukely to toil up here on a Tuesday just to see what we are
at. Nino said they might dance there. Come, let us go.'
It was very sporting of Nino.
The inn was empty except for Teresina. Nino had not yet
returned, he was stiU in the town with the two witnesses. She
expected him every minute. Of course we were going to dance,
every one would come as soon as they had had supper.
As she spoke, the door opened, and the musicians came in looking
tired after the day's work, foUowed by Gaetano, Raimondo, and
several others. Conrado, with a pocket handkerchief tucked into his
collar and his hat on the back of his head, looked the picture of
dissipation. He had been drowning his sorrows in wine, knowing
fuU weU that he would not taste a good red wine again for many
a day. He intended staying two years in America, but if the work
were not regular he might have to stay longer. His father had left
the lands to be equaUy divided between his four chUdren, and Conrado
wanted to buy his two sisters' share. The younger was very gifted
and was studying to become a school-teacher. She passed her
examinations brilliantly but needed money for her further education.
It was a three years' course. Conrado, knowing how uncertain the
harvest was, determined to go to America and save his wages so as
to be able to pay his sisters. He would work very hard and contrive
even to save a little sum for himself. Then he would come back to
Campia, dear Campia, and marry Carina, the daughter of Giacomina.
She was the prettiest girl in the viUage, and fuU of the fun and high
spirits which was so marked in aU the Bertoldis.

THE POLICE COURT

77

The players tuned up, and I watched Giacom with amusement.
Guitars and mandoUnes are made with frets, and it was clearly an
oversight that bass ceUos are not. With a piece of white chalk
speciaUy kept in his waistcoat pocket Giacom soon put that to rights.
They were a happy party, dancing made them forget the parting
on the morrow. Only the Cominellis looked sad, watching us with
bright, tearful eyes, and Catina sat quietly beside Conrado, who was
too drunk to dance. Raimondo and Gaetano stalked about between
the dances talking loudly to each other in EngUsh, neither under
standing what the other said. The Usteners, however, were vastly
impressed. ' Drink,' cried Gaetano, fining the players' glasses, and gesticulating
with the bottle, 'drink — like 'ell — I not care one damn.'
'Jesus Christ,' answered Raimondo, 'sure. I come America soon
enough — you bet — I come pretty damn soon — ostia ! '
They had both taken their coats off. On the upper part of their
arms they wore garters, a fashion affected by aU who had been in
America. Their shirt sleeves were pulled up and kept in place by
them. I suppose the object was to keep the shirt cuff clean at the
wrist or else to keep it out of sight when cuffs were worn. In very
much the same way a navvy puts a strap round his leg below the
knee, and puUs his trouser-leg up.
Gaetano was an elegant little feUow, neat and tidy. He was
Uke Nino in that, only Nino had long ago given up the attempt, he
was far too poor for fine clothes and his week-day suit was patched
in more than twenty places. But it didn't matter how shabby he
was, even his rags had a characteristic style and elegance about them.
When he came back from America, they say, he arrived in a dark

78 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
blue suit and the most wonderful yellow boots Campia had ever seen.
Raimondo did not particularly distinguish himself for elegance, but
he had provided himself with a large stock of loud striped socks.
Gaetano was bubbUng over with mirth and kept us laughing.
Sometimes he would say the most unblushing things, but he knew how
to say them, and so escaped being vulgar.
I asked him to sing. He was only too ready and took up his
stand facing the musicians with his back to us. And he sang, oh,
how he sang ! He Ufted up his voice and shouted, and we aU yeUed
"the chorus as happy as school-treat children in a train. He sang
'TripoU,' of course, and who had more right to do so than he?
Hadn't he been there himseff fighting the Turks and come away
without even a scratch? Vittoria and Costante, two inseparable
friends, had fine voices. Costante sang seconds, and except for the
shouting the singing was dehghtful. It was spontaneous, and showed
musical feehng. Out-of-doors, of course, it would have sounded
much better.
At midnight the door opened and in came Nino looking Uke a
naughty schoolboy. He knew quite well that he ought to have been
back hours ago, in fact, he had meant to. But the time had passed
quickly with Girolomo and Faustino. He thought it was six o'clock,
when his mother-in-law announced that it was closing time !
The men at once crowded round him, eager to hear of the police
court affair. He gave it them in detaU with a good deal of gesticula
tion. He had had enough wine to make it picturesque and in his
own eyes he was a great hero.
• • ¦ • • • •
I was asleep next morning at five when the saddened travellers

THE POLICE COURT 79
passed by San Lorenzo for the last fareweU, but I was in the kitchen
when Nino and his two sisters came back. They had been part of
the journey with Gaetano.
Poor things, they were weary. None of them had slept, but sat
up after the dance talking with Gaetano untU it was time to go.
Giacomino and Nino were quite haggard, and Nino's blind eye had
lost its lustre.
Nino ordered beer. Wine was not enough for their jaded souls.
JuUetta, who was brighter than the others, because she sorrowed
less, told us aU about it.
'Yes, oh, misery, they have gone,' she said, 'and we aU cried
broken-heartedly — every one — even up at the viUage — but Comin
eUi  '
'Beautiful Virgin,' murmured Giacomina, 'ComineUi  '

'-  he cried,' went on JuUetta, 'and he cried — and he cried
so, we aU stopped crying to look at him. I never saw anything Uke
it in my Ufe.'
'Sacramento!' broke in Nino fiercely, 'he bawled Uke a baby.'
'He couldn't stop,' said JuUetta, 'and he couldn't speak, but
covered his face with his hands and cried and cried and cried  '
'And he isn't even a native of our viUage,' said Giacomina, 'he
hasn't been there two years — I don't understand what he had to
cry about like that for. I can understand that his wife was unhappy
— but she only cried moderately. But you should have seen
ComineUi ... he went " bu — u, bu — u  " '
'Would you believe it? ' said Nino, 'you know he sent his baggage
in advance. When we got there he went to fetch it from the goods
station, and they wouldn't give it him.'

80 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
' What ! Wouldn't give it him ? ' asked Rosina.
'No, he'd left the receipt somewhere at Campia., forgotten to put
it in his pocket. There's a man for you,' he added contemptuously.
'He ought to think of things like that instead of crying so loudly,
orca cane. Any one can see he is not from these parts.'
'And the baggage?' asked Rosina.
'Oh, the blessed baggage,' said Nino wearily, 'ComineUi asked
me to ask you to get it sent back here, then the next time any one
is going to America from Campia or from the other viUages, they might
be asked to take it over for a sUght consideration. I don't know
what he wants to take it for at aU. I never took any baggage when
I went.' Nino was cross. We sat silent for a Uttle while whUst they drank
the beer and Nino refilled the glasses.
'And Agostino,' suddenly began JuUetta, 'he giggled all the
way.' ' Didn't he ? ' caUed out PaoUno, who had been silent in a corner,
' didn't he giggle, he said nothing but " ah — ah, ah — ah, ah — ah "
all the time ! I said to him " Good-bye, Agostino, I hope you will
have a good journey and that God wiU keep you tiU we meet again "
— and all he did was to clasp my hand and say, " Ah — ah, ah — ah,
ah — ah." I hardly knew what to make of it.'
'Yes,' said JuUetta, 'he kept it up aU the time, he opened his
blue eyes wide and giggled like this  '
Whereupon we aU began to imitate Agostino's giggle. PaoUno,
however, exceUed us aU, and made us laugh in spite of our
selves. They did not stay long. Nino wanted to be off to get to bed, and

THE POLICE COURT 81
they wandered up the famUiar road, thinking of Gaetano, quite
numb with sorrow and fatigue.
The foUowing days Riccardo made our lives intolerable by
constantly imitating Agostino's giggle, and only by the practical
application of the broomstick could Rosina induce him to
desist. • ••••• ¦
We had been speaking of the traveUers and reckoned that they
must be in Paris by now when the unexpected happened.
Agostino walked in at the door !
For a moment Rosina thought he was a ghost. Then he giggled
stupidly and we aU burst out laughing.
The steamship agency had advised him to return, he told us.
A journey to America is never undertaken until the agents are
satisfied with the would-be traveller's papers and passport. The
regulations for third-class passengers are very strict. Persons under
seventeen are not aUowed to enter the States unless accompanied
by a relative. Agostino was an orphan, but he was aUowed to travel
in the care of a friend on condition that a relation, or a person
authorised by the relation, went to New York to meet him. If no
one came to meet him he would, in aU probability, not be allowed
to land, and, what was worse, the people in whose care he was
would not be aUowed to land either ! It is true Agostino had
written -to his grandmother that he was coming and that she must
send to meet him, but he had received no answer that she would do
so. The agent advised him most strongly not to go unless he had a
letter in his possession stating she would. It seemed a little hard on
this orphan boy going out to his nearest relative. Of course he

82 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
was not an emigrant. He would be back in a few years to serve
in the army Uke the other boys who went to America.
There had lately been a lot of new regulations. For instance,
a man with a bUnd eye was not aUowed to land. This was very
galling to Nino, to whom America was a last hope. He was a healthy,
able-bodied man, and just because of that Uttle accident to his
eye, 'his defect,' as he caUed it, he would not be aUowed to land
in the States. He would be one of those undesirable aliens.

CHAPTER VII
RAIMONDO
I made friends with Raimondo over the fossil. It had been used
to mend a mountain road and I wanted it taken to San Lorenzo,
but it was too heavy for me to move. I remembered seeing Raimondo
at work close by, so I went to ask if he could carry it down for me.
He left his work and came to look at it, regarding me with surprise.
His brown eyes were excessively round, reminding me of a bird's;
he had a mass of curly black hair and a faultless complexion, which
made him look younger than he was.
He inspected the stone incredulously, and remarked that there
were plenty of stones farther down the mountain. However, I made
it clear that I wanted this stone and no other. So thinking that this
was only another freak of the signora's and that I ought to be
humoured, he promised to bring it to San Lorenzo. Besides, if I
ordered stones to be carted down the mountain it was none of his
business — he couldn't very weU refuse.
He brought it the same evening. It was a good-sized stone,
weighing about forty pounds, and he deposited it on a kitchen chair.
The whole family crowded round whflst I washed it. Raimondo was
vastly impressed with the result.
'When you first come speak to me,' he said in EngUsh, 'I tink
you make April fool, ostia, but I see now it's a fine stone. Jesus
83

84 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
Christ — I go many time dat road — see nudding — you go once— you
find. You, signora, 'ave de inteUigenza, I 'ave never been to school.'
I inquired in what state he had left the road, and he told me
he had patched it up with another stone. I paid him what I thought
was an adequate sum, but I think it far exceeded his expectations,
and ever afterwards he treated me with a great deal of consideration.
If I came to a dance he would see that I was provided with lemonade,
knowing that I did not care to drink wine. He would hunt the whole
vUlage inside out to find lemons for me. If he met me on the road
he would offer to carry my bag and entertain me with his wonderful
EngUsh conversation. During his six years' stay in America he had
been working with Yankees in the backwoods, which accounted for
his knowledge of EngUsh and a certain broad-mindedness.
He had been able to save a large sum of money in America, and
Uke Nino, he had sent it home to his father to put in the savings
bank for him. Unfortunately, the same thing happened. His father
drew the money out and spent it. Raimondo returned to find he
was no better off than before — so he was going back to make himself
another pile.
What Raimondo's father had spent the money on was a mystery.
He was commonly known in the vUlage as Cuckoo, and by sheer and
persistent hard work he usually contrived to make both ends meet.
He had no time to be extravagant, nor did he fancy fine clothes nor
drink nor luxury. He lived with his wife and daughter and his son
Tona, who played the guitar. Three other sons were in America,
and doubtless sent home presents of money, so he could not have
been so badly off.

Raimondo and Bigi by the Fontana.

RAIMONDO 85
One day Raimondo looked through the sketches I had made.
His admiration was unbounded, and he went on saying 'ah' Uke a
connoisseur, nodding his curly head.
'Signora,' he said at last, 'I'm only poor man — but must buy
one of dese — do not ask too much, when I am in America I can look
and remember . . .'
The idea of Raimondo buying a sketch touched me, and I gave
him one at once.
Then thinking to pay me a great comphment, he said : —
'Your Uttle girl — very fine chUd — marry when eleven or twelve
year — not surprise me — lovely child Uke dat.'
Nino was concerned about Raimondo and so were most people.
Things were not going smoothly for him. He had continual tiffs
with his sweetheart, Di Marchesi AngeUna. He was passionately
in love with her, and although she had accepted him, she was luke
warm. She wouldn't marry him now. She would wait for a year
or two years until Raimondo came back. She would not even
promise to marry him at once on his, return — she would see, and
shrugged her shoulders. Not even the active opposition of her
mother to the union — it was of the broomstick variety — made
AngeUna any more enthusiastic either for or against her
lover. 'AngeUna is stupid,' said Nino, who was sitting for me, 'there
are not many others who want to marry her. It is a pity that he
is so much in love with her, it frightens her a Uttle. But she
torments him.'
Then he drew a piece of paper out of his pocket and showed it
i.p. G

86 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
to me. It was the paper from the poUce court which had been so
long in coming, stating the amount of his fine and the costs.
I had long ago made up my mind that I ought to pay part of that
fine, but every time I saw Nino I felt I could do no such thing.
He was so independent and proud. I couldn't foresee how he would
take it. Perhaps he would be insulted. Anyway, it must not be
put off any longer. So I said : —
'Nino, will you aUow me to pay haff of your fine?'
There was a long pause before he answered.
'Signora,' he said, keeping perfectly stiU and staring at the waU,
'I do not merit it.'
'I am very pleased to be able to help you, and it is only just
that I should, considering that I was at the dance,' I answered
him. There was a very long pause.
'It would be nice for me, but not for you,' said Nino, stiU im
movable. There was another very long pause.
I took the money out and put it on the table. Nino didn't look.
'Signora,' he said at last, 'what shaU I do to repay you?'
'There wiU be nothing to repay. Look, the notes are on the
table, please take them.'
He reached for the notes and put them in his pocket. He never
said 'thank you' nor looked at me. He got into position and sat
immovable for half an hour with an expressionless face.
I felt embarrassed. Inwardly I blushed and wished I hadn't
done it. It had been a blunder.
How bitter the moments when one repents.

RAIMONDO 87
He sat immovable and I went on pretending to draw him, in
silence. Rosina came into the kitchen and bent down to stir the cauldron
on the fire close by the immovable Nino. But suddenly he came
to Ufe, and raising his left arm he gave Rosina a thumping whack
on her back.
'U,' screamed Rosina, nearly faUing into the cauldron, 'you
without manners — villano ! ' and turning towards him in a threatening
attitude they both burst out laughing.
I too laughed and felt reheved.
'Signora,' said Rosina in a hushed way, when we were alone.
'I have a letter from America, from Gaetano. It is very private,
but I want you to read it."
I took the letter, and this is what I read in Gaetano's neat and
artificial handwriting : —
'Dear Rosina, — I have safely arrived after a fine voyage. I
am pleased to say I found aU friends here in excellent health. I
work by contract, and can earn from ten to fifteen Ure a day, but
the work is unpleasant. I hope Nino wiU join me soon, what a
consolation that wiU be ! I wanted to ask you to caU at Signorina
SamueUi's next time you go to B  . I should like to know whether
she is pleased with the present I gave her, and whether she regards
my letters with favour, and if you get the impression that I have
a chance to win her hand. If not, I wUl turn my thoughts elsewhere.
'With love to aU, Yours affectionately,
'Bertoldi Gaetano.'

88 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'That's Gaetano aU over,' I commented, handing it back to her.
'Yes,' she answered, laughing, 'he always wants my help in
everything. It is not so very long ago since he was here, asking me
to suggest a suitable gift for the signorina. I told him to give her
a workbox. Now he wants me to find out whether she liked it ! . . .
The signorina is just a Uttle above his station in Ufe, Gaetano fears
she may not think him good enough. Some time ago she got him a
situation as tram conductor in B  where she Uves, but Gaetano
soon came back again. He said it was a dreadful Ufe.'
' And Nino — is he reaUy going to America ? '
'He wants to, but it wiU be very difficult because of his blind eye.'
An official was coming along the path to the house.
'Ah, the taxes,' said Rosina.
' Is it the collector ? ' I asked.
'No, signora, he comes to make a list of the animals we keep.'
There was a tax on aU domesticated animals except poultry and
rabbits. For instance, to own a pig cost one lire, with a further tax
of one lire when it was kiUed. Such taxes discouraged the peasants
from keeping many animals.
The official was nearly prostrate with the heat and the long walk,
and he sat down in a chair at the table by the door in a collapsed
condition. Rosina gave him wine. Bortolo came. The official,
whom I had often seen, was a friend. He puUed some papers out
of his pocket and began.
'WeU?' he asked limply, mopping his face.
'One cow,' said Bortolo, 'one pig, one dog.'
'Any goats?'
'No, but we are going to have one.'

RAIMONDO 89
'That doesn't count. Any donkeys?'
'No.' 'Anything else?'
'No.' It was aU noted down.
'I suppose,' said the official, stuffing his handkerchief round his
neck inside the coUar, 'that you have been teUing me the truth?'
'Per Dio,' said Bortolo angrily, 'if you don't beheve me go and
look in the stable yourseU.'
'No, no, I beheve you,' said the official in a concihatory tone,
'but I have to do my duty.' He yawned.
Then he gathered up the papers and trudged wearUy on to the
vUlage. Rosina went in to finish some shirts for the Signor godfather.
Bortolo, with a large bunch of withies at his belt, went back to tie
up the vines with Paolino. Riccardo dangled for a quarter of an
hour in the swing before they remembered him.
As soon as Cristofolo stacked wood for charcoal at the farther
place I went there to make a sketch. I chose the evenings and worked
until dusk, giving Rosina instructions to send a search party if I
was not home at a reasonable hour. The walk along the precipice
always frightened me, and the only place where I could make a sketch
was on the farther side of the torrent bed where Bigi had faUen.
I crossed it higher up, where it narrowed, and Raimondo fixed a
pole for my feet, which prevented me from slipping down.
Bigi was stUl unable to do much, so Raimondo was engaged for
the harder work. He carried the bUlets lying on the torrent bed

9o AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
to the hearth. It was not a job he Uked, and he cursed much and
loudly. Every time he passed me we exchanged a few sentences
in EngUsh. 'Raimondo, is it true that you are going back to America?' I
asked. 'Sure I am, lady.'
'Do you Uke America?'
'Jesus Christ — like it? Plenty money in America, not Uke 'ere
— work aU day for two Ure, ostia — and wear dese damn zupei — wear
shoes in America.' The wooden soled shppers are caUed zupei.
'Why did you come back from America?' I asked.
'Old people here — want to see me  ' He carried a heavy load
of billets on his shoulder. 'Sacramento,' he ejaculated suddenly, as
he shpped on the stones, 'orca cane — I dink I were done — ostia.'
He regained his foothold and a few bUlets roUed down. He gave a
vicious kick with his feet. 'Dese damn zupei,' and he passed on to
the hearth.
'And do you mean to stay in America this time?' I went on,
when he came back.
'No, no, ostia, come back after two dree year.'
'When you've saved money?'
'Si, si, when I save money—now poor man, wear zupei, sacra-
mento. Come back, marry — no women in America, ostia. Las'
time I were six year in America, work in backwood, for two year
never see a woman. Once tramp ten day to find my brodder. No
like ItaUani in America — tink bad man — no let sleep in barn — no
— 'ide in wood, nearly die 'unger and cold — goddam.'
It grew dark and he carried the last armful down the track,

RAIMONDO 91
He was so strong and fuU of such spirits and Ufe, but he was quite
unstrung. He spoke in the wUdest way with suppressed emotion,
every minute I expected him to explode. Oaths and gesticulations
did not reUeve his feeUngs. He laughed and joked, but it was only
to hide the bitterness. Why wouldn't Angelina marry him? He
wanted to marry at once and take her with him to America. But
she wouldn't. When he pleaded she looked the other way. He was
in a state which he himself aptly described as 'crazy.'
'Jesus Christ — I go mad,' he said, 'if I no get away from 'ere
soon. Plenty bad people in de vUlage — very bad — ostia. If you
stay long — you get to know dem — bad, bad people. Jesus Christ —
dere is some old woman — real devU — Uke 'eU. . . . You get to know
dem — you run away — ostia.'
Up at the hearth Bigi watched Raimondo meditatively, Uke a
father Ustening to the sick ravings of his chUd. He had great
affection for Raimondo. It was not so long since he had been
blasted by his own tragedy, and he could understand what Raimondo
was suffering.
'When are you going?' I asked.
'Dursday — you no teU, my people cry for days — best not say.'
'And Angelina?'
'She say — perhaps, when I come back, marry — but no promise.'
The work was finished, and we walked in single file up the path
to the Ridge of Houses and beyond to the fontana. Here Bigi sat
down to rest, to walk was stiU painful. Most of the others had already
passed up the road, which was deserted. Ten minutes earUer it had
been fuU of peasants, goats, donkeys, and, of course, chUdren.
Raimondo fidgeted, he was hungry and impatient. He handed

92 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
me my painting things, which he had carried for me, and from his
buttonhole he took a rose.
'For you, signora,' he said, bowing, 'because you are a buona
signora — ostia.'
The evening before Raimondo left, AngeUna and I stood talking
in a doorway. Raimondo joined us, he did not often get the chance
to talk to AngeUna. If he could only make her promise . . . she
stood with averted face. Yes, she would marry him when he returned
— provided neither he nor she had faUen in love with any one else
by then. That was her Une. Raimondo was not satisfied. How
could he be? To make matters worse, he had a very jealous nature.
Poor Raimondo, he was in despair.
Presently she went home, afraid lest her mother should catch
her talking to him, and he foUowed her up the street.
I did not understand why she did not run away with him to
America, it would have been such a fine opportunity for an adventure.
Raimondo flatly refused to take over the baggage that the
ComineUis had left behind them. He wouldn't take the risk. If any
thing happened to it he would be held responsible, and he wasn't going
to the place where the ComineUis were ; besides, bother the baggage.
Rosina was disgusted. The baggage was a continual source of
trouble and annoyance to her. It led to a lengthy correspondence
with ComineUi, and he wrote her long and very poUte letters.
She clung to every rumour of a departure for America. Twice
she walked to the vUlage beyond Campia to persuade would-be
travellers to take the baggage with them. But she was unsuccessful.
The one traveUer either couldn't or wouldn't, the other had never

RAIMONDO 93
intended to go. In the end she found some one willing to take it,
and right glad she was to see the last of it.
Raimondo was going by boat direct from Genoa to New York.
He passed San Lorenzo to take fareweU of us, accompanied by Nino.
They had been up aU night, of course, talking and drinking, quite
a party of them, and it was recorded as a notable fact that not one
of Angelina's three brothers had been present. They did not approve
of Raimondo, at least not as a brother-in-law.
Raimondo kept a cheerful if weary front whilst he was with us,
but after we had parted at the gate he walked away holding his
handkerchief to his eyes. He looked such a lonely figure. Nino walked
by him on the other side of the road, aloof and tactful.
Farther down Bertoldi joined them, and aU three went together
as far as the first houses of the town. Here they parted. Neither
Bertoldi nor Nino wished to go farther, as they had their work-day
clothes on. Raimondo went on and was lost to sight round the
corner of the church, and the two friends retraced their steps and
came to San Lorenzo for refreshments.
It was eleven o'clock.
Bertoldi was a distant relation of Nino's and was also blind in
one eye. He was a big man with curly fair hair and blue eyes, quite
different from Nino, who was smaU and very dark.
They sat down in the kitchen, and Rosina brought them a large
measure of wine.
Evidently the thing to do, if you have been up all night drinking
and talking, is to go on drinking and talking for the rest of the day.
Bertoldi and Nino talked incessantly, but their flow of conversation
was neither steady nor monotonous. Sometimes they shouted

94

AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS

together or took offence at a chance word, or Bertoldi's anecdotes
would get altogether impossible. Even Nino's blurred inteUect could
see that. He drank another glass and caUed for more wine. Bertoldi
spilt some on the table as he poured it out. He was sleepy and
rested his head on his arm. By the afternoon they were nearly too
tired to speak, and swear words became more and more frequent.
'Women — ostia,' said Bertoldi, suddenly rousing himself. 'Women
are like goats — ostia — they are mad — sacramento — they are devUs —
ostia — with horns — porca madonna' — he drained his glass, 'osteria —
haven't two of our best boys been ruined by them? — ostia — Raimondo
— ostia — he's done for — ostia — and there's Bigi — ostia — he's  '
'Don't mind me,' put in Rosina, 'say what you like about Bigi
and SeUna.'
She was highly entertained by this conversation. 'They are
too funny, signora,' she said to me in confidence, 'stay here in the
kitchen and you wiU be diverted.'
When it was three o'clock Bertoldi could scarcely keep awake
any longer, besides, he was drunk. Nino was in a rather less pitiable
condition. Rosina thought it time to interfere.
'Come, boys,' she said, with a kindly hand on each of their
shoulders, 'you'd better have a sleep.'
She grasped an arm of each and led them off to the bedroom, which
opened out of the parlour. There was a large bedstead in the room
with a pink coverlet. It was the biggest bed I have ever seen.
Bortolo and his two sons slept in it, but there was ample room for
two more people.
Rosina helped the two men safely on to the bed and they dropped
asleep.

CHAPTER VIII

CAVALLERI

I looked with indifference at the handful of tiny silkworms Rosina
brought up from the town. I had seen silkworms before, in fact I
had reared half a dozen on lettuce in my schooldays.
Rosina took them upstairs into a room which stood empty. A
large tray was placed ready to receive them, and she put the Uttle
crawly things on to a sheet of perforated paper about a foot square.
The tray itseff was very large, about ten feet by four feet, and the
bottom was made of reeds put close together. Four stout poles
were fixed from floor to ceiling, and along one side of each pole a
number of pegs projected. A stick was laid across two pegs at either
end, and the tray was supported on this stick. It could be lowered
or raised at wUl by shifting the stick on to lower or higher pegs.
Rosina was on her knees at the open fireplace, trying to Ught a
fire, but it would not blaze and the room filled with smoke.
'You wiU MU them with aU this smoke,' I said, retreating towards
the door, half choked.
But she thought that cold, more than smoke, would harm the
cavaUeri, as she called the silkworms. It was not a warm day,
and the temperature of the room had to be kept between 66° and
720 F. if the silkworms were to thrive.
'This chimney never draws,' she said, puffing at the wood.
95

96 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'Where did you get the cavaUeri?' I asked, 'are they sold by the
ounce or the gross?'
"They cost nothing, signora,' answered Rosina, stiU on her knees,
'they are given us by the society — but on condition that we seU
them the cocoons. It is true they pay us a Uttle less than other
people, but then they send up an instructor to advise and help us.
Pu ! this smoke is cattivo ! '
The silkworms survived the smoke. They had a good dose of it
the first few days, but afterwards the weather turned warmer. In
this part of Italy it was never warm enough for silkworms to be
reared out of doors.
The lady instructor came up regularly every other day. She
brought a large placard and pinned it on the waU. In a space for
the purpose she noted down the dates when the worms shed their
skins. This should take place on the 6th, ioth, 15th, and 23rd day
after hatching. Badly fed silkworms are a day or so later. After
inspecting the trays upstairs, the instructress went on to the village,
where she had many houses to visit. Nearly every one had cavaUeri.
It was an occupation which depended largely on the women, and
was superintended by them. The men always assisted, but they
were subordinates and did as they were told. For the time being
the housewife reigned supreme and the men did not have much of a
time, as you wUl see.
During the first two weeks Rosina cut the mulberry leaves into
strips about a quarter of an inch wide, and gave them to the cavaUeri
like that, busying herself with them for a short time. But when
they had grown bigger she gave them whole leaves and twigs.
Riccardo chmbed the mulberry trees and picked the leaves,

Silkworms.

CAVALLERI 97
dropping them into a sack with a hoop at its mouth which he hooked
to a branch. He would entirely strip a tree of its leaves, which were
stiU smaU and immature. In a very short time, however, fresh leaves
developed, and a tree that had been quite naked was soon clothed
in green and presently stripped again.
In a short time the cavaUeri spread over the large tray, and a
second was brought upstairs for them What had seemed but a
handful turned out to be tens of thousands. They grew and flourished
and every day they ate more, rearing up their heads and looking
round for more leaves when the twigs were bare. Rosina was always
giving them fresh leaves. Riccardo could not pick them fast enough,
Paolino had to help him.
The perforated papers which the society provided were changed
once a day, and together with the refuse were thrown on to the floor,
and swept on to the balcony. They feU and fluttered down, close to
the kitchen door. Bortolo did not trouble to carry them away. He
was still busy in the fields, but found time to pick leaves every day.
Riccardo had to help Rosina upstairs now, it was more than she could
do single-handed. More and more trays were carried up, and the
cavaUeri grew bigger and bigger. They were in prime condition. I
used to stand and Usten to them gnawing at the leaves, they were
so many they made a distinct noise. Rosina would pick them off
the twigs with her fingers and put them on to fresh leaves. It was
a tedious job ; she was nearly always upstairs now.
The work told on her temper. She was very tired and very cross.
She shouted at every one. Not before ten o'clock did she get to bed,
and at midnight the alarm woke her and she had to get up and feed
her ravenous charges again. At four o'clock the same relentless alarm

98 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
tinkled. There was no shirking. Badly fed cavaUeri spin smaU cocoons
and the society buys by weight.
By means of continuous scolding and shouting, Rosina managed
to be always suppUed with leaves. She would come out on to the
balcony and abuse Bortolo and the boys, singly or coUectively.
From three different trees, in three different directions, they would
raise their voices in protest. She didn't care what she said.
As for the house, it was in an awful state. Rosina neither swept
nor dusted for days and days. The kitchen floor was a disgrace.
There was no water in the buckets when I came to do my cooking,
no one had been to the spring. There was no fire-wood in the box.
Dirty dishes and plates stood about. Bortolo, who vainly tried to
keep things tidy, put everything in its wrong place. . . . Even the
copper pots and brass candlesticks were not poUshed. Rosina never
neglected those cherished articles when things were normal. Now
she hadn't time for anything. She made a laudable effort to wash
her face and hands before dinner, but often failed. She had no time
to comb her own hair, nor Pina's either. She had no time for washing
clothes nor for cooking. Bortolo made the polenta, and they practicaUy
Uved on that alone. Meals were at unstated intervals. Rosina had
no time to sit down at table, she snatched a chunk of polenta when
ever she was hungry, and ate it amongst the silkworms. For supper
she made a hasty sort of minestra — but it was not nice.
Neither Bortolo nor the boys complained. They had been through
it before, and knew what to expect. Besides, who would dare com
plain when Rosina was on the warpath?
In spite of the fact that her family was neglected and her house
uncared for, Rosina coidd always spare a few moments to serve

CAVALLERI 99
customers with wine. She was never too busy for a little illicit trade,
and she always had an ingratiating smUe for the tourist.
I sometimes visited Rosina up in the sUkworm room, which was
by now her permanent abode, but she was in such a state of tension
that I feared to tire her by talking. She ruled the house from the
balcony or from within the room, from where she shouted her wants
and instructions. Riccardo got his fair share of abuse every morning
when he came up late from the town, as usual. He had to bring up
the perforated papers from the society, and woe betide him if he
forgot them.
By this time Bortolo had finished his work in the fields and was
able to help Rosina aU day and at night as weU, and, of course, aU
three chUdren were hard at work. It was a race between the ravenous
cavaUeri and the people feeding them.
Rosina was quite hoarse and the flesh round her mouth looked
used and tired. She had grown very much thinner. How she longed
for a night's rest — she was so tired.
We aU suffered.
I spent a good deal of my time away from the house, but I had
to walk far to get outside the radius of Rosina's voice.
' Riccardo, Riccardo — far prest, crettino — bastardo — mostro ! ' Such
words could be heard beyond the fontana.
In the vUlage I was amongst sUkworms again. Anetta and her
married daughter had some smaU trays of cavaUeri in the kitchen,
Lucia had cavaUeri in her kitchen, Francesco's wife had cavaUeri in
an empty house, and the whole famUy of five grown-up people were
busUy employed. The Biscotti's also had cavaUeri. It was a relief

ioo AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
to find Nino's house free of them. Teresina was peacefuUy knitting
socks. I asked for an egg and a roU, and afterwards for some lemonade,
and sat in the Uttle kitchen with her and Bigi, and another man.
When I had finished eating I asked Teresina what I owed her.
'There is nothing to pay,' she said.
' Of course I must pay,' I answered.
'No, signora.' She looked determined.
I knew what she was driving at. She was thinking of Nino's
fine, and this was her way of paying it back.
'Teresina,' I said, 'if you don't let me pay I shall be very angry.
Besides — why shouldn't I — I ordered the food.'
' Signora, I could not take a palanca x for it, surely you can
accept something . . . you have given Nino so much ... so much
tobacco.' She did not wish to mention the fine then before the others.
But I wouldn't give in. It was hateful to give with one hand, and
take back with the other.
'Teresina,' I exclaimed, 'the tobacco I have given Nino he has
justly earned, and if you don't let me pay,' I went on hotly, 'I can
never come and order anything here again.'
'If it is a case of your getting angry,' said Teresina, 'then I wiU
accept the money . . . the cost is four palanche.'
In other words, twopence.
'Eight palanche,' I said, 'would not be too much.'
'The bread is one palanca, the butter one palanca, and the egg
two palanche. Ecco four.'
'But that is hardly cost price,' I said, suddenly recoUecting that
1 Palanca = i soldo = i halfpenny.

co
cao
u CD

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CAVALLERI 101
Rosina was charging me four palanche for an egg — 'they are never
cheaper,' she had said — 'and how about the lemonade?'
'It is thrown in.'
'And the cloth ?'
'You have not soUed it, and I can use it again.'
'And your trouble?'
'It has been no trouble.'
It ended by my paying her twopence. She took it unwiUingly,
and I felt that after aU she had got the better of me.
It was the first of several encounters I had with her. UsuaUy
I took the precaution of paying when I ordered a thing. Once, when
I forgot, she obstinately refused the money.
'Very weU,' I said, and remained quiet. Presently I caUed to
Uttle Battisti. 'Here, Battisti — I have something for you.'
Battisti didn't come a step nearer.
Teresina came to the kitchen door, defiant.
'Signora — you must not give him the palanche. I have told him
that if he takes them I wiU thrash him ! '
What foresight she had !
She was one too many for me, but I had to give her a parting
shot. 'Next time Nino sits for me, Teresina, I shaU give him two whole
bottles of beer.'
'Ah — signora,' and she shook her finger at me.
¦ •••••
On my way home I went to the house of Bertoldi Toni, and
walking down the long passage gave the usual caU of approach.
'Permesso?' I.P. h

102 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'Avanti, avanti,' answered Lucia from the kitchen. She and the
four girls were busy with the cavaUeri.
The trays were very large and took up about one-third of the
space, and excluded most of the light. The table had been carried
into the passage, where they took their meals. Close to it was the
door to the stairway, which led to the unsavoury courtyard, and a
number of plants in pots stood on the parapet.
I felt sorry for Toni, more sorry than I felt for poor Bortolo.
Bortolo at least could get into the kitchen, and it didn't smeU of
silkworms, nor was the cooking done in a dark place. On the other
hand, Lucia was not irritable. She was always soothing, managing
Toni with a few words and a Uttle tact. Rosina's method with the
peace-loving Bortolo, was to treat him to a war of words, which left
him exasperated but speechless.
I must not forget to mention that Lucia was the sister of the
priest, which accounted for the fact that there was a smaU party
in the viUage who wanted him to stay. Moreover, there were a few
who wished him gone, but daren't do anything active for fear of
faffing out with Toni and his wife.
Every Sunday whilst the others were at Mass, Lucia would go
down into the vaulted rooms under the church where the priest
Uved. A stairway led up into the vestry.
The church was built on the chff-side, and the windows of the
priest's rooms looked down between thick waUs on to a precipice.
The garden was two narrow terraces, with a parapet and flowering
bushes and roses and a large cactus in a pot. Chickens and a young
turkey pecked about, running right into the kitchen.
Lucia took upon herself to make the polenta, which was always

CAVALLERI 103
ready the moment her brother came down from mass. I once accom
panied her. The priest came down exhausted and perspiring. What
ever he may have been in private Ufe, he conducted the church
services with energy and fervour, perhaps atoning for his sins in
that way. His housekeeper came down after him. She was a thin,
hard, elderly female, who, it is said, drank as much as the priest did,
or perhaps more. She, too, managed very cleverly to obtain wine
without paying for it, and Nino's face was a study whenever she
came into the inn. He daren't refuse her.
The polenta was ready, and Lucia sat on the hearthstone whilst
they ate, and I too, for the priest was hospitable. But he sickened
me with unpleasant jokes of double meaning. He found me very
dense. After the meal he offered me a cigar.
But to return.
Lucia and the girls were changing the cavaUeri on to fresh leaves,
and the floor was Uttered with paper and refuse, faded leaves, and
bare twigs. Little EmUio was toddling about trying to help, but
squashing the cavaUeri with his Uttle fingers. Quite a number were
in the part set aside for sick and wounded silkworms.
If the floor was untidy the inhabitants were worse. None of the
chUdren had brushed or combed her hair. AU of them had dirty feet,
and EmUio had a sore toe. Lucia's coiffure was from last Sunday,
and would probably go on untU next. They were an untidy crew,
but made up for it by charm and temperament. I think it must
have been Lucia who brought this untidy element into the famUy,
as aU the other Bertoldis were neat and clean. They formed the
nucleus of the upper ten of the viUage, together with the Castellis
and the Di Marchesis. They were worthyupholders of its best traditions.

io4 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
Bertoldi Toni himseff Uked things to be spick and span, and he
was very sensitive about his own appearance. He was ashamed of
the patches on his trousers and of his ragged shirt. On a week-day
he would sUnk out of the back door if he heard me coming; but when
dressed in his Sunday clothes he would come and talk to me. He
was ashamed, too, of his limp, and tried to hide it from me as much
as possible. If we were together, he would walk a Uttle behind me,
and he could never bear to come towards me on the road. He would
stand still and wait untU I had passed by.
Above ah things he cherished an old piano which was kept in a
bedroom upstairs. He could play any tune on it, but was quite
unable to read a note of music. I loved to hear him play. There was
something about it which made up for lack of technique. He loved
music and played from his heart. Many happy hours we spent in
the room upstairs.
'La vegne so — la vegne so,' he would say to me on a Sunday
afternoon, ' si'ora, la vegne so,' which means ' signora, come upstairs.'
We would go up and play by turns. The piano was miserable
and out of tune, but we did not heed that. Sometimes we would go
to the church and play the organ.
But Toni was not at home now. Probably he was only too
pleased to escape from the cavaUeri and climb a tree to pick mulberry
leaves, or perhaps he was up on the Ridge of Chestnuts with his son,
Vittorio, carting stones to the limekiln.
I sat down in the kitchen and discussed the cavaUeri. They were
much bigger than Rosina's, but then, they were a different sort.
Lucia said they were Chinese.
There was a good deal of competition amongst the cavaUeri rearers.

CAVALLERI 105
I was always questioned about Rosina's worms, and when they had
shed their skins, and how big they were compared with some one
else's. Rosina always expected me to bring her detaUed accounts
of aU the caveUeri I had seen in the viUage.
As usual, Lucia and I did most of the talking, the girls Ustened.
Ghita once told me that Ustening to my conversation was the only
means she had of improving her mind — which was somewhat
embarrassing for me ! We got on very weU together ; she was an
interesting girl. In Uttle things she was untruthful, but the Ues
were prompted by tact, and were so palpable that there was no
deception. I taught her to read music. She could pick out tunes in the
way her father did, and she was very anxious to learn more. She
mastered the principles of written music in a remarkably short time,
and then it needed only practice. She was soon able to play easy
exercises. Sometimes Toni would come upstairs and ask me to play
them through from the book, in order to hear if Ghita had been
practising them correctly.
'You are not Uke an ItaUan, signora,' Ghita would say, 'they
never teach us anything — on the contrary, they jealously guard
what they know from us. You are molta buona.'
Ghita was seventeen, a fine girl in perfect health, dark skinned,
with a blush on her cheeks. The girls aU had beautiful dark eyes
except Carolina, who had hazel eyes, drooping Uds, and a pasty
face. She had none of the capability and natural tact which dis
tinguished Vittorio and Ghita. She had been iU for many years,
and after the doctors had given her up she was cured by a quack
from across the lake. She looked older than Ghita, but was a

io6 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
year younger. PaoUno worshipped CaroUna from a distance.
'Signora,' he had said to me in a burst of confidence, 'Signora,
that girl is far too beautiful ! '
In a short time I went back to San Lorenzo. Half-way down I
met Giacomi and his wife, and a donkey laden with sacks.
'Mulberry leaves,' said the beautiful Francesca, foUowing my
glance, 'mulberry leaves for the cavaUeri.'
'Have you no trees?' I asked in surprise.
'Yes,' answered Giacomi, 'I have several mulberry trees, but
the cavaUeri have eaten aU the leaves up. So now we have to buy
them.' 'How is that done?' I asked.
' You hire the tree and pick the leaves as you want them. These
are from the town.'
'As far off as that?'
'Signora, that is nothing. Some years it is impossible to get
leaves, and we have to send a much greater distance. . . .'
They passed on.
San Lorenzo looked very desolate.
Bortolo was making a grand mess carrying brushwood upstairs
into the attic. It was for the cavaUeri. The time had come for them
to make the cocoons, and as soon as they showed signs of spinning,
they were carried up and put on the brushwood. The whole attic
was taken up with these bushes, which Bortolo carefuUy set up.
Besides the work of feeding the cavaUeri, they now had to be
closely watched. Those ready to spin had to be taken upstairs at
once, before a cocoon was started, and aU the trays had continuaUy
to be looked over. Even then many evaded Rosina's vigUance, and

CAVALLERI 107
climbing up the pole to the ceiling, were spinning in the corners of
the room.
The cavaUeri were put on a large tin tray which Riccardo carried
up into the attic, where he distributed them carefuUy on the bushes,
for if they got too close together double cocoons are spun. I never
reaUsed the number of cavaUeri Rosina had untU I saw the thousands
and thousands of golden cocoons amongst the brushwood. In the
uncertain Ught of the attic they looked Uke myriads of Chinese
lanterns. I do not know how many there were, but if the Uttle handful
Rosina had shown me weighed not more than one ounce, there must
have been nearly thirty-five thousand cavaUeri. It takes quite a
ton of leaves to rear as many as that.
Of course they weren't aU ready to spin on the same day, a few
precocious ones began and the others foUowed, and more and more
— they were carried up to the attic day and night.
It took only a few days for the cocoons to be finished. Then they
had to be carefully picked off and put into baskets. A certain number
had to be freed from floss, and the pupa? kept for breeding purposes.
The remaining cocoons were deUvered as they were. The society
announced the date for dehvery, and the whole famUy were harder
at work than ever getting aU ready to time.
Rosina drooped. She was hoarse, and lacked the energy to
shout, but it didn't matter, as every one was in the room with her.
It was most tedious to free the pupae from floss. They were put on
a board with an iron rod across it, and one of the boys turned the
handle. The cocoons were tipped up against the rod and the threads
caught on it, and yard after yard graduahy wound off. The boys
turned the handle aU day, even Pina had to help. Bortolo kept

108 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
running up to the attic to pick the cocoons off the brushwood. Then
he came down and made the polenta, and they aU ate chunks of it
upstairs. At last it was over and fresh flowers stood before the Uttle image
of St. Antonio on the landing.
Rosina, strengthened by a night's rest, was pohshing copper pots
in the kitchen. She was dismally thinking of her work that was so
behindhand. There was so much washing she would have to ask
Ghita to help her with it; there was mending to be done, there was
sewing, there was SeUna to whom she hadn't written for weeks.
The whole house needed a clean up, and next week the weary work
of bottle-washing must be begun. She hadn't been to mass for weeks*!
Madre mia, what slavery ! She would never look at a silkworm if it
wasn't for the money . . . one had to have money . . . and there
were debts. How they weighed on her ; not so Bortolo, he was always
tranquiUo, nothing ever disturbed him ... it was she — she who
had to think of everything. . . .
And the cavaUeri? The work, from start to finish, had covered
forty days, and Rosina's cocoons had weighed fifty-six Irilograms.
The society paid four lire the kUo — so Rosina had earned exactly
224 Ure, which is aU but £9.

CHAPTER IX

LIME BURNERS

Bertoldi Toni was burning lime. For weeks past he and his son
Vittorio had been carting stones and bunding up the furnace on
the Ridge of Chestnuts. It was a singularly barren spot, and the
chestnut-trees, after which it had been named, were long ago hewn
down and had left no descendants.
One afternoon I walked up to see what Toni was at. As I
struggled up the steep path I caught sight of Vittorio wheehng a
barrow, but when I arrived at the top he had disappeared. The barrow
was stiU there, together with some runners for dragging stones, but
Vittorio was gone. He was shy, I knew that, and had gone off to
avoid me. I looked round and wondered where he had hidden him-
seff. Close by was a heap of stones, and the beginnings of the kUn
and beyond, right up to the crags, was an unbroken slope of loose
stones. Behind me was a precipice. On my left a path foUowed the
edge. Trees were growing half-way down the chff, and I could see
Giuseppe in very blue trousers hewing them down. The place was
so steep he had to cling to a tree with one hand whUst he hacked
at the next one, and tree after tree went crashing down the slope.
I walked along the path until it was cut in two by a dry torrent
bed. I concluded people walked over it, for I could see the path go
on beyond a few feet away. The torrent bed bore no sign of footsteps,
109

no AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
probably the stones roUed down when they were touched. It was
very steep, and I could see the edge of the cliff at the bottom. Here
the water came to the surface, trickled over and splashed down on
to the rocks by the roadside, forty feet below. Last spring, a land-
sUp had buried the road at this point, and Riccardo had barely
escaped with his Ufe.
I went back. Giuseppe saw me, and ceased his chopping to shout
a greeting. Far below him I could see San Lorenzo, and heard Rosina
abusing Riccardo. . . . But I didn't find Vittorio. How any one
so big could hide in such a place I do not know.
One day Rosina informed me that Toni had already Ughted the
fire of the lain, but she advised me not to go up until the evening,
as the flames looked best in the dark. So I waited untU after supper
before toUing up the path. It had been mended and improved so
that a wagon could get nearly as far as the lain, but the last part
of the road was impossible of much improvement, it was much too
steep, and I floundered rather than walked up it.
Toni caught sight of me, and I could hear him say to his com
panion, ' La si'ora — fe venii la si'ora,' and he greeted me warmly when
I arrived at the top. Tona, who was working for him, was equaUy
cordial. Vittorio, they told me, and the expert from afar who knew
aU about lime-burning, were asleep now. They took their turn to
work whUst Toni and Tona rested.
The stones had been buUt up into a large hoUow bee-hive
structure, which was embedded in the slope, except the front and
part of the sides. The furnace glowed within, and could be seen
through a smaU square opening. A rough roof covered the space
in front. At the side was an enormous stack of faggots.

LIME BURNERS

in

Tona was the right sort of man for lime-burning. He was strong,
tough, and patient, and, what was also very important, he never
shirked anything.
Toni dusted a large stone and bade me sit down. It was exceedingly
hot so close to the furnace, but it was a good place from which to
watch, and get some idea of the work.
Toni picked up one end of a long thick iron rod which lay on
the ground. It was about twelve feet long. Tona brought a bundle
of faggots and jammed it into the opening. Toni raised the rod and
fixing it in the faggot pushed it through. It went unwiUingly and
dropped on to the hearth, which was at a lower level. Then it stood
on end, crackled, roared, and toppled over, adding its remains to
the heap of white hot ash which lay vibrating. The blaze dazzled
my eyes. Then another faggot went in, and another and another.
Occasionally there was a short respite, but the furnace had to be
continuaUy fed for five days and nights.
They took it in turns to put the faggots in, the other cUmbed up
to throw down bundles from the stack, or rested on a stone near the
furnace. It was very fascinating to watch the faggots go in and be con
sumed. Sometimes a big and obstinate one would refuse to be
pushed through the opening, but usuaUy there was no trouble, and
the flames would blaze up and change from green to yeUow and pink,
and then break out blue again.
I wanted to try to put in a faggot, but Toni would not hear of
it. I would be scorched, he said, I had not the strength; but first
and last I would be scorched. It was impossible. I asked whether
my trying would in any way spoU the burning, but he shook his head.

ii2 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
There was nothing to spoU. The furnace must be fed, that was aU,
but he could not aUow me to be burnt.
We went up the slope, and he showed me the furnace glowing
through the stones on the roof, every now and then breaking into
Uttle blue flames. Close by was the bunk where Vittorio and the
expert were sleeping. It was quite dark, and the mountain towered
black and sohd above us.
'It wUl be fine to-morrow,' remarked Toni, looking at the stars.
It was important that it should be, and he was a Uttle nervous and
anxious. I don't think he spent many hours in the bunk resting
during the foUowing days.
We walked down, and I went to the edge and looked away to the
distant Ughts of the town. Below were trees, and I could feel them
in the downy blackness. San Lorenzo lay invisible and sUent.
Riccardo must have gone to sleep by the fire.
I turned and walked back to the patch of Ught where Tona was
working. Toni was nowhere to be seen. This was my chance.
'Come on, Tona,' I said with determination, 'a faggot !'
'Yes, signora,' was aU he said. There was something in these
people which always responded to a command. He fetched a bundle
and put it at my feet. I had hoped he would have stuffed it into the
opening for me, but as he hadn't, I picked it up and tried to myself.
It was frightfuUy hot so near the furnace, and at first I couldn't get
it in because the sticks aU spread out and caught on the wall and it
would not go into the opening. It set on fire whUst I was trying.
Then I stepped back, and, seizing the rod, lifted it, and, thrusting
it into the faggot, pushed. The rod ran right through it, but the
faggot never budged.

LIME BURNERS n3
Tona watched me sUently, never attempting to help or advise.
But I felt that the whole honour of England was at stake, and that
I simply must do the thing.
After several futile thrusts with the unwieldy rod it caught
in the faggot and through it went. I ran it into the centre of the
hearth — then quickly drawing back the rod, I retreated, for my
hands were nearly at the furnace mouth, and the rod was getting
too hot.
Tona laid another faggot at my feet. I had not done so badly
then. It went in more easUy and so did a third and a fourth. I
seemed to have caught the trick. But my arms were tired, the rod
was so heavy. Tona brought me a fifth faggot and I felt I had
scarcely strength enough to tackle it. However, in it went, in grand
style — but I was utterly exhausted.
'It is enough,' I said, and putting down the rod turned round.
Toni was standing next to Tona. I felt Uke a naughty chUd caught
in the act, but Toni's face reassured me. His blue eyes shone with
admiration. 'WeU done, si'ora,' he said, 'I never doubted you could do it.'
'Orca cane,' exclaimed Tona, 'she did it as if she had never done
anything else aU her Ufe.'
'The expert said he'd never seen anything Uke it  '
"The expert?' I asked. 'I thought he was asleep  '
' So he was, si'ora, but when I saw what you were doing I awoke
him and Vittorio — they watched you from above.'
Ah, that was why Tona had been so Uberal with the faggots.
It was hard work and I did not envy the men. Toni was quite
right, one could get badly scorched, it was inevitable if one worked

ii4 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
for hours. Hands and arms were continuaUy exposed to frightful
heat, the rod became heated and sparks flew about on to one's clothes.
But neither Toni nor Tona were downhearted, they worked on
steadUy and cheerfuUy.
I went up to see them every evening. Each time Toni and Tona
looked grubbier and the worse for wear. They wore the shabbiest
clothes for a job Uke this,"' because everything got spoUt. Toni grew
thin with worry and fatigue — he couldn't trust any one but himself;
when he rested, I don't know.
On the fourth night I was amazed to find Toni and Tona in
spotless, clean shirts. It was so surprising that I stood and stared.
It seemed so out of place, these two grubby men on the mountain
side in clean shirts beautifully ironed.
So this was the result of my insatiable curiosity ! Dear, sensitive
Tona was ashamed that the signora should see him in his rags. He
would never have changed if he hadn't expected me to come. . . .
No sane man would change his clothes the last day of Ume burning.
And what was more wonderful, he had persuaded Tona to do the
same, only Tona had gone one better and changed his trousers as weU.
I stood and gazed, feeUng grateful and guUty in one. After aU,
Toni and Tona hadn't many shirts. . . .
We talked together for a whUe. Toni was restless and anxious.
Things were not going quite as they should, the lime ought to be
ready in another twelve hours, but it didn't look as if it would be.
Toni mopped his face in a perplexed way. They were going to rake
out the ashes now, and Tona went off to fetch a long-handled iron
tool. I retreated to a safe distance and stood watching.

LIME BURNERS 115
They worked together, both holding the long tool, pushing it
forwards and backwards, to and fro, until the whole hearth was
disturbed. A heap of ashes was raked through the opening, the heat
from them was tremendous, and every inflammable thing caught
fire. Their hands passed close over the ashes. At last, when the
handle was too heated to be held any longer they stopped, and Toni
put it aside. Tona carried the ashes away on a shovel and they both
stamped out the flames that had sprung up round about.
Another faggot was run in and Toni stood watching — as soon
as he had his breath back he went running up to the top again. What
was wrong? At this stage the flames at the top ought to have been
higher and steadier. Instead they flared up as each faggot went in
and then died down. They oughtn't to do that — but why did they?
Toni didn't know. He was afraid something was wrong, perhaps
the whole thing would turn out a faUure. . . .
The next evening, which was Saturday, I found them still at work,
although the job should have been finished by midday.
Lucia was there. She stood weU back from the kiln, a dark, dis-
heveUed figure against the night sky, her face glowing in the Ught
from the furnace. She scarcely moved.
Tona was stoking, Toni was up at the top, watching the flames.
They shot up as each faggot went in, and were sucked back and flared
out of the opening below where Tona stood, and then blazed out
again at the top. In and out they flared, making an alarming roar
— Uke a giant out of breath. Something was wrong, I could see
that. Toni turned and came down towards us. A glance at his face

u6 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
showed me that he was Uving through moments of intense anxiety.
He was weUnigh exhausted with work and lack of sleep. I went and
stood beside Lucia, and we watched without speaking. From where
we stood we could watch the faggots put in, as weU as see the flames
flare out at the top. We were on the brink of a black abyss.
Toni feared the worst. The perspiration trickled down his
blackened face. He spoke frequently to Lucia in an excited way-
just a few words, with a gesticulation and a shrug. She answered
quietly and sympatheticaUy. Sometimes he just caught her eye,
and she would answer with a look. How weU she understood him.
She must have been very anxious herself, yet she was splendidly
calm and gentle; her presence buoyed him up. She hardly noticed
me, nor did I speak to Toni, but I had a few words with Tona.
He told me that the Ume ought to have been ready, but that
something was wrong, and the fire would have to be kept up untU
the morning, he supposed. It was possible that the Ume was spoUt,
but it was not at aU certain. He himself didn't think it was.
All the time the flames rocked to and fro. Toni could hardly
trust Tona to put in the faggots, he worked nearly all the time him
self. Tona was disgusted — didn't he know how to stoke just as weU
as Toni? Toni was too fussy. He was sick of doing nothing but
fetch faggots, and Toni was only wearing himself out. In spite of
his annoyance he treated Toni with the greatest consideration.
'You must be tired by now,' I said to Tona.
'Signora,' he answered, just a little scornfully, 'I am never tired.
But I shaU be pleased when it's over.'
Toni's anxiety irritated him. I was also infected by it. My
heart beat quickly and I felt half suffocated. Poor Toni. his mouth

LIME BURNERS 117
trembled when he spoke, and it would not need much more to send
the tears streaming down his face.
What an awful disaster if anything happened to the Ume. It
was his chief source of income, and he had spent weeks getting it
ready. Every spare day and every Sunday he had been in the town
looking for buyers. But he wasn't thinking of that, his thoughts
were for the future. ... He mopped his face and spoke to Lucia
in jerks. He was irritable to the last degree — but not with her. She
looked at him, and her look was hopeful in a deferential sort of way,
as if it were treason to hope when he was in such despair. There
was something great over her that evening and over Toni too, for
there was nothing petty in his anxiety. They were in such contact
with each other.
I left them with a heavy heart.
• •••••
Next morning we aU went to mass together. Even Rosina was
of the party. On Sunday mornings she could usuaUy think of nothing
but preparing dinner, but to-day she had a pious turn. Once before
I had been to mass with her, and on that occasion she had been very
dissatisfied with me.
'It is not usual,' she had said, 'to sit down flop in your seat —
Uke you did — without first kneeUng and saying a prayer. Secondly,
you should not stare at the organist the whole time.' (It had been
the first time I had heard Toni play, and the way he rattled through
the tunes was fascinating.) 'Now you know you did; about the
Holy Water I shaU say nothing.'
'As for you,' I had retorted, 'you didn't kneel half as much as
the others.' i.p. 1

n8 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS

'Signora — When you are as fat as I am 
'Heaven preserve us !'
Here Bortolo put in a word. 'The signora is at Uberty to behave
as she likes.' The old dear always took my part, but he was so
serious we both burst out laughing.
As we walked up to mass we came unexpectedly on Toni. He
was standing by his front door, dressed in his shabby Sunday clothes.
His face was washed, and he looked as fresh as if he'd had a hoUday.
He snuled at us.
'Toni,' I caUed, 'and what happened to the Ume?'
' It turned out all right after aU,' he said, ' we finished this morning.'
He looked quite happy.
'And you've had a sleep?'
'Sleep, signora?'
'Yes— after aU that fatigue. Aren't you tired?'
'Perhaps,' he answered, 'but we didn't get home until after
breakfast, and I play the organ at mass, and again at the afternoon
service. It wiU be time to sleep when the night comes.'
I remembered yesterday evening and his haggard face. I suppose
the rehef at finding the Ume unspoUt had been as good as a night's
rest to him.
We passed on and entered the church. During the service an
incident occurred which did not add to the popularity of the priest.
AU went as usual until that part of the service had been reached
where the priest sits in the large chair by the altar whUst the organist
plays and we aU Usten.
With a sudden movement the priest got up out of his chair and
walked quickly down the altar steps to where the congregation sat.

LIME BURNERS 119
He pounced upon a boy sitting in the front row, seized him by the
coUar, and hit him several times viciously on the head . . . then he
walked back and sat down again in the large chair by the altar.
The men, who aU sat in the front benches, became rigid and a
great sUence feU over the congregation. Anger took the place of
amazement. The benches creaked. What would the priest do next?
Women shyly exchanged glances, but the men stared stoUdly in
front of them, nursing angry thoughts. How long must they put
up with that priest? How dare he ... ! The boy had only been
whispering to his neighbour.
Toni played on, and the priest continued the service. After
receiving his blessing we aU walked out into the piazza. Rosina, her
thoughts fixed on dinner, hurried me back to San Lorenzo.

CHAPTER X
THE FESTIVAL OF THE MADONNA
The morning was clear and beautiful.
It was the second Sunday in July, the day speciaUy set apart
for the Festival of the Madonna. The holy image was to be carried
in procession through the street of Campia, and there was to be a
special service and every one would beseech God and the Holy Virgin
to stave off the great calamity, and let this year at least be free from
a devastating haUstorm. Everything was being done to make the
day acceptable to God, there was no one in Campia who underrated
its importance. Raimondo, just before he left for America, told
me that it was the plain duty of every one to subscribe to the Festival
Fund, and when a few days later a peasant caUed with the subscription
Ust we aU gave something. Sums from a half to two and a haU Ure
had been subscribed, so Rosina, who aspired to be better than her
neighbours, gave three.
Long before ten o'clock we started for the viUage, but it was
already hot and there was very little shade on the road. Rosina and
the boys carried large baskets full of provisions, for they had no
intention of returning to San Lorenzo before night. The ComineUi's
house was stUl empty, and Rosina meant to cook the meals there.
To judge by the large number of wine bottles, she must also be hoping
to do a Uttle UUcit trade.

THE FESTIVAL OF THE MADONNA 121
The band struck up before we reached the first houses and the
chUdren hurried on. Rosina, however, could not be hurried. She
flapped her handkerchief over her face, and perspired and groaned,
and implored me to walk slower. At last we reached the ComineUi's
house, and she threw open the doors and shutters and busied about.
I stood on the back stairway which led to the courtyard and
enjoyed the sun. It seemed to saturate the white buildings and
everything was hot to the touch. Across the water Monte Moro
looked cool and majestic.
AU at once some one began to sing next door, beginning boldly
in the middle of a song : —
'Guarda che bel colore
Senti che buon profumo  '
'Ghita,' I shouted, 'Ghita.'
'Ah, it is la signora,' she said, coming into the stairway and
leaning her arms on the parapet. 'You are getting sunburnt,' she
remarked. 'Yes,' I answered, rather proud of my tanned skin, 'look at my
arms.' 'ItaUan ladies,' she said, 'are afraid of the sun.'
'Yes — I've seen them,' I answered, 'they aU look as if they'd
been brought up in the cellars.'
Ghita laughed, and her white teeth shone in the sun. Then she
picked a faded carnation from one of the pots on the parapet and
threw it down into the yard.
"Then you must think my dark skin quite beautiful? I've always
been ashamed of it ! '

122 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'If you weren't in good health,' I answered, 'you wouldn't have
such a glorious colour.'
'You are right,' she said, 'the signore are always aUing.' Just
then the band struck up another tune. 'Let's go to hear the music
together, I won't be a moment.'
I walked down the passage into the shady street and round to
the front door of their house. I had meant to go in and wait for
Ghita, instead, I stood looking up the street.
What were they hanging out of the windows? I could see
Giacomina busy upstairs. She was holding out a bedspread, a
beautiful thing aU red and yeUow. She let it hang right down and
on the sUl ; in order to keep it in place, she put a pUlow, an ordinary
pUlow, in a clean white pillow-case. Every house was being decorated
in the same way. Just above me, from the window of the room
where Toni kept the piano, hung a large white bedspread. Next
door, the house of Renzi Faustino, there were several windows and
not enough bedspreads to go round, it seemed. The girl had just
hung out a dark blanket and was suspending a lace curtain over it.
Then she put a pillow on the sUl, just as Giacomina had done, and
as every one else was doing. Some of the pUlow-cases had pink check
covers, and a very few were pale blue.
It was a simple but very effective form of decoration. The whole
street looked gay. No doubt housewives vied with each other in the
possession of bright bedspreads, and I understood now why Giacomina
had once shown me the red and yeUow one with such pride; it was
one of her most cherished possessions.
I did not wait for Ghita, but walked on to the fountain. The
street had been swept and tidied. Decorative arches had been put

THE FESTIVAL OF THE MADONNA 123
up at intervals, covered with green twigs and paper flowers. A prickly
plant,* which grew higher up on the mountain, had been gathered
and dipped in whitewash. Stuck among the green it looked like
sUver. There was a good sprinkling of people by the fountain, but the
street leading to the piazza was crowded. A great many viUagers
were there, and a great many other people who had come from neigh
bouring places. On every side I saw happy, expectant faces. Every
one was dressed in their best, all the male part of the population had
on new shirts, or they ought to have, for such was the custom.
Rosina had sat up until midnight finishing shhts for the boys. The
women aU had their hair carefuUy dressed, and lovely thick hair
they had too, but the men usuaUy grew prematurely bald on account
of their habit of always wearing a hat, both indoors and out. I once
asked Nino whether he slept with his hat on, but he shook his head.
I am certain, however, that he never took his hat off untU he was in
the bedroom, and that first thing in the morning it was clapped on
again. The band, which had finished playing in the piazza, came
trooping up the street to the fountain, and formed up in a circle.
People crowded after and stood round whUst it played. One or two
favoured smaU boys were aUowed to stand within the ring and hold
up a sheet of music. After playing a few tunes the band trooped off
to the new road and played a few tunes there, and then off again to
another spot.
I met Nino in the road and greeted him.
'TeU me,' I asked, 'the procession is to be this morning, isn't it?'
1 Butcher's-broom.

124 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'No, signora, between four and five this afternoon.'
'But why so late?'
'Because,' he answered, 'it wiU be hot, and the Madonna is
heavy.' The bells pealed out and every one moved towards the church,
where two babies were being christened. The band had taken up
its place close to the doors and was playing a gay tune. We loitered
in the sunny piazza until the tune was finished.
Then we hurried into the church, anxious to 'find a seat. Men
and boys crowded in at the side door, the women all entered the
large door at the back. Every seat was filled.
Coming from the bright sunshine the church seemed like a
cavern, but my eyes soon became accustomed to the mysterious
dimness. I could see the decorations and the suspended draperies,
and the special altar which had been erected in the body of the
church. On it stood the image of the Madonna, dressed in blue and
sUver. Mass was conducted by two priests from neighbouring viUages,
and although present our priest took but a minor part. Toni was
absent from the organ loft, his place being taken by a blind organist,
speciaUy engaged for the occasion. He played very weU, but I
missed Toni's spirited tunes.
Beside me sat two girls. They both wore hats, and for this reason
they ought to have been ladies, for no peasant woman wore a hat
in church; but their manners betrayed them. The stout one, with
a cast in her eye, wore a fawn dress in tolerably good taste, but the
younger, dark and shm, had on a pink hobble skirt and a cheap lace
blouse. They whispered together during the service, grinned at each

THE FESTIVAL OF THE MADONNA 125
other, and spent very little time on their knees. It was just affecta
tion of manner, for I am sure they reckoned themselves to be pious.
If you wear a hat you must behave Uke a lady, and once having
exchanged the vUlage for the town, they did not feel they could come
back and behave Uke they used to. What a pity it was that they
were unable to discriminate between ladies, and took as a model
upstarts Uke themselves.
Before the end of the service, several women hurried out to
attend to their respective dinners. No sooner had they left the
buUding than the bandsmen hurried after them, so that when mass
was over and we all came out into the sunlight, the band was in the
piazza and welcomed us with a sentimental waltz, even before the
last strains of the organ had died away.
Girolomo was a person of importance, he had the responsibility
of aU the arrangements. He walked about overflowing with goodwiU,
in his hand a piece of paper covered with notes in a large hand. He
was responsible for the band amongst other things, and had to see
that it was suppUed with plenty of wine. He had ready a storeroom
for the instruments when not in use, and in order that the bandsmen
should be properly provided with dinner, he had billeted them out
on various families. Just now he stood in the piazza, a large tray in
his hands. On the tray were tumblers fiUed with wine which he was
offering the bandsmen, and coaxing them to take. A table had been
brought out, and Gioan stood by it fining up more glasses. Then he
coUected the tumblers and carried them indoors to be rinsed. None
of the women took any part in the matter.
Those who had no dinner cares stroUed about in the heat, looking
for friends. I saw Gheco with his mother and AppoUonia, and with

126 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
them were ApoUonio's mother, sister, and brother. It was significant
that they should be together— it pointed to an engagement, or at
least to the first preliminaries between the parents of ApoUonio and
Gheco. AU at once the piazza emptied. It was dinner time.
I found Bortolo giving the final stir to the polenta. Even on
this great day every one ate polenta. Every housewife spread a
clean white cloth on the dinner table. Rosina had prepared a tame
rabbit with herbs and fat, butter, and oil, and fried onions, which
was delicious.
No sooner had we finished the meal than a deputation came in
to ask whether the room might be used for a dance. Rosina made
no objection and the room was cleared. A fat man in velvet trousers,
carrying an accordion, came in and began to play. The company
were aU strangers to me, so I did not remain. Instead I strolled up
the street, which was stUl empty. Sounds of talking and laughter
came from aU the houses.
After paying a visit to Giacomina I went on to the inn. It was
crowded. Teresina was bustUng about with glasses, taking orders.
Nino and his old father were busy bringing bottles up from the ceUar,
and carrying empty ones away. People came in, drank, and went
out, and there was seldom a vacant chair. Every one asked for
beer, and when the supply ran out they ordered lemonade, until every
bottle was sold. Wine was the last thing they desired.
I sat down close to the door. Teresina at the other end of the
room caught my eye, and raised her eyebrows as much as to say
' lemon squash ? ' I nodded in answer.
Close by three men were playing murra, quite unconcerned at

THE FESTIVAL OF THE MADONNA 127
the noise they made. They were Cristofolo's two sons-in-law, and a
third man who was a stranger. I guessed him to be the rich grocer
from Florence, Dominica's husband. He could not speak the dialect
but played murra in ItaUan, and probably, out of consideration for
their guest, the other two did so as weU. Instead of the famiUar
'ii, du, tre, quater, sich, sei, set, ot, neuf,' big Giuseppe, in a chastened
way, was calling 'uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque,' etc. It worried him
so much that he lost.
As I was finishing my lemon squash, Nino came and spoke to me.
'Signora, forgive me,' he said, 'I have so Uttle time to talk to
you to-day — you see how busy I am. We never expected such a
crush, so many people have never been to the festival before. If
only I had another hundred bottles of beer. . . . You were at
mass ? '
'Yes,' I answered, "and I am wondering why the priest hadn't
troubled to shave.'
'You are not the only one to say that,' said Nino, and then,
leaning across the table, he whispered, 'perhaps he was too drunk
to hold a razor ! '
'Nino — don't' ... I protested. 'When every one else is so tidy
I was surprised to see his face with a six days' stubble. No doubt
he means to grow a beard.'
'Oh, yes — Ukely,' he answered sarcasticaUy, going off to serve
a customer. Presently he was back again.
'Did you hear what my father-in-law said to him? ... He met
him in the street and said : "I suppose you are going to shave for
the afternoon service ? " They all Ustened for a reply, but the priest
never answered him at ah.'

128 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
' Can you teU me who those two girls are,' I asked, 'one in a pink
skirt — the other fat, with a cast in her eye ? '
'Ah— Negretti's two girls  ' I could see by his face that he
did not care for them. I waited for further information. 'They are
back for a hohday,' he went on, 'they work as milliners in B  .
They pretend to be ladies.'
'So I see  '
' They come and put on airs — and hardly any one is good enough
for them to look at. They are not a bit like you.'
'No,' I answered, 'they are much more elegant.'
'Signora,' said Nino, resting his arms on the table, 'you may wear
an old dress, but you have money in your pocket. It is that which
counts. Their elegance is scarcely skin deep, and their pockets don't
contain a palanca. . . . Those girls have to starve themselves in
order to satify their vanity.'
'One of them looks quite fat,' I remarked.
'Perhaps— but they lead a dog's life in order to dress Uke ladies.
They think then they are better than we are. . . . There is nobody
I should Uke to kick more ! You, signora, you talk to us aU, it makes
no difference to you whether we are poor or not, you treat every one
the same. But those girls, who were born here, walk through the
vUlage not deigning even to notice some of their neighbours ! '
The church beUs rang and I hurried back to ComineUi's house.
The dancers were crowding down the passage into the street. Rosina
was putting the finishing touches to the two little girls. They were
to take part in the procession. Both wore white dresses with wreaths
on their heads and flowing ribbons.
The church was even more crowded than in the morning, many

THE FESTIVAL OF THE MADONNA 129
more people having come to the viUage during the afternoon. Several
pews were set apart for the girls taking special part in the procession.
They were in white, and two whole benches were fiUed with children
dressed up to look 'Uke angels.'
The service, which was conducted at the special altar in the body
of the church, was very short. It was foUowed by a sermon. Our
priest sat Ustening to the preacher with the most benign expression
on his face, nodding his head from time to time. It was a pity he
hadn't shaved.
At the close of the service Ghita sang a solo. Too shy to stand
up by the organist where she could be seen, she crouched down behind
the barricade. She had a nice voice and sang with such simple
devotion that it touched everybody.
The large doors at the back of the church were then thrown open
and the sunshine streamed in. The female part of the congregation
stood up and walked out, and formed into two Unes of single file
with a space in between. At intervals in this space walked girls and
youths carrying banners and other emblems.
Ghita headed the procession, dressed in white with a white veU
and carrying a big bouquet of flowers. Pina walked on one side of
her and my Uttle girl on the other, both clutching her skirts.
The procession walked slowly across the piazza and into the
shady street, chanting the same dismal Litany that I had heard when
the fields were blessed. Girolomo was busy putting every one in
their places, and he came running past us in order to ask Ghita not
to walk so fast. He was very hot.
When aU the women had come into Une, the band formed up
three abreast, trumpeting a martial tune which more than half

i3o AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
drowned the Litany, and was in quite a different key, not even a
minor one. No one, however, paid any attention to that.
After the band came Uttle chUdren hand in hand, carrying nose
gays, and behind them, under a large canopy, walked the three
priests in gorgeous vestments, and the Uttle boys carrying censers.
Then came the image of the Madonna. It was carried on a
stretcher supported by four youths. Nino was right, the Madonna
was heavy. She was topply too, and had to be supported on either
side by a man, taU enough to reach the brass rod of her canopy.
The rear of the procession was brought up by two single files
of hatless men.
We walked, chanting, down the street, past Giacomina's house
and the red and yeUow bedspread, past Toni's and ComineUi's, right
into the sunhght, where the new road branched off along the edge
of the cliff back to the church. The new road was very wide and
under a large green archway stood a common table. We passed it
by, but when the priests reached that point they stopped, and the
image, swaying as the youths staggered along, was carefuUy placed
on the table. The band stopped playing.
The priests recited prayers, and we knelt where we stood, and
prayed and beseeched the Madonna to keep off the hail.
Then we rose to our feet and walked slowly on, chanting again.
The band struck up another martial tune. Pina, forgetting the
occasion and hearing only the band, tripped along with light steps,
still clutching Ghita's skirts. On nearing the church, we could hear
the organ peaUng forth yet another tune. It was a strange medley
of sounds. We crowded in, and the Madonna was put back on the altar.

THE FESTIVAL OF THE MADONNA 131
Ghita's two youngest sisters stood before the image and recited.
Afterwards every one filed past the priest, and kissing the
ReUc he held in his hand, foUowed one another out of the
church. The band was playing in the piazza. It was a little cooler. The
sun was hidden behind the crags, and would not be seen again to-day.
The sky was pale and clear. We stroUed about, speaking to friends
and Ustening to the music. Several women were hanging out of
upstairs windows talking to friends below. From the inn came the
sounds of murra.
Every one was and looked happy. It had been a successful day,
una beUa festa. The villagers were flattered by the number of
strangers who had come, the strangers were more than satisfied with
the hospitaUty and goodwUl of the people of Campia. The bandsmen
considered that they had been so weU treated that they even offered
to come and play at an autumn festival for no remuneration !
The two pohcemen, who had paid a formal visit to the vUlage
during the afternoon, went back to the town whUst it was broad
dayUght. It was not thought necessary that they should remain
in the viUage during the evening.
Toni sought me out in the piazza, he wanted to hear me speak
EngUsh with a relation of his, who had been to America. It thrilled
Toni to Usten, understanding not a word. Perhaps he would have
been surprised if he had understood what we were so seriously dis
cussing. After a few preliminary sentences we spoke as follows : —
'Any bugs in England?' asked the relation.
'Bugs? ... oh, yes, of course, there are bugs in England,' I
answered.

132 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'Also in America,' he informed me, 'plenty bugs everywhere,
but in Italia, no.'
"There are no bugs here at aU?' I asked.
'No, nowhere in dese parts — but plenty fleas,' he went on.
'Yes,' I answered, 'and papatas,' referring to the little midges
which infested my room at night.
Our conversation, perhaps fortunately, was broken off by
Giacomina. She wanted me to come to Cristofolo's house and make
the acquaintance of his daughter Dominica from Florence. We
started off, but remained to loiter, because the band was playing its
last tune. The bandsmen came from a village eight miles away,
they had walked over in the morning, and were walking aU the way
back now. They were given a very cordial fareweU.
Some of the visitors from more distant villages had akeady left
— others were leaving. A good many were spending the night in
the village, and some of the people from the town stayed untU quite
late, and went home together in a party. The street was still crowded
and every one was stroUing there or looking out of the windows
overlooking it. A few careful housewives were taking in their bed
spreads. Giacomina took my arm and we walked up the street with a word
for nearly every one we met. Rosina caUed out that she was just
going to get supper at ComineUi's, would I come in half an hour,
and continued an animated discussion with Stefen.
I was stopped by a stranger, who told me that he knew me quite
well, but was quite sure I'd never seen him. He laughed at my
puzzled expression, and then explained that he was the expert who
had helped Toni burn the lime — he had watched me put in the

THE FESTIVAL OF THE MADONNA r33
faggots. A friend called him and he passed on. We turned up the
mountain road and the crowd thinned. Outside Cristofolo's green
gate the road was empty.
A large party was assembled in Cristofolo's kitchen, most of them
relations. They sat on chairs round the waUs. In a corner Bigi
was playing the mandohne to Tona's strummed accompaniment.
I was introduced to Dominica and her husband, and to a friend
of hers from London, an Italian lady whose husband kept a laundry
in Soho. I Uked Dominica. I had expected her to be a little pretentious
and overdressed perhaps, like the two girls I had seen in church,
but Dominica was not Uke them. It is true her clothes were costly
and fashionable, but they were in good taste and she knew how to
wear them. She was not beautiful, nor a bit Uke Bigi or her sisters,
but very tall, pale, and reserved. The thing which most struck me
about her, was the admiration her husband showered upon her. He
was sitting by her now, holding her hand, and looking unutterably
docUe. It was evident that she lived in the sunshine of his unconcealed
admiration, and to keep it from becoming embarrassing she was a
Uttle haughty with him — just to keep him in his place.
There was another stranger in the room, Teschini, a friend of
Dominica's husband, who also kept a store in Florence.
I sat down by the lady from Soho. She was very beautiful, wore
big pearl ear-rings and a scarlet overaU over her dress. I spoke EngUsh
to her and Dominica, and we made pleasant remarks, and drank
vermouth. 'Ah,' sighed the lady from Soho, thankful to be amongst her
own countrymen again, 'Italians are joUy — arn't dey? Never dull.'
I.P. k

134 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'No,' I answered, thinking of the haU, 'nothing seems to damp
their spirits.'
Then turning to Dominica she said loudly, 'De signora is a person
of education — a lady — I can 'ear dat by de way she talk EngUsh.'
Bigi struck up a tune, the table was put on one side and we had
a few dances. Then thinking of Rosina's soup, and that Annetta
might be waiting for me to go before she began her preparations for
supper, I took my leave and found Rosina looking up the road for
me. She had already ladled the soup into plates which stood steaming
on the table. Bortolo had gone home to mUk the cow, the boys were
somewhere in the village, she said — she didn't know where.
'I suppose,' said Rosina, blowing her soup, 'that you have heard
that there wiU be dancing to-night — in the house opposite.'
' But isn't it empty ? ' I asked, haU expecting to hear that it was
inhabited. Several desolate looking houses in the village, which I
had taken to be empty turned out, on investigation, to be occupied.
I could never teU from the outside.
'Yes — it is empty,' she said, trying to sip the hot soup from her
spoon, which she held with an elbow on the table. 'It belongs to
Gheco, but he prefers to Uve in the house down by his lands.'
'The accordion won't play, I hope,' I remarked.
'No, signora, it wiU be our own players. . . . Here,' she went
on, stretching out the bottle — 'have some wine.' ... I held out
my glass which she fiUed. 'Why don't the boys come to supper?
It is strange that they never can do as they are told. . . .'
'You would find life very duU,' I answered, 'if Riccardo was a
good and obedient boy.'
Rosina laughed.

THE FESTIVAL OF THE MADONNA 135
'Ecco,' she went on presently, 'I hear the mandohne. . . .
Signora — you wUl burn yourself if you eat so quickly ! '
It was not long before I ran up the outside stairway, and stood
in the kitchen of Gheco's house. The players were sitting in a corner,
but not many dancers had come yet. La Macuccia sat on a chair
fanning herself, and I sat down beside her. She was full of a letter
received from her youngest son, who had been three months in
America. 'He is doing well,' she told me proudly, 'he has sent money
this time, four hundred francs — there is money in America — have
you seen my other son, the poUceman? — he is home for a few days
on leave.'
I had not met her son.
'No doubt you have seen him,' she said, continuaUy fanning
herself and me by turns, 'he wears a white suit.'
I knew whom she meant, and it was not long before I danced
with him. Introductions are not necessary at Campia, you dance
with whomever asks you to, but of course you can always
refuse. ApoUonia scandaUsed some people by dancing. They said it
was much too soon after her father's death, but she had her own
opinion on the subject. She wanted to learn, and Gheco had been
teaching her the steps. . . .
Sometimes when we were too hot and out of breath, some one
would stand up and sing, and those not too exhausted would join in
the chorus. Of course 'TripoU' was sung — twice over. At other
times we sat out on the balustrade or the stairs, where it was a little
cooler than indoors. It was a calm evening, the sky was cloudless
and the stars shone bright. The moon was just rising.

1 36 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
Some of the younger men had been puUing down the triumphal
arches and carrying them away to the new road. Here they had made
a glorious bonfire, and all the vUlage chUdren had thoroughly enjoyed
themselves. Most people were indoors now. The two inns were crowded, and
I could hear the sounds of murra from more than one house, other
wise the streets were very quiet. The young men came back from the
bonfire and sat down by the fountain to sing. They sang in parts
and it was a pleasure to Usten. As each song was finished, clapping
was heard, and from dark doorways unseen Usteners cried 'bravi.'
Now and then some one came clattering down the mountain road
and passed down the street into the shadows. The moon rose higher
and began to shine on one side of the street.
PunctuaUy at ten o'clock, the inns closed, and the men came out
and dispersed. This was Rosina's golden hour. Some of the thirstier
souls found their way into ComineUi's kitchen, and Rosina fetched
out her wine bottles. Gioan was amongst the number, and was as
voluble as wine could make such a reticent man. Bertoldi was drunk
and broke a glass. Wine did not make him the less good-natured,
he was perfectly aware of the condition he was in, and deplored it.
He was so drunk he couldn't walk home, and slept all night on some
body's doorstep. Rosina — who had been seUing him wine — said it
was disgraceful.
It was very late when we stopped dancing. As usual it was the
players who first left the room. They walked down the steps and
played a fareweU tune down in the road.
The vUlage was hushed, the murra players had gone to bed, and
the fuU moon, high in the heavens, shed its clear light into the narrow

THE FESTIVAL OF THE MADONNA 137
street. The white houses stood luminous among mysterious dark
shadows.
The players walked up the street, but at the fountain they stopped,
and standing in the magic Ught in the middle of the crossing, they
began to play again . . . one tune after the other.
We stood Ustening by the waU. No one spoke a word. It was
indescribably beautiful, the string instruments, the moon and the
phantom musicians whose black clothes were indistinguishable against
the shadows behind.
They stood playing for a long time.
At last Giacomi stopped and said, 'It is enough.'
'Bravi, bravi,' we called; 'bravi, bravi,' came from the dark
shadows round about, which suddenly became alive with people.
'Good-night,' we caUed out to each other, although it was too
dark to distinguish any one. 'Good-night,' they caUed back, 'good
night,' and we went home.

CHAPTER XI
THE MOUNTAIN
It was Rosina's idea that I should stay in one of the mountain huts.
The sun was getting very hot and up on the mountain it would be
cool and fresh, even in August. Many of the peasants had huts up
there which were used in haytime, and I hoped to stay in one of
these. At first Rosina suggested the hut rented by Bortolo, but it had
only one room and he would be wanting to use it. Most of the huts
had only one room. There was, however, one said to contain four
rooms, which belonged to Di Marchesi FiUp, who drove the oxen
wagon. So I went to ask FiUp if he would agree to my staying there.
I found him stretched at fuU length on a wagon in the shed,
asleep. The shed opened on to the street, nearly opposite to the tunnel
leading to Nino's house. FiUp's front door was always locked, so
that to get into the house one had to pass through the dark shed to
a gaUery, which ran round two sides of a courtyard reeking of manure.
The kitchen door and window opened on to the gaUery, and a door
at the corner led into the big house where the bedrooms were. Filip
and Gioan each occupied a separate bedroom, whUst Marget and her
daughter shared a third. The rooms in use were large and airy, with
windows opening on to the piazza, but the rest of the house was in
a tumbledown condition. FiUp never mended anything. His married
138

THE MOUNTAIN 139
sons, however, had more energy. At Christmas, Stefen had put new
panes in the broken windows to please his mother, and at Easter,
Giacom had whitewashed the big fireplace. Gioan, who was still
unmarried, was Uke his father, and dozed when not at his regular
work. I looked into the kitchen, but finding no one at home, I returned
to the shed, where Filip was watching me with wide-open eyes.
I told him of my plan, but FiUp, a man of few words, would not
say much. He was, however, immensely tickled at the idea, which
he thought crazy. Not that he said so. What he said was that he'd
think about it, and that he'd talk it over with his sons, and his sleepy
eyes twinkled. Having uttered that much, he settled down for
another forty winks, and I went out into the sunny street.
By the door I met Nino, his hat covered with the sulphur he had
been dusting on the vines.
'FiUp says he is going to talk it over with his sons,' I informed
him, not feehng very hopeful of the result.
'That wiU be aU right,' Nino seemed to think. 'I will talk to
Giacom myseU — he's my wife's brother-in-law, and Gioan is a man
with a land heart. And I hardly think Stefen wiU mind,' he went
on reassuringly. Then pulling a post card from his trouser pocket
he said : ' From Gaetano. Raimondo has arrived. He had a stormy
passage — just think, instead of fifteen days he was twenty-three
days on the water ! Gaetano, who thought he could not have saUed
by that boat, had given up aU hope of seeing him. Then quite
unexpectedly Raimondo walked into the room. They were so
deUghted to have him back again that they could not leave off hugging
him for joy.'

i4o AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'Then I suppose AngeUna has a letter?'
'She has not, signora, and she is very angry. But it won't hurt
her to suffer a little— she ill-used Raimondo— now it is her turn.'
He was very stern, then softening a little, he added : 'I told her
that post cards always come quicker than letters, and no doubt she
wiU hear to-morrow or the next day. . . . What upset her was
to hear that Bigi had received a post card to-day from Raimondo
himself.' On my way home I met Angelina coming up from town. Doubt
less she had been to the post.
'Any news of Raimondo?' I asked.
' No, signora, he has sent a card to Bigi . . . and Nino has heard
from Gaetano that he has arrived . . . but for me there is nothing.
If I do not get a letter,' she went on in great agitation, 'if I do not
get a letter by first post to-morrow, then I wUl never speak to
Raimondo again . . . never . . . after aU his promises . . . !'
She was beyond reason, so I left her to her sorrows, and sorrow
she did for next day brought no letter. She spent the time alter
nately sobbing and raging, I don't know which was the most trying.
However, to the rehef of everybody, except her mother, who had been
saying, 'I told you so,' Raimondo's letter came the foUowing day,
and AngeUna so far recovered as to answer it by return of post.
I waited patiently for Filip to make up his mind about the hut,
but he didn't. He was not a man to be hurried, nor was he open to
argument or persuasion. I knew that. With Filip one had to wait,
so I waited. When I could wait no longer I tried to bring him to
a decision by an indirect attack. To the person I thought most
likely to repeat it to him — it was Giacomina — I said : ' FiUp does not

THE MOUNTAIN 141
want me to come; no doubt he thinks that if I don't want to be baked
in the sun, I had better go back to England, where I belong, and not
bother people round about here.'
It reached FiUp's ears and had the desired effect. He made up
his mind. The news spread through the viUage, and was shouted to
me by every friend in sight as I came down the street.
I found FiUp stretched on the maize meal chest in the kitchen,
dozing, and his wife Marget on the hearth-stone vigorously knitting.
FiUp was a splendid majestic old man over six feet high, with white
hair and dark tanned skin. His movements were leisurely and digni
fied. He raised himself on one elbow as I came in and puUed his
felt hat down over his eyes.
He and his sons, he said, would have no objection to my being
in the hut — I could have the Uttle bedroom and share the kitchen,
and he would provide the firewood. But ... he was quite sure I
wouldn't Uke it, it was a rough mountain hut ... it was brutta.
'And what about the price?'
'Ah.' FiUp shrugged his shoulders and subsided on the chest.
Marget knitted quickly and her mouth was firm. She was a wiry
Uttle old woman, with bright brown eyes.
At last, when the sUence became oppressive, she said : ' The
signora can give what she considers adequate.'
'You'd better see first how you Uke it,' said FiUp wisely, certain
that I wouldn't.
Then we talked of the weather.
A few days later I explored the mountain with Nino as guide.
He had offered to show me aU over it as a sort of return for the

i42 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
money I had given him. I was very glad of a guide, and particularly
of his company, for he had something interesting to teU of every
thing. For a man who had had Uttle education and rarely attempted
to read a newspaper, he was singularly weU informed. He always
had an answer to my questions, and it was seldom he would hold up
his hands in dismay, saying : 'But the signora always asks " why ! " '
It was noticeable that the viUagers were very careful of what
they said of their neighbours, and Nino was no exception to this
rule. It is true that Rosina would gossip, but she never mentioned
the more serious scandals. If I asked Nino to clear up one of these
mysteries, he would look away and say he 'didn't know.' Of course
he knew. I rather admired this reticence on his part, for he was a
very talkative man. I do not think I would have found out much if
it hadn't been for Marget. She told me about everything. On dark
evenings when we were alone together in the mountain hut, Marget
would divulge these secrets. With evident enjoyment she related all
the scandals of the last sixty years, untU I thought Campia the most
wicked place, but the most adorable.
It may not have been a coincidence that neither Rosina nor
Marget were born and bred in Campia. Marget was from the Trentino,
Rosina from a distant townlet where tourists stay. Perhaps in those
places tongues were looser.
On every other topic than his neighbours Nino was very talkative.
Altogether we were nine hours on the mountain, and conversation
never flagged nor fell flat. He told me a great deal about the trees
and their various uses and names, and pointed out those he had seen
growing in CaUfornia, and those which he had only seen from the
train when crossing the American continent. He also attempted to

THE MOUNTAIN 143
describe some of the strange plants he had seen abroad, hoping that
I might be able to teU him about them. As regards insects in general,
he was less weU informed, but he knew a great deal about birds, for
he was a passionate sportsman. He was a very good shot, and
spent hours on the mountain with his gun. Except for tame rabbits,
birds were the only other kind of meat he could obtain, and if I
regretted to see the Uttle birds kUled, I did not grudge Nino their
flesh. Meat gives you strength, the peasants said; they had learnt
that from experience, during a succession of lean years, always hoping
to be rich enough to satisfy this craving. Meanwhile the little birds
were kiUed, becoming more and more scarce. What the poor wiU
Uve on when they are exterminated I do not know. But one thing
is sure, insects, fly pests, grubs, and caterpiUars wiU ravage the crops
unchecked. Campia was on the eastern side of the mountain, and our long
climb brought us to the summit of the northern slopes. A few
villages lay scattered in the wide vaUey between us and the range
of hUls beyond. Nino knew the viUages by name. He also pointed
out the snow-capped peak beyond the mountain chains, and the Uttle
white house which marked the frontier.
Near the lake on an almost inaccessible ridge, a church had been
buUt with a road tediously zigzagging up to it.
'Why ever was it buUt there,' I asked, 'so far away from the
vUlage?' "They began to buUd it at the foot of the hiU,' Nino answered
me, ' but a strange thing happened. One morning when the workmen
came they were unable to find their tools. They looked for them
everywhere.'

144 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'And were they found?'
'Yes,' he answered, 'on the top of the hill. They carried the tools
down and went on with the work. . . . But next morning the same
thing happened, and the day after again. At last they understood
that it was a sign from the Madonna, that she wished the church to
be buUt on the top of the ridge. ... So that is why it was
done.' Then, glancing quickly at me, he added, 'You don't
beheve it.'
'And you?' I asked.
'I suppose so,' he answered, and walked on. After a bit he
stopped. ' You see,' he said, half turning, ' aU these things happened
so long ago. We must either beheve what we are told — or else beheve
nothing. . . .'
We walked on, and taking a path leading into a vaUey of the
mountain, left the view behind us. We passed two little huts shut
up and locked, and a pink villa higher on the slope which belonged
to the signor's mother-in-law. We crossed the vaUey, ascending the
opposite side, which was higher and steeper. Far up it was another
white stucco hut.
'Cornighe,' said Nino, pointing to it. Seeing that I was not
sufficiently interested, he added, 'That is FiUp's hut, it is caUed
Cornighe.' We clambered up with renewed energy. The hut glowed in the
sunshine, with dark bushes on the rising ground behind it. It was
quite a big cottage, and in such a splendid situation.
We walked round to the door. It was locked.
Nino shouted for Marget, but no Marget answered. It had been
arranged that she should be there to show me over the hut. We

THE MOUNTAIN 145
Ustened in vain for the tinkle of goat bells. Nino shouted again,
and walking down a path, shouted, a Uttle way off, but no Marget
answered. We concluded that she must have gone off to find her
sheep, which might be anywhere on the mountain.
So we hunted for the key amongst the stones by the door, and
were rewarded by finding it. Feeling very bold, we opened the door
and went in.
We came into a dear little kitchen, neat and tidy. It was simply
furnished and lacked nothing that peasants would need. There was a
table and some stools, a copper cauldron, a frying pan, and a board
for polenta. On the waU hung a large wooden spoon and a strainer,
and from the rafters of the ceihng hung several hoops of wood, on
which small sacks of flour could be put out of reach of mice. A
wooden tray for cream cheeses was suspended near the window. The
floor was paved with uneven flagstones and, of course, there was a
glorious big fireplace with a raised hearthstone.
The adjoining room was used as larder and a storeroom for wooden
rakes. By the doorway, on a board placed on the earth, stood the
two copper water pails.
Upstairs were also two rooms. A large one over the kitchen, a
smaUer over the larder. The smaUer room was divided from the
stairway by a rough plank partition which gaped at the seams. Neither
of the bedrooms possessed a door. The windows were closed with
wooden shutters, there being neither window frames nor glass upstairs.
Roughly made bedsteads with hard, haystuffed mattresses, were the
only furniture.
It was not at aU as brutta as FUip had made out. It was primitive
and perhaps not up to hotel standard, but it was clean. I knew T

146 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
would be very happy there; in fact, I knew I should be very unhappy
if I did not stay there.
The view was lovely and it was quiet and peaceful.
Nino foUowed me from room to room, but hardly spoke. I think
he was uneasUy turning over in his mind what Marget would say
should she come and find us inside the hut. Marget was not fond
of Nino. We went downstairs and out into the sunlight. Nino gave a
sigh of rehef as he stepped outside and turned the key, casting a wary
eye round. Then we sat down by the door and ate our lunch.
In front, sloping gently down, was a grassy ridge with a deep
vaUey on either side. At the far end of the ridge about a mUe away,
stood the signor's large house, with Monte Moro beyond in the back
ground. The signor spent a few weeks in his house every summer.
His wife owned a great deal of land on the mountain, which was
rented by the two cattle farms.
In the vaUey on the left was La PaUina, the hut Nino would
occupy when he came to help Faustino cut the signor's hay. On the
other side were the crags, which from below looked Uke the top of
the mountain. But there was a great hoUow between them and the
summit. Having finished eating, Nino picked up his basket and stood
up. Then he called 'Marget.'
'It is no good,' he said, after a while, 'she may not be back until
sundown. Perhaps if we go on we shah find her on the mountain.'
I followed him along a Uttle path which curved and brought us
to an old hut close by. The Di Marchesi's used it as a barn, but
before Cornighe had been buUt, it had been their mountain hut.

THE MOUNTAIN i47
At the side of it the precious rain-water tank had been buUt. Water
was very scarce on the mountain.
We left the path and zigzagged up the slope, untU we reached an
artificial rain-water pond where the cattle drank. Along the edges
of the pond, in the shaUow water warmed by the sun, were thousands
of tadpoles. With great commotion they wriggled out into the
depths as we approached.
Nino had never heard that tadpoles grow into frogs. He was
astonished when I insisted it was a fact. We caught a lot of tadpoles
for him to look at and compare.
'It is quite true,' I said, looking at his doubtful face.
'I beheve it, because it is you that teU me so,' he said politely,
'but I've never heard of it before. I've passed this pond hundreds
of times at aU seasons of the year, but I've never seen it when it
wasn't full of tadpoles. I thought they were always there.'
We took the cattle track up the cleft between smaU bushes and
blocks of gray stone and came out on the wide grassy slopes broken
and traversed by endless cattle tracks. We were now at the back of
the mountain, so to say, that is, on the western side. The wide
vaUey which we had seen from the northern slopes continued right
round the mountain, which stood free and independent. We were
higher than the nearer mountains, and could see for mUes across
ragged mountain chains. There was a wonderful feehng of space.
I stood enjoying the view and the wind, whilst Nino gazed at the
grassy slopes and swore under his breath.
'It gets worse every year,' he said sadly. 'Ostia. When the
cattle tread on the steep slopes theh hoofs tear the turf and spoU
the surface, and the rain washes the earth away, and in the end the

1 48 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
mountain will be nothing but a desert of sand and stone. Soon no
grass wiU grow here at aU.' He kicked a stone savagely along. 'Do
you see those terraces over there? People used to grow wheat there
— now cattle graze there, ostia, and look at the way they spoU it.'
It was only too evident. The whole surface was cut up and
seamed, and loose stones had rolled from bare places above down on
to the grass. The cowmen had been coUecting some of them into
heaps. The cattle farm was a large stone buUding, standing on the grass
without as much as a tree to shelter it. The cows were on the
slopes above us out of sight, but we could hear the beUs tinkling.
A number of black pigs roamed near the farm, and two wUd-looking
dogs baiked furiously, much to Nino's discomfort. He had had un
pleasant experiences of dogs. We braved them, however, and picked
our way through indescribable mire to the stairway, where an old
man had come out to see what the dogs were excited about. We
mounted the stairs and came into the kitchen, where the old man
gave us as much milk as we could drink, and only one glass to drink
it out of. Nino, therefore, would not touch a drop untU he was quite
satisfied that I had done with the glass for good. He gave the old
man aU the cherries he had brought up in his basket, and in return
was given a couple of odd looking cheeses, caUed poina, which were
hanging up in cloths by the fireplace, blackened with smoke.
Out of the kitchen, where the men slept in bunks, opened the
dairy, and beyond it a room fuU of cheeses. It was an airy place,
shts having been left in the stonework so that the wind could blow
right through.
Nino had a lot to say to the cowman, and was very reluctant to

THE MOUNTAIN i49
leave, none the less he had to tear himself away, for we stiU had
far to go. I think he had taken me the longest way round he could
think of, in order to see ff I were a good walker or not.
Bidding fareweU to the old cowman we walked on and on across
the grass, past places where wUd peonies grew, right up to the beech-
trees. The trees were large, with thick dark foliage. Among the
roots were pale gray rocks and loose stones. We walked carefuUy
in the cool shade. Nino had said something about adders.
This was the real summit, but there was no view amongst the
trees. We came to a rocky slope and began to scramble down amongst
thick bushes and prickly wUd rose plants.
Nino hesitated, he had missed the path, and was wondering how
I would take such negUgence on his part. Remembering suddenly
that I was of the upper class, and at Uberty to abuse him, he hah
expected me to make use of my privUege. With the expression of a
chUd expecting to be punished he looked round at me, and confessed
with humble dignity that he had lost the path.
It was on an occasion Uke this that a look or a tone of voice
would reveal more of the relations between signori and peasant than
volumes of words.
Nino expected me to be angry. But why should I be? Weren't
we friends? A few minutes' walk the way we had come would take
us back to the path we had strayed from — and at the bottom of the
slope where we stood we could see another path which led to the
very place we were aiming for. It would not be far to scramble
down. . . .
Nino, waited, gazing at the view.
'Let's be getting on,' I suggested.
i.p. I

150 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'You arn't angry ?' he asked in surprise, turning to look search-
ingly at me.
'Why should I be?' I answered. 'I rather enjoy scrambling
about.' ' Ostia,' he remarked, forgetting that a lady should not be hearing
such a word. ' Then you don't mind ? '
'No.' I shook my head.
He led the way, and I foUowed as best I could over stones and
through bushes. Once we got into such a tangle of undergrowth
that we were forced to retrace our steps. At last we reached the
path below, which took us up round the hoUow right up to the crags.
Here was the view. A few smaller heights, a sheet of water, and
the Lombardy Plains beyond, merging into the hazy sky so that it
was impossible to distinguish where the one began and the other
left off. We could see Campia and San Lorenzo and the town and
the lake 5000 feet below us. Scattered on the hUls behind the town
were a few farm-houses, of which we could only see the tUed roofs.
Then we found a bit of shade and rested and ate dinner. Nino
recounted some of his adventures in California, and told me how
hard it was that his countrymen have such a bad reputation.
'It is the fault of the people in Lower Italy,' he said, lying at
fuU length on the grass and gazing up into the sky. "They are
thieves, and stick knives into each other — we are quite different
up here in the north, but no one wiU beUeve we are honest in
America. No farmer wiU let us sleep a night in his barn, even when
we offer to pay. The word 'Italians' is enough for him. So U we
have to tramp we nearly starve, and suffer terribly if it is cold.
Sometimes, however, even a bad reputation is an advantage. You

THE MOUNTAIN 151
know I was in CaUfornia with Bortolo — weU, some of the men there
were making fun of him, he is far too good-natured, and I was
standing near by with a pick in my hand. It was shameful the way
they went on with Bortolo. I got angry, and looking at them like
this — with the pick in my hand — I swore at them in ItaUan. . . .
Those three big men were so frightened they took to their heels and
fled. I was surprised. They must have thought I was about to murder
the lot of them ! The Italians of Lower Italy are very hot-blooded,'
he explained, ' they get half mad and do that sort of thing. Nobody
seems to know that there are decent people in Italy, ostia. But it
was rather funny. That same evening I was the most popular man
in the place. The three Americans I had so frightened took me to
the saloon and stood me as many drinks as I wanted. And every one
else was so kind, they didn't know how to be friendly enough. AU
because they thought I was a terribly dangerous feUow. Very much
the same thing happened when I was in Austria  '
'Whatever did you go to Austria for?' I asked.
'For money, of course, for palanche — they give better wages
than here, but I only stayed a fortnight. There were several of us
ItaUans working for that man, as weU as a number of Austrians. The
boss came one evening, just as we were going home, and wanted
something done to a cart which stood loaded. Seeing us Italians
standing there together, he caUed to us in German, telling us what
to do, but we could not understand him. Instead of calUng the other
workmen, who were all there and could have done it just as weU,
or given a hand to show us what he meant — he began making fun of
our ignorance, and they aU grinned. It was more than I could stand.
Clenching my fists and coming a step forward, I shouted at him :

152 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
" Goddam, son of a bitch ! " He turned quite pale and walked
quickly away, continuaUy looking over his shoulder to see if I were
foUowing. Next day, as I couldn't go back to work there — I came
home.' ' I should run away too, if you looked at me with flashing black
eyes Uke that,' I said; 'we are not used to that sort of thing in
England either. I wonder what you look like when you are really
angry.' 'But I am never really angry,' he answered.
'In England we also have the idea that Italians are cut-throats
and robbers  '
'But not in these parts.'
'Perhaps not — but we don't trouble to discriminate. As long
as you wear a black slouch hat, and have glittering black eyes and a
hand-bUl at your belt, how can you expect us to think you are any
thing but a brigand? Now I wonder whether you would throw me
down one of these precipices for the sake of the money in my purse.'
'But, signora,' he cried, sitting bolt upright, 'not for a thousand
lire would I do such a thing ! '
'But you don't know how much is in my purse,' I objected.
'No?'
'Four Ure and a half, I think,' was what I answered.
'It would make no difference if it were four or four thousand lire,'
he said; 'besides, we have been seen up here together, and if any
thing happened, I would be caUed to account. Come on,' he said,
getting up, 'I want to show you that place where the man fell down
and was kiUed last year.'
We looked down the dreadful place and shuddered, and passed

THE MOUNTAIN 153
on to where the peasants sometimes sit and sing on summer evenings.
When Nino's mother was living they often sang there. She had a
beautiful voice, and so had others who were now either dead or in
America. The singing could be heard right down in the town, and
the people would come out and applaud.
We crossed the valley and came up to the signor's house. We
rested on his garden seat. Nino felt very daring to do this. The
seat was in one of those places where there is always a breeze. I
soon got to know and enjoy those windy spots, they were quite local;
a few yards off, the air would be stiU and breathless.
On the green in front of the house was the signor's private chapel,
a minute place with an altar. There was just room for the priest
inside, the congregation had to kneel out on the turf. It was hardly
ever used.
We walked ruthlessly over the grass to a pathway. Nino, who
had not been up the mountain for some time, was dismayed at the
sight of the grass. The dry weather had parched it and there would
be very Uttle hay. It was hardly worth mowing in parts. He was
upset about it, although he had no lands there nor hay belonging
to him. The path brought us to La PaUina and the direct road
down to Campia.
We never found Marget.
• ••#••*
I was now more than ever determined to stay on the mountain.
FUip, however, was a difficult man to deal with, he wouldn't say
how soon I might come nor what his terms were. The Di Marchesis
were proud people and would not ask anything but a fair price. It
would, however, be quite different if I made a liberal offer. They

154 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
could then tell their neighbours, with a shrug, that it was I who
had decided the price — as for them, they would have been content
with hah or even a quarter. . . .
In the end I asked Rosina to settle the matter for me, and she
paid FiUp a visit, arranging everything in her admirable way, after
having picturesquely told FiUp that I had threatened to beat her if
she did not bring matters to a head. She did not, however, forget
his interests, and suggested the highest price that she thought it
Ukely I would give, fifteen Ure the month.
I was to have the smaUer bedroom, use of the kitchen, fire-wood,
and a supply of water fetched from the tank. On my behaff Rosina
asked for crockery, a chair and table for the bedroom, and a bowl
to wash in ; also a heap of fresh hay for our beds and a curtain for
the bedroom doorway. Marget offered to wash up my dishes for a
consideration — left entirely to my Uberality, and stipulated that I
should on no account ever fetch water from the tank, as they were
particular about the water which was used for drinking !
It was aU agreed upon, and that day week was fixed for me to
move in.

CHAPTER XII

CORNIGHE

The foUowing Wednesday afternoon AngeUna fetched us at San
Lorenzo with a donkey. One load of things had already been taken
up the mountain in the morning, now we loaded the remainder on
the donkey, and put my Uttle girl on top.
In the viUage Marget joined us with two goats. She carried a
large uncovered basket on her arm, in which were six hens that didn't
like it. She had on a clean dress and apron, and on her head she
wore a man's old felt hat, which hid most of her white hair. Her
bright brown eyes were fuU of humour.
We walked slowly up the mountain road.
Donkeys are odd creatures. This one, although quite wilhng to
go, would only go slowly. Also, instead of walking along the road
like human beings do, it picked its own way. It foUowed a sometimes
invisible, sometimes very worn track, which crossed and recrossed
the road a few hundred times. Sometimes it would foUow the road
for a few yards then cross it suddenly at right angles. The donkey
must have walked six times as far as we did. After some experience
I gave it a wide berth. If in front one was Uable to be run into or
bitten, if behind, one's toes suffered if it suddenly turned, and I was
warned that it kicked. It was never beaten nor hit, but Angelina's
voice continuaUy and energeticaUy urged it on.
155

156 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'U, u — num. — ii, va la,' she shouted, and Marget would join in
when she wasn't occupied with the goats. These two animals ran
loose and were continuaUy disappearing in the bushes or lagging
behind. 'Le,' caUed Marget, and the donkey stopped instantly. 'Ta.,
ta, cicci ta,' she cried, coaxing the goats, 'ta, ta.' They tinkled out
from some bushes on the road ahead of us.
'Num, ii, num.' AngeUna started the donkey again, and we
dawdled on. One of the hens in Marget's basket, which had been
restive for some time, made a dash for freedom. It gave a wUd
cackle and flapped its wings. Without any hesitation Marget slapped
it on the head and the bewildered creature became quiet and thoughtful
for some minutes.
The road was worse and steepest at the lower part, and it was an
effort to get up at aU. On one side were rough rocks and smaU bushes,
on the other the ground went down steeply. I wondered how the
oxen wagon could go up it at aU, and stiU more, how ever it got
down. At the top of this stony steep part the road turned, and there
were a few level yards before it divided. Here we sat and rested.
Marget put the basket down, and the donkey went on, nibbhng.
Before five minutes had passed, Marget was on her feet again.
'Num,' she said. It means 'let us go' as weU as 'go on.' She
seized the basket, slapped the rebellious hens, and pursued the
donkey. We took the left path, it went zigzagging up. There were thick
bushes on either side, but rocks were always in evidence. At one of
the bends we saw Francesca, who was Marget's eldest daughter.
She and Stefen were twins. Francesca stood among the bushes

CORNIGHE 157
with a broad-brimmed straw hat on her head, looking extraordinarUy
handsome. Her three Uttle boys scampered to cover, and we could
hear Giacomi, her husband, talking, although he was hidden from
view. He and Girolomo were rigging up a wire for the transport
of wood. The bundles slid down the wire to a place near the
road. We went on, but were again delayed. The goats had gone off,
and became mixed up with Francesca's. Each caUed to their goats,
and it was some time before the refractory beasts would come. The
elderly brown goat should have known better, the black one was a
mad young thing, full of mischief. At last they came bounding up
the road.
'Num,' said Marget, and we went on. The road went up and up
and up, and the donkey would not hurry. FinaUy we reached a
grassy space with taU trees and a spring of water, where the donkey
drank. We all sat down and rested, as one must do at this place
unless one wishes to be unlucky, at least so I have been told over
and over again.
The road divided again, and we took the right-hand path, which
seemed to run nearly paraUel to the one we had come by, but it
mounted higher and higher. I would not have felt so tired if the
donkey hadn't compelled us to dawdle. By the roadside an emerald
green lizard dodged under the grass.
'Num, num, ii.' The donkey wouldn't hurry — it never did; it
never had.
On we went, and there was a deep gorge on our right. So steep
was the slope that the owner had left a fringe of trees along the road
way, so that if an oxen-wagon overturned something would stop it

158 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
from roUing to the bottom. The road was so bad that accidents
were not exceptional. Then at last we came to La PaUina.
' Cornighe,' said Marget, pointing to the little house which seemed
far off.
At La PaUina the mountain changed. No more rocks nor boulders
came up to the surface, the ground was smooth and grassy, the slopes
rounded but steep. Earthy paths, muddy in places, branched off
in different directions and were lost in the grass. It was like a great
park. No fence nor hedge divided up the various properties. The
trees were different too. There were rowan and beech-trees, sUver
birches and hazel bushes. WUd roses were in flower, and amongst
the grass we found wild strawberries. Bell heather grew in places,
and cranberry and bilberry plants. We struck for the ridge and
reached the crest haU-way between Cornighe and the signor's house.
It was evening, about six o'clock, and the sun was already out of
sight behind the mountain. I would have Uked to stop to enjoy the
view, but there was no time to linger. AngeUna had already reached
the hut and was looking for the key.
I went up to our Uttle bedroom. It looked bare and empty.
There was nothing in it but a chair and a Uttle rickety table with
a flaming red cloth on it. AngeUna came upstahs with a large sackful
of fresh hay which she shook out on the floor, then went away to
get more. Then she brought up my other things, and whUst I unpacked
Marget nulked the brown goat in the kitchen. I unrohed our WiUesden
canvas sleeping bags and put the Uttle one to bed. She was delighted
with the hay and said she never wanted to sleep in a siUy old bed
again. I fetched her up a bowl of goat's milk. There were no cups, the

CORNIGHE 159
peasants never used them, but Marget had provided me with a few
plates, the first ones she had ever possessed, I think. The Di
Marchesis always used bowls for everything.
I made my evening soup and sat with Marget by the blazing fire,
for it was a chiU evening. Angelina had gone back to Campia to
restore the donkey to its owner, and would not be back before the
morrow. • • • • • • a
When AngeUna returned to Cornighe she brought a kitten with
her, a dear Uttle gray and white pussy. It was very playful, and we
watched it with amusement catching flies. It would jump into the
air and catch a fly in its mouth, or bound across the floor and pin
its quarry down with a paw. I never saw a little kitten so clever
or so sure. Few flies escaped her. Whether it was hunger that drove
her to do this, I do not know ; Marget suggested that it was lack of
animal food. She fed the kitten on polenta and soup, for she could
hardly spare the meat she could iU afford herself. Poor Uttle Mini
didn't Uke polenta, and was always hoping to be given something else.
When we sat down for a meal she would prowl round the table and
yowl untU we gave her something, and having eaten it would yowl again.
One morning when Mini's yowls were particularly persistent,
Marget lost her temper. I was just about to slop some more milk
on the floor for the kitten to Uck up, when Marget picked up a long
switch and gave the kitten a savage cut with it. Mini gave a wild
yell, bounded out of doors, and rushed up the nearest tree.
My little girl was indignant at the cruelty of it ; she burst into
tears and, without a word, left her breakfast and ran upstairs to cry
loudly on the bed.

160 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
It was nearly more than Marget could bear. Had I remonstrated
with her, she could have defended her action. But these tears— this
wordless rebuke ! She loved the Uttle girl, and would never willingly
have brought tears to her eyes. It had never occurred to her that
she would mind such a thing. . . .
I ate my breakfast in sUence, listening to the pitiful sobs upstairs.
Marget said nothing. At last the Uttle girl came down with a red,
tear-streaked face. Stopping in the middle of the kitchen she said,
with aU the determination she could muster : —
' Marget — if you do that again, I will go upstairs and cry for a whole
half-hour ! '
No threat could have been more effective. Marget covered with
shame, went out of doors.
Life on the mountain was very different from Ufe at San Lorenzo.
There was no coming and going of people, no hurry nor bustle. The
Di Marchesis never shouted, but were quiet industrious people.
They had never had anything to do with tourists or foreigners, and
Giacom was the only one of them who could talk passable Italian.
Compared with them, Rosina seemed cosmopohtan. Her aim was
to make money. What was money to the Di Marchesis? ... To
overcharge they condemned as robbery. They despised Rosina,
they despised Nino, they despised most people, and they had enormous
faith in themselves.
I never discovered where the Di Marchesis originaUy came from.
They had been in the vUlage for at least five generations. Their
name suggested an aristocratic origin, and their courtly ways and
exclusiveness the nobiUty.

CORNIGHE 161
They were very kind to me, but I soon discovered that I must in
no way interfere with their habits. Without a word they would
remove my dinner off the fire if they wanted to cook theirs — a thing
Bortolo would have apologised half an hour for doing. It was difficult
for me to fit things in, for they were very unpunctual. They had
dinner at any time between eleven and twelve-thirty. In other ways
they never interfered with me at all, and I don't think I ever Uved
with people who got less in my way. At times, when the weather
was bad, we were thrown very much together, and were quite a Uttle
party in the kitchen. There was Marget, AngeUna, the two sons
Gioan and Giacom, and the latter's red-haired wife.
Giacom had inherited some of the energy of his mother, and was
a handy man, never idle. He had something attractively boyish
about him which made up for his horrible self-righteousness. He
Uved according to 'rules and regulations,' and it was a waste that
he was not in the poUce force, as he longed to be, looking after the
morals of others. Giacom's 'rules and regulations' had never been
shaken, he was as full of good intentions as the leaf one turns over
every New Year. He did not beUeve in impulses or temptations or
instincts, or anything not ruled by cool reason. How he despised
Nino, that sinful mortal — he hadn't much to say to him. But he
never had the temptations of Nino. Emotional, sensitive, and with
a keen appreciation of beauty, Nino had not always been the master
of his impulses. Life had been very real to him, fuU of disappoint
ment and bad luck, and the starvation which had left that odd fraU
look. Had he been weak he would have gone to the bad long ago,
but trouble had made him thoughtful and a Uttle wistful. His wife
adored him, wept when he was too much of a trial, but stuck up

162 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
for him always. Giacom, of course, had chosen his wife for her good
quaUties, and not for her looks. She was a sensible girl, exceUent in
every way, but absolutely uninteresting. StiU, I don't think any
one could have suited him better, and she had enough tact to manage
him and get her own way. She and Teresina were sisters.
Marget was a splendid old woman of seventy-one, full of character.
Wiry and vigorous, she could work aU day and do the work of a
man. She Uked work, she Uked heavy loads and to feel that she could
carry them. She was never tired nor measured her strength, it
always lasted her to the end of the day, whatever task she under
took. Indoors she always knitted or else spun wool, in the old way,
without a wheel. She knitted numbers of white sock feet, just the
sole with heel and toe, which she sewed on to old tops, seldom doing
any darning. No Di Marchesi ever went about with a hole in his
stocking — she saw to that. When alone in the kitchen she always
whistled. I think I would have loved her for that alone, for I too
like to whistle, but I never knew any old woman who did. She whistled
old-fashioned ballad tunes, that must have had at least fifty verses
to them, but she never sang them.
None of her chUdren were reaUy like her. Giacom had her energy
but none of them had her wit. None of them could teU a story as
she could, half acting it. She could take off La Macuccia to perfection,
voice and aU. We would shriek with laughter round the fire of an
evening, and the more we laughed the funnier she became. She was
never vulgar. Her tales were such as are not usuaUy told before an
audience of both sexes, but in Campia a spade is caUed a spade, and
no one seemed the worse for it.

CORNIGHE 163
Nino once said to me : 'When Marget is angry she is ferocious —
even FUip is afraid of her then.' I had never thought that FiUp
would be frightened of any one, least of aU her. With one of his
big hands he could have crushed her. It was a case of dignity and
impudence then. Whether she ever went for FiUp with a broom
stick, I do not know. Her taU sons she treated with the greatest
respect. Gioan simply didn't answer if she asked an awkward
question, so that she had grown out of the habit of asking. Quite
eagerly she questioned me one day if Gioan had spoken of going to
America. 'I dare not ask him,' she said, 'but I am afraid he thinks
of going.' It was on her daughter that Marget vented her ferocity. Poor
AngeUna had had many a beating, and she wUl doubtless have many
more. Marget tyrannised over the poor girl, and AngeUna, who had
some spirit, would answer back, and she would take the blows in
rebeUious mood. Why might her brothers do and say things for
which she would be punished? Her red-haired and exceUent sister-
in-law would whisper words of wisdom to her about the deportment
which were the lot and restrictions of the female sex. But that
didn't make Angelina's back any the less sore.
In common with several old women of Campia., Marget had very
decided opinions regarding the matrimonial alliances of her chUdren.
She was absolutely against AngeUna marrying Raimondo. She beat
AngeUna if she only heard her speaking to Raimondo, and the unfor
tunate girl hardly dare look at her lover. Marget didn't like him
because his family wasn't of the real aristocracy of Campia, nor
could he make up by wealth for lack of birth.
'What !' she said, 'Angelina marry one of those cuckoos? Didn't

1 64 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
you know that his father has been nicknamed Cuckoo, because he
is an old fool?'
'But you have nothing against Raimondo,' I suggested.
'He is extravagant.' That is aU she would say. I think the
only reason she thought so was because he had given AngeUna some
rather nice presents, and if there was anything Marget hated it was
for a peasant to go in for finery. She glanced scornfuUy at the
jeweUed side-combs, the fan with the long chain, and the Uttle
brooches which AngeUna treasured.
Marget had been equaUy opposed to her elder daughter Fran-
cesca's marriage. A young man had been chosen whom Francesca
would not look at; instead she had fallen in love with Giacomi, who
played the guitar and hadn't a penny. How many broomsticks had
been broken over her back I do not know, but I heard she had been
much more beaten than AngeUna ever had been ! In the end love
triumphed, Marget being only too willing to give in when it meant
avoiding a scandal. For Gioan she had also selected a wife, the only
daughter of the only comparatively weU-to-do peasants in Campia.
But Gioan didn't Uke the girl and wouldn't discuss it — so there was
an end of that.
TranquU-looking old Anetta was another broomstick fury. She
had a strong arm and a long tongue. Cristofolo had a holy respect
for her. She had successfuUy beaten the unwilling Maria into marrying
Stefen — Marget's eldest son, who had been madly in love with her.
As for Dominica she had simply run away from home to save her back.
Thus the old women of Campia tried to direct the destinies of
others. I understood now the appropriateness of witches being
depicted with broomsticks.

CORNIGHE 165
On the whole I respected the men of Campia much more than the
women. They were patient and treated their wives weU. They were
more developed mentaUy and morally, more responsible and much
more interesting. It is perhaps sad to reflect — at least for a woman
— that this was the case, for both sexes had the same educational oppor
tunities until the men left for mihtary service, which made an
important change in their Uves. I was a Uttle disappointed in the
women; perhaps because during a short visit to France I had been
much more favourably impressed by French women of the lower
classes than by Frenchmen, and had formed the idea that this was
a characteristic of the Latin races. But no such thing. In Campia
the men easUy took the first place, they had aU the good looks too,
and were handsomer than the women, who, although strong and
weU-buUt, had plain faces.
Some of the younger women had ideas about gentility and would
not work in the fields, much to their detriment, for they paid for it
with bad health. It was the more to be regretted, as there were so
many Ughter tasks within their strength, and the men aU had more
than enough to do.
Many women would do unfair things, such as sell oUves behind
their husband's back. The husband would bring olives home and
put them in the room upstairs, and whUst he was away, his wife
would go up and take a few pounds and seU them secretly in
town and keep the money.
'When I married,' said Marget, 'my mother said to me — ff you
need any money, ask your husband for it, but don't steal his goods.
How can a man grow rich, signora, if his wife seUs his oUves behind
his back ? There is a woman in the town who does a lot of trade
i.p. M

166 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
buying small quantities of oUves and other things too. FiUp's deaf
brother's wife did that sort of thing.'
'Why doesn't his daughter marry?' I remarked. 'She's a nice
looking girl.'
'I don't know,' she said, and lowering her voice added, 'She's
another of them. The way that girl cheats her old father ! He
gives her money to buy things in the town, and she buys just a Uttle
less than he teUs her to, and then keeps the odd palanche for herself.
In spite of it aU he prefers her to his other chUdren, who are honest
and decent.'
'Perhaps she is like her mother,' I reflected.
'In every way,' said Marget significantly. 'Lucia is another one
who seUs oUves. She buys stuff with the money to clothe her
chUdren.' Some one knocked loudly at the door. Marget shd her feet into
her wooden-soled slippers, and clattered to open it.
Outside stood the brown goat.
' Mostro ! ' she cried, and looking round for the black one,
exclaimed: 'and where is the other Garibaldi? — ah, there you are,
faccia nera — ta, ta, ta. . . .'
No goat can resist that caU.
She had her bag ready, and taking some salt out, let each goat
Uck some out of her hand, then wishing them to move off, she went
for them with a stick. The goats scuttled off about ten yards and
then turned to stare at her, impertinently chewing.
'Fiol d'una vacca, be off with you,' she cried, 'pel del anticrist,'
chuckling at her own violence as she came in.
'I suppose if you give them salt they always come back for it,

CORNIGHE 167
and do not stray away altogether,' I observed; 'but don't you ever
find that sheep wander off?' I knew there was no fence nor wall to
keep them from straying for mUes and miles.
'No,' she answered, 'they never go off the mountain — but they
go aU over the place.1
' How do you keep them from straying on your neighbours' lands ? '
'We don't,' she said, 'but as their goats stray aU over our lands
it doesn't matter. But, of course, if the guardie find them amongst
the Uttle bushes, we are fined.'
' And who are the guardie ? ' I asked.
"They come up every now and then,' she said, "always two of
them together, to see that we don't do as we shouldn't. They have
to see that no trees of a certain size are feUed, and to keep an eye
on the charcoal-burners in consequence. Then they see that the
men don't cut twigs from the bushes, which is not aUowed until the
autumn. There are numbers of things which are against the law.
Giacom was fined last year. The guardie passed by whUst he was
mowing, he had accidentaUy cut two twigs from a bush with his
scythe. The guardie saw them. . . . The goats aren't aUowed among
the small bushes, because they eat the tops off and kiU the plants.
It is a wise law, no doubt, but who can keep the goats from wandering
to such places ? We do our best and call them off if we hear the beUs
tinlding on forbidden ground — but stiU  '
'And how do they manage at the cattle farm?' I asked.
'Cattle farms are exempt from that law,' she answered.
'Hasn't Giuseppe just been fined?' I asked.
'Yes — and my son Stefen too. They have been burning charcoal
for a signor, who ordered them to cut down aU the trees. The guardie

1 68 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
came, and finding the whole slope bare, went poking about among
the stumps, and found, I don't know how many, of the forbidden
size. The gentleman was heavUy fined, but so were Giuseppe and
Stefen ; they had to pay ten lire each, the poor devUs. Bird traps
are also forbidden, signora, Gioan is very clever at making them.'
'Has he been fined?'
'Not yet.'
I do not think the peasants paid much attention to these laws
untU they had been fined. Then, as the second fine would be so
much heavier, they decided to take no more risks. But I hardly
beheve anything short of penal servitude would stop Gioan from
setting bird traps, he had a perfect passion for it. That and hunting
for snaUs were his only diversions. Whenever it was raining, and it
very often did rain, he would move off with a sack on his shoulder
and return with a good supply of big snaUs, which Marget kept
imprisoned in baskets in the larder, untU they were required for a
stew. Gioan could neither read nor write beyond signing his own
name, and he spoke the rankest dialect. AU words of doubtful
pronunciation that I had coUected together in my list of dialect words,
were referred to him, and his pronunciation was unerring, un
hampered as it was by any knowledge of the Italian language. His
younger brother, Giacom, had taken great pains to learn Italian
when he was serving in the carabiniere, and often amused us with
his stately phrases.
The carabiniere are trained to be very cleanly, and Giacom prided
himseff on his cleanliness, but I had not much fault to find with
most of the inhabitants of Campia. But Giacom went as far as to
condemn manure heaps. He said they were disgusting. Whenever

CORNIGHE 169
he had been away for some time and returned home, the smeU from
the courtyard of his father's house always sickened him. He had
sound hygienic ideas on the subject, and impressed them on me.
Some time ago, during a cholera scare, aU manure heaps were
ordered to be removed from the vicinity of houses, and aU court
yards to be cleaned out, on pain of a large fine.
' And what happened ? ' I asked.
'Nothing,' answered Giacom. 'Do you think any one would
take the trouble to do that? They waited for the police to come up
and make an example of one or two by fining them. If that had
happened the whole place would have been cleared up at once. But
the poUce didn't come, and neither did the cholera.'
Cleanliness and dirtiness were very local in this part of Italy.
Some viUages, and even whole districts, were reputed to be notoriously
dirty, others, perhaps only a few mUes off, were clean and nice. Giacom
told me the most disgusting stories of some of these notorious places,
which he insisted were true. On one occasion he had firmly told
the head man of a certain vUlage that he must wash his hands before
signing the papers, so dirty was he. And at another place, when
he had ordered an omelette for dinner, was horrified to see the house
wife beat the eggs up in the leather apron she was wearing. He
would not eat the omelette, but he paid for it. . . .
• ••«••
Every evening at eight-thirty the Di Marchesis went up to bed.
Giacom had put a partition up in the big bedroom where they aU
slept. They were so quick getting into bed that I am sure they did
not take many of their clothes off, probably the women only removed
their dresses, and the men their trousers. They got on to the rusthng

170 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
mattresses, laid down, and never moved again. I think they must
have dropped asleep almost instantly. I could hear every sound
plainly in my room. They never washed in the bedroom, but hands
and faces were washed downstairs before breakfast, and none of
them ever sat down to a meal without first washing their hands.
Marget told me that she had never washed her body — and yet she
was the neatest and cleanhest old peasant woman I know.
Perhaps diet plays an important part in bodUy cleanUness. The
Di Marchesis ate very Uttle meat, and they were not large eaters.
They frequently changed their Unen, and the beds were always clean.
And if they did not wash, they had none of those pests which uncleanli-
ness breeds. The Di Marchesis had no fleas.
They were up at three o'clock in the morning, and for breakfast
ate the hotted up remainder of last night's soup. The bowls of the
previous evening had been placed in a row on a table, the spoons
weU Ucked, and in the morning each claimed his bowl for the break
fast soup.
The second meal, at which polenta was eaten with chunks of cheese,
was between six and seven. Dinner was at eleven-thirty, polenta
again, with a scrap of meat or vegetables with ohve oU poured over,
or stewed fungi or snaUs, or, on Fridays, salt fish. There never was
a pudding course, or any sweetened dish whatever.
At tea-time the polenta left over from dinner was cut in slabs and
toasted on the fire tongs, which were laid across the embers. Some
times pieces of cheese were toasted as weU. For supper, soup was
invariably eaten. It was made without meat or stock, but often
some milk was added to it. It was thick with rice and potatoes, or
ItaUan paste and beans.

The di Marchesis at Dinner.

CORNIGHE 171
Day in, day out, the peasants practically ate the same food, nor
did they seem to mind nor complain of the monotony. They were
never greedy about eating. Sweets and cakes they were very fond
of, but such luxuries were quite beyond their means. When in season
they had plenty of fruit.
Rosina always sat down to dinner at a table spread with a white
cloth, and the famUy ate off plates and used a fork. But then Rosina
thought herself better than her neighbours. Other peasants never
used a cloth except on Sundays or special occasions. The Di Marchesis
never sat round the table, but squatted picturesquely round the
room, one on the stairs, one on the hearth-stone, AngeUna always
on the floor, and Giacom on the high stool. Each held a slab of polenta
in one hand, and balanced a Uttle bowl of savoury on their knees.
If it was a stew they ate with a fork, otherwise fingers. Mini prowled
expectantly, and was rewarded with a snack here and a snack there.
She yowled to her heart's content. Marget took no further notice of it.
The cooking utensUs were always scrupulously clean and the
washing up was never left standing about. It was washed and rinsed
and left standing to drain, a dishcloth was not used, nobody could
afford one. I never had cause to complain of how my washing up
was done, nor, in fact, of anything. The Di Marchesis kept their
word and did everything that had been promised. There was always
a sufficient supply of drinking water in the house, and there was
never a shortage of firewood indoors. Of course they were economical,
pitifuUy so. Nothing was wasted. I remembered how horrified
Rosina had been when I had thoughtlessly shaken the tablecloth out
of doors. She wanted the precious crumbs for the pig. Nor would
she let me give bones to the dog, untU she had extracted every atom

1 72 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
of nourishment out of them. It was not only in food that the peasants
were economical. Marget possessed nothing beyond the bare necessities
of Ufe. She had two sewing needles, and only a few pins, which were
kept in a pin-cushion hung up by the window. Her clothes were
neat, but scarred with patches. She never pretended to be anything
but a peasant, and couldn't abide manners or customs which aped the
signori class. At first she refused the biscuits I offered her because
they were not the kind of food for such as she. It was with the
greatest difficulty I got her to taste some tea. It went against aU
her principles to enjoy the good things of the upper classes.
Once, when there had been a mistake about the butter, and I
found I had too much, I gave half a pound to the red-haired daughter-
in-law. She was dehghted.
'But I must ask you, signora,' she said in an undertone, 'not to
teU Marget. I am so fond of butter spread on bread, but Marget
won't hear of us eating such a thing. She would be furious and accuse
me of pretending to be a lady. . . We may only use just a little
for cooking. When I was in service I learnt to like bread and butter.
... My husband is not so strict — he wiU not mind my eating it.'
I think that the Di Marchesis must have considered it dishonour
able to set foot in my bedroom during my absence. Nothing of mine
was ever touched, and it chanced that I had lost the key of my bag
and had no means whatever of keeping any of my things locked.
Once when I had to go down to the town I left my little girl in then-
care. When bedtime came they simply sent her upstairs, and let the
mite undress and put herseff to bed. She was only four and a haU
years old. None of the women went into the bedroom with her, to
see what sort of a job she made of it.

CHAPTER XIII

HAYMAKERS

'This is the path, signora,' said Gioan, as I stood watching him
mow, 'which the signor wanted us to widen.'
'Whatever for?' I asked, astonished, looking at the Uttle track
which led up the hUlside.
'He wanted it widened so that two people could walk abreast.
It leads to the pink vUla belonging to his mother-in-law, and he
wished to be able to walk from his big house to the viUa on a broad
path, across our lands. My father refused.'
'I see that they have widened the path farther on by the viUa,'
I said. 'No doubt you saw how senseless it was,' he replied. "The earth
aU tumbles down into the path — every year a Uttle more — and spoUs
the land for hay.'
'I am sure FUip was quite right to refuse,' I said, thankful that
Cornighe was without the signor's promenade, 'but what did the
signor say?'
'Before that,' said Gioan, beginning to sharpen his scythe, 'they
used to come to Cornighe and buy eggs, and talk a bit with my mother.
They pass by without a word of greeting now. . . The signori
want it aU their own way.' 173

174 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
I stood watching Gioan mow with his short-bladed scythe, back-
breaking work. The slope was at an angle of forty-five degrees, very
uneven and broken with bushes. It was quite a fine art to mow
close to the bushes without cutting -the twigs, and although the grass
was scanty and the slope steep, not a blade of grass was left standing.
The women raked the hay right down the slopes, and made up
the cocks, in places where FUip could bring the oxen-wagon. He had
come up that morning and was taking a load of hay down with him.
He never slept at Cornighe. He didn't Uke the mountain, preferring
to stay aU alone at Campia.
His conversations with me were restricted to the foUowing
sentences. ' You are not tired of being here yet ? '
'No, no,' I would answer. 'I Uke being here.'
He would look at me with kindly blue eyes, as if I was an
interesting but harmless freak, and pass on in his slow, dignified
manner. Gioan and Giacom loaded the hay into the wagon, and it had to
be done carefuUy. FiUp's wagon had bars on either side, and the
hay would have jolted out if it had not been Uned. They took leafy
branches for this, cutting them off the bushes regardless of the
guardie and the laws. Quite a number of boughs were needed for a
load. The hay was packed down tightly, and another layer of
branches were corded on over the top.
'There is no other way to get the hay down,' said Gioan, 'the
guardie can say what they Uke. What do they make sUly laws for?
Do they want us to jolt the hay out on to the road — or what? '
The back wheels had been taken off and two long poles substituted,

HAYMAKERS 175
which dragged along and acted as a sort of brake. The white oxen
were yoked to the wagon, and FUip, holding the goad in his left
hand, grasped the end of the long shaft in his right. In this manner
he guided the team down aU the zigzags, and round aU the corners.
No wonder FiUp wanted to doze after one of these trips. It was
a tough job to get the cart safely down. It creaked and shrieked
over the uneven places, and it seemed impossible that every bit of
timber in it was not split and broken. The noise it made drowned
aU speech. In front, FUip struggled with the jerking shaft, which
kept him from falling, continuaUy looking back to see what was
happening behind. Gioan, at the back of the cart, added his weight,
first here and then there, to keep it from overturning. It screeched
down slopes so steep that the shaft was as high as FiUp's head,
leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.
Many peasants carried the hay down themselves sooner than go
to the expense of hiring a cart. It was done in this way. Two poles,
about six or seven feet long, were tied together so as to form a V.
At the place where they were tied, a third stick, about three and a
half feet long, was fastened in such a way that it stood upright, whUst
the two longer poles sloped down until they touched the ground. A
layer of leafy boughs was placed on the poles, and the hay packed
securely on top of it. When it was ready, the peasant stooped down
and raised the tied end of the poles on his shoulder, keeping it in
place by the upright pole which he held in his hands. Heavy loads
could be taken down like this, loads which could scarcely have been
dragged on a level road. Even a young feUow Uke PaoUno could
drag a weight which it nearly broke my coUar bone to hit.
Hay that year was scanty and of poor quahty. The much-longed-for

i76 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
rain had come too late, and not only had it rained enough to
satisfy any farmer, but it had rained a great deal too much. It still
rained nearly every day, and when it didn't rain it was misty. I
seldom saw the distant views I longed to paint, besides, it was far
too wet to sit out of doors. We walked about in mackintoshes unless
the thunder kept, us at home. It thundered practicaUy every day.
Not that it always affected us, the storms were often on other peaks,
particularly Monte Moro, which was the highest in the neighbourhood.
At first these storms terrified me. We were so high up, so near to
them, but I soon got over that. The peasants paid them no attention
whatever, and assured me that the lightning never did any harm.
I suppose they were right, for nothing ever happened, but the con
tinual flashes and rumbhngs were alarming, especiaUy at night.
It was the most exceptional weather. The peasants shook their
heads and said they'd never seen an August Uke "it before. Some
times it poured for days together, and the haymakers did not get on
very fast. Some would go down to Campia, others stayed on the
mountain to work during the short intervals when it cleared. Gioan
had plenty of opportunity to stroU about looking for snaUs. Giacom
sat in the kitchen making wooden soles for shppers.
On Saturday evenings the peasants aU went down to the vUlage,
returning to the mountain on Monday mornings. I spent an occa
sional week end at San Lorenzo, but usuaUy I remained at Cornighe
with Marget, who considered it her duty to stay and take care of us.
Rosina did not like me staying on the mountain, I soon under
stood that. When I had been there a fortnight, she thought it was
time that I came back to her. And when time passed on and not a
word was said of my return, she tried to force me to come back. It

HAYMAKERS 177
had been arranged that Riccardo should come every third or fourth
day with my food and post, and Rosina was supposed to send up
what I had written on the Ust Riccardo took down to her. Rosina
became very slack in sending up supphes. She forgot things. She
said others were not to be had, and sent up no substitutes as had been
arranged. Riccardo brought up meat which was not fit to eat. As
for bread, she sent it four or five roUs short, charging me fuU weight,
of course. I grew thin on the mountain.
It was exasperating, but what could I do? It would never do to
quarrel with Rosina, who had an ever ready supply of plausible
excuses. Rosina had come to think she was quite indispensable to my
existence, and she did not Uke this independence on my part. The
Di Marchesis were not her friends. She knew they despised her, and
she feared I might hear things about her, and her conscience was
no doubt uneasy. She didn't know whether I had heard anything or
how much. . . . She didn't know whether I had found out that she
had been overcharging me. There was that matter of the twopenny
eggs. She had had the face to ask Marget to seU me eggs at that
price, so that she should not be exposed, saying, as an excuse, that
the signora had plenty of money, and would pay. Marget had
characteristicaUy rephed that she wasn't a thief.
Very few visitors came to Cornighe. Once a bearded gentleman
passed by, who was out for the day, and sometimes relations who were
visiting peasants in Campia, would spend a day on the mountain.
We walked about between the showers, seeing some one at work
here — some one there, and usuaUy stopping to pass on the news. It

178 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
was almost a duty to talk to the cowmen. They had been on the
mountain for nearly five months without a day off. They were aU
tanned with the sun, had gold rings in their ears, and friendly blue
eyes. The first time I spoke to one of them we were skirting the beech-
trees of the summit. Three of the cowmen were stretched on the
grass, apparently asleep, some distance below us. We passed on,
but looking back I noticed one of them had got up and, walking up
the slope, had crossed our path and vanished beneath the trees. I
was a Uttle surprised that he had not come near enough to haU us.
But he was not so clumsy as to show his curiosity in so obvious
a way. We continued along the path under the taU trees, and, just as
I had dismissed the cowman from my mind, there he was — straight
ahead, walking leisurely towards us. Thus our meeting had the
appearance of a charming accident.
One wet afternoon, when I was alone at Cornighe with my little
girl, one of the cowmen knocked at the door, and asked whether he
might come in and dry himseff. I made a big blaze for him, but he
was not weU satisfied with it, for he helped himself freely to Marget's
wood, which he pUed on to the fire, talking continuaUy the while.
He had obviously had too much wine. I looked at him, a little
anxiously, but his blue eyes reassured me. They were so kind and
free from evU. He stood by the fire holding out his hands and telling
me aU about the affairs of the cattle-farm, the wet steaming from his
trousers. He wore a bright blue cotton blouse, with short, rather full
sleeves, gathered in a band above the elbow. He was very proud
of that blouse, and began to teU me aU about its good points. He

HAYMAKERS

179

unfastened it at the throat and insisted on my feeling how thick the
material was. He assured me that it was waterproof, and it was
certain that no rain had penetrated it, for it was quite dry on the inner
side. It was thick and closely woven, and I believe very expensive.
Having warmed himself, and feehng a Uttle drier, he concentrated
his attentions on my Uttle girl. He took her in his arms, kissed her,
and bounced her up to the ceihng and down again, and the Uttle
one, having found a friend after her own heart, shrieked with delight.
She ran to the corner to fetch her doU to show him. He took the
much cherished Christine tenderly in his arms, pretended she was a
baby, and rocked her to sleep. The little girl danced round him in
glee. Together they routed out the old cardboard box which served
as Christine's cradle, and sitting down on the floor together, put her
to bed. They tucked her in with the piece of paper which served
as blanket, and the cowman sang a luUaby. Having assured themselves
that Christine was fast asleep, they got up and had another romp.
The cowman swung her round and put her on his shoulder, and held
her upside down and tumbled her about. I watched without anxiety.
Never have I seen a man handle a chUd with more care or tenderness.
It had stopped raining. The cowman picked up his staff, and
made a few more remarks about the good quaUties of his blouse.
Then kissing the Uttle one again, he bade us good-bye.
One evening, when sketching close to La PaUina, I cut my finger
rather badly, so quickly gathering up my things, I went to the hut
hoping to find Teresina in.
She was there, together with Battisti, preparing the evening
soup, and Nino had just come in from the day's work.

1 80 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
I asked Teresina for some cold water, but she busied herself with
other things.
'Please, Teresina,' I repeated, 'a Uttle cold water to stop the
bleeding.' Teresina did not reply.
'Teresina,' I said, 'you have no heart.'
'Signora,' she answered seriously, 'signora, if you demand the
water I wiU give it you — but you know — it means certain death!'
I pondered.
'What do you do,' I asked, 'when you cut yourself?'
'Never put it into water,' said Teresina, 'but tie it up with a clean
rag, which must not be taken off until the cut is healed. I wUl give
you a rag.'
She fetched a piece of clean linen, and set Nino to bandage my
finger. There was not much room inside the hut, which measured about
eight feet by eleven. One corner was taken up by the two bunks,
one above the other, saUor fashion. Great big bunks they were, as
large as double beds, the bedclothes neatly arranged on the hay, and
pink covers on the pUlows. Nino, his wife, and chUd occupied the
lower bunk, Marco, the signor's cowman, slept in the higher. A wide
sheff, the height of a table, ran along the whole of one side, with a
Uttle window over it. The fireplace was by the door.
The signor kept several cows, which were brought to graze on the
mountain during the summer months. Marco had entire charge of
them. He milked them and made the butter. The signor could not
have been very particular about the milk, for it was kept in pans on
the wide sheff in the hut. Every sort of accident happened to that

HAYMAKERS 181
milk. Things got dropped into it, dust feU into it and pieces of hay,
in spite of Marco's care. He did his best, but how could the milk
be kept clean in that tiny place, where four people slept and did
their cooking?
However, there is a limit to ah things, and Marco was justly
incensed at Nino's behaviour the night before. Had I seen the hole
in the waU, he asked, coming in with the milk paU — up there in the
corner above the milk pans? Nino had done that.
' He saw a mouse there,' continued Marco, ' and taking his gun he
fired at it, Uke a madman, in this tiny place. The plaster flew aU
over the place — ostia — of course into the milk ! '
Nino, who had just tied my finger, said in an undertone : ' I hit
the mouse.' That was aU he cared about.
'A nice job I had, straining the mUk and getting it clean again,'
Marco went on. He didn't quite know whether to be angry or amused
at Nino. 'Why does the signor keep the milk in here?' I asked.
'I should Uke to know why he doesn't buUd a proper place,' said
Marco, airing his grievance. 'He has plenty of money. Besides, it
might be kept in one of the rooms of the house. You can't think how
difficult it is to keep it clean. ... I don't Uke to eat the butter
myself ! '
'Oh, they are fine people,' said Nino scornfully, 'they go to bed
at midnight, and don't have breakfast until it's other folk's dinner
time. Then they do nothing until it's their own dinner-time — after
which they sleep -for two hours. Then — sometimes — they take a
promenade, after which fatigue they rest again.'
'What is the signor's profession?'
i.p. N

182 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'He's an engineer,' answered Marco, 'but it is his wife who has
the money.'
He had just strained the new milk through a magnificent aluminium
strainer, and ladling some into a glass offered it to me.
'It is quite clean, signora,' he reassured me, with a smUe. 'But
I must teU you what the signor did yesterday,' he went on, sitting
down on a box. ' One of his big sausages had gone bad and wasn't
fit to eat. So after breakfast he brought it out and made me a present
of it with great condescension. I knew it was bad, and didn't want
the thing. " Thank you, signor," I said, " it wiU do nicely for the
dog." . . . Surely, signora, if it is not fit for him to eat, it is not
fit for me either?'
"The signori think anything is good enough for us,' exclaimed
Nino bitterly.
'But what did the signor say when you answered him Uke that?'
I asked. ' He said nothing, signora, but he drew himself up Uke this — and
marched off.'
'If the Italian signori were Uke you,' said Nino, who was washing
his hands in a corner, 'things would be different. You are three
times more of a lady than aU the signori put together, and six times
as intelligent. Do you think they ever speak to us as you do?'
'But they aren't all Uke the signor up there,' I protested.
'There are a few who are kind-hearted, I know,' he answered,
'but aU the same. ... Do you remember yesterday, when I called
you stupid because you didn't understand what I was talking about?'
'It was I who said it,' I answered, 'I said "how stupid of me
not to understand." '

HAYMAKERS 183
'Yes,' said Nino, 'and I answered, " Yes, you are stupid." I've
been thinking ever since of my audacity. Do you think I would
ever dare say such a thing to an ItaUan signora? I don't know what
would happen if I did — I reaUy don't ! '
'You'd be lectured and kicked out,' said Marco, 'and your char
acter would be entirely gone.'
" The insolence of these peasants," ' began Nino, ' " here is a
man who actually caUed a lady stupid — because she was . . .' "
' Put him in jaU and fine him,' cried Marco gaUy.
Teresina had ladled the soup into bowls, and stood wondering
what was going to be said next.
'It is a good thing the signora takes it in such good part,' she
said. 'WU1 you eat with us?'
'No, thanks, I must be going.'
'You never wUl have anything,' she said. 'But before you go
back to England you wUl have dinner with us — won't you? Nino
wUl shoot the birds, and we'U have polenta and birds — but not yet.
It must be later on, when one is aUowed to shoot them.'
'Why,' I said, 'you had birds for dinner yesterday. Don't deny
it — I saw them myself.'
'One mustn't say such things,' she whispered.
'No, I'U send the poUce after you one of these days,' I retorted,
'and not only will they find the birds, but aU the wine you keep up
here and seU to the cowmen  '
'And I'U do it as long as the cowmen pay me for it. Won't you
drink a glass before you go ? ' she asked, grinning aU over.
'Signora,' she caUed after me, as I went home up the path, 'don't
forget — the rag must not be taken off your finger for two or three days.'

1 84 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
It was nearly dark when I reached Cornighe. The Di Marchesis
had just finished supper and were talking with more animation than
usual. It was aU about Dominica and the signor.
Giacom explained. 'Dominica asked the signor for permission
to stay in the Uttle hut caUed Marmer. She wants to be on the
mountain for a few weeks with her husband and her friend and
Teschini, and as Marmer stands empty she thought she could stay
there. He has refused.'
Marmer was a hut smaUer than La PaUina, but with the most
enormous bunks in it, stretching from waU to waU. Fifteen people,
I am told, once slept there. It stood on the land belonging to the
signor's wife, and was used by the peasants cutting the hay for the
commune. For although the lands belonged to the lady, the commune
had a right to the hay. Tona and his father had just finished hay
making, so the hut was unoccupied.
' But why has he refused ? ' I asked.
They shrugged their shoulders and implied that it was cussedness.
'The only reason I can think of,' said Giacom, 'is that three
years ago, Dominica's brother — Bigi — had a misunderstanding with
the signor. It was about some wood the signor said Bigi might take,
and the signor afterwards denied it, and caUed Bigi a thief. It was
only about an armful of wood. As if Bigi would steal ! '
'But that has nothing to do with Dominica,' I said, 'who has not
Uved at home for at least eight years ? '
"There is no other reason why he should refuse,' said Marget.
Giacom had taken a newspaper from the shelf and, straightening
it out on the table, read aloud to us. He translated the more difficult

HAYMAKERS 185
passages into the dialect, or else explained them to his mother. He
was particularly fond of reading out paragraphs in which priests
figured to their detriment. He did this, he explained, in order that
the womenfolk should be shaken in their idea that a priest could do
no wrong. 'There are good and bad priests,' he told me, 'and I have nothing
against them as long as they leave our women alone. Ah, here's some
thing about England'— and he read out a little paragraph about the
suffragettes. It led to a number of questions, and I told them about
the suffrage movement in England, especially the mUitants, and they
listened, thriUed. Marget grew quite excited. Her sympathies were
with the mUitants. They were ladies after her own heart. To think
that women were in revolt at last ! She itched to be off to London
with a broomstick. Angelina's rebellious eyes glowed, and even her
red-haired sister-in-law was stirred. Giacom, to my surprise, was
immensely impressed. His sense of justice was evidently greater
than his sense of law and order. He would willingly have given
every woman a vote. He saw the cause was just and did not condemn
the means.
I found the same to be the case when I had discussed the
suffrage with Bortolo. He firmly beheved in votes for women, and
had done so long before I knew him. How different was the opinion
of the signor, with whom I once chanced to have a conversation,
whUst sheltering from a thunderstorm. He asked me as a favour to
teU him about the suffragettes. We discussed them at great length,
and when I went home, he bowed and politely told me that he stiU
thought them unwomanly and hoped never to meet one. As for giving
a woman a vote, not he !

1 86 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
AngeUna, sitting on the floor in her usual place, was staring at
the nickering lamp wick. It is aU very weU, she was thinking, to
demand one's rights of men but how could one successfuUy revolt
against a tyrannical mother?
Giacom, who had been unlacing his boots, took them off and put
them down by his chair. Then, getting up as if he were going to
bed, he stopped in the middle of the room and began to speak. He
told us of what he had seen at MUan as a carabiniere, and in strong
language denounced brothels, and the sort of men that frequent such
places — and about the diseases. ... It was very splendid of him to
attack his own sex in that way, and what he said was just and right.
But he left us womenfolk rather breathless.
'Giacom likes to talk,' said his red-haired wife, haH apologetically.
But it was not only talking. Giacom had convictions and high
ideals that commanded respect.

CHAPTER XIV
hailstones
It had been feebly thundering aU the afternoon, but this was of such
daUy occurrence that I paid Uttle heed to it. It was with a look of
surprise, therefore, that I greeted the Di Marchesis, who returned to
the hut earUer than usual.
'There wiU be a storm,' said Gioan, in answer to my look of
inquiry. Angelina came in with a large bundle of firewood, foUowed by
the red-haired woman carrying rakes. Giacom, who had hung his
scythe in the rowan-tree outside, came in spattered with rain. Large
drops were falling heavUy. Marget was down in the stable shutting
the goats and hens in. She came in, shaking the rain off her clothes,
and sat down in her accustomed place on the hearthstone, but she
did not take up her knitting.
The clouds looked very threatening on aU sides. We waited,
anxious and sUent. Gioan crossed to the kitchen window and stood
leaning out. AngeUna went to the pantry window. Giacom and his
wife went upstairs to the bedroom.
The rain stopped falling. An unexpected breeze shook the trees
and died down to a breathless hush.
We waited. 187

1 88 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
Over Monte Moro was a strip of blue sky narrowing between two
dark clouds. As they merged into one the storm broke with great
violence high over our heads. There came flash upon flash of Ughtning,
and the thunder crashed and murmured and crashed again. It was
terrifying. On a height to the north was another thunderstorm, and
a third one on Monte Moro, from which the thunder had a distinct
hoUow sound, as if it came from caverns, and out-boomed even our
own storm.
Rain feU in torrents, and it grew dark.
Some mist blew across and hid Monte Moro, and the Uttle strip
of lake we could see, and the heights of our own mountain. Then
things close by grew indistinct.
'Santo Dio,' murmured Marget, rocking herself to and fro. She
never glanced at the window, but sat staring at the waU with wide
open eyes. No one else spoke or moved.
Presently tiny hailstones came down with the rain, just a few at
first — and then more and more. The thicker they feU the larger they
grew. Down they came, hammering against the closed door and
bouncing high on the grass.
We stood watching, eager for a break in the mist. We could see
nothing but the flashes, and the nearest trees, and that the ground
was getting white.
'Santo Dio,' murmured the old woman again.
Had the storm traveUed as far as Campia? The question was
in our hearts, but we dared not put it into words. If it had — it would
be dreadful.Giacom came downstairs, and opening the door, went out. The
haU was stiU faUing and bounding down the slopes. He picked up

HAILSTONES 189
a few of the largest haUstones. They were as large as my watch and
the same shape.
The thunder kept on, and Monte Moro stiU boomed that fearful
deep note, but the flashes grew less. The mist cleared a Uttle, and we
could see as far as the signor's house. The grass was white every
where, and on the ground, beneath each tree and bush, lay thickly
scattered the leaves which the haU had broken off. Two figures came
out of the signor's house and walked across to the little chapel. They
were Nino and Faustino. The vUlage was not visible from there —
it was a long walk to any of the points from which it could be seen,
but perhaps it reheved their minds to go out and try to look
down. . . .
The thunder died down to a whisper, rose again, stopped, roUed
faintly, and then came loudly from another height, where a fresh
storm had broken out. The haU stopped falling and was foUowed by
a deluge of rain which calmed to a steady downpour. Nino and
Faustino must have been drenched.
It suddenly became very cold. . . .
Angelina Ut the fire, and the women prepared the evening soup.
We were aU very thoughtful. It was no good pretending the storm
had not reached the vUlage — we knew it must have. How much
harm had it done then? Had it been as violent there or had it spent
itself on the mountain? We couldn't teU, and we didn't discuss it.
When we spoke it was to laugh and joke, and I could not have told
what was in the minds of the Di Marchesis if I had not seen their
eyes. They were bright, hard, and angry. With such eyes they joked.
Then affecting indifference, they went to bed half an hour earUer
than usual.

i9o AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
My own impulse would have been to run down to the viUage at
once and make certain of what had happened. But none of them
dreamt of doing such a thing, nor did any of the other peasants at
work on the mountain. It was Thursday, and not untU the usual
hour on Saturday did any one go down to the viUage.
Near the signor's house I found Nino and Faustino. Nino was
sitting on the grass beating his scythe with a hammer, and scarcely
glanced at me.
Faustino stopped mowing.
' Si'ora ! ' he caUed, in an attitude of tearing his hair, ' draw me
Uke this!'
'With hailstones aU round you,' I caUed back.
He wiped his forehead and grinned.
'You saw it?' he asked, knowing I had been a little incredulous.
'Yes,' I answered, 'but I can't believe it has done so much harm
when I see you laughing.'
'Would you have me cry ? ' Then seriously, with those hard eyes :
'Si'ora, if it has been as bad as they say, ff it reaUy has been so bad,
then the storm has destroyed everything — sacramento, everything.
AU our work wUl have been for nothing — sacramento. To-morrow I
go down and will see it for myself. But I teU you, Si'ora, if it is true,
and everything has been ruined, then I wiU climb right up into the
belfry, and chuck aU the beUs down into the piazza ! '
'And the priest after them?' I suggested.
"The priest— ah, it is they that are at fault— they are wicked-
lying — it is they who bring this upon us  '
'But Faustino,' I cried, remembering that quite lately he had,

HAILSTONES 191
by a clever manoeuvre appropriated a whole lot of the signor's best
hay, 'surely your sins also count?'
'How can we be good if the priest sets us such an example?'
asked Faustino.
Nino, who had not yet spoken, looked up at us.
'The priest,' he said with emphasis, relapsing into his one EngUsh
phrase, 'is " the son of a bitch." ' He had that same hard angry
look in his dark eyes which the others had had.
Teresina, foUowed by a goat, came and joined us. She had met
Stefen on the road, and was fuU of the news.
'It is quite true,' she said, 'the hail came down everywhere —
he said it was pretty bad at Campia itseU, but was worst by the
fontana and on the Ridge of Houses. At San Lorenzo it came down
Uke heU and spoUt everything. The grapes are all on the ground, and
so are the oUves — and the beans.'
Nino got to his feet and laughed. Then, raising his arm above
his head, he cried loudly across the hiUs : —
' America — America ! '
We all stood and looked at him.
'How about those who cannot get away to America?' I asked.
'It is easier for others than for me,' he answered hotly, thinking
of his defect. Both eyes blazed savagely. How he hated America.
'Stefen said that Bigi said,' went on Teresina, 'that it is high
time aU the images were taken from the church and packed on
donkeys and sent away. . . .'
• ••••••
'I'd Uke to get some dynamite and blow up the whole rubbish
heap, church and aU,' said Giacom, as he sat down to supper, 'and

i92 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
send the priest somewhere where he need not trouble about
shaving.' 'I suppose you saw Riccardo?' I asked. The boy had been up
with some things for me.
'We saw Riccardo,' said Giacom significantly.
'He was the first to bring us news of the viUage,' said Gioan,
leaning against the waU, and staring up at the ceiling.
'He told us,' blurted out Angelina, 'that very Uttle haU had
fallen, and that at San Lorenzo the damage had been sUght — insig
nificant.' 'Whatever put it into his head to say that ? ' I asked, with surprise,
'why, he told me just the opposite.'
'Riccardo is a Uar,' observed Marget.
' Afterwards we saw Stefen,' said Angelina, ' and it is even worse
than we feared. There has been no such storm since '81.'
'They say Bortolo is insured,' said Gioan.
'And so is Biscotti  '
"And you?' I asked.
"I?' asked Giacom, 'what would you have me insure? My
trousers? The httle scrap of land that I possess  '
He bent down to take off his boots, and went up to bed singing
a song so blasphemous that the women suppressed him.
I saw the devastated terraces of Campia and walked down the
road past the fontana to San Lorenza. Everywhere the same miserable
spectacle. HaU-naked vines with withered leaves scattered round
about, grapes on the ground, often whole bunches of them. The
edges of the torn and perforated leaves, still left on the plants, were

HAILSTONES 193
turning brown and every grape that had been hit by a haUstone showed
its bruise. The maize plants were broken, and the long leaves hung
in ribbons, as if they had been combed. AU the plants had the most
bedraggled appearance. In places the road was thick with olive
leaves and Uttle black oUves.
AU this havoc had been done in ten minutes, if, indeed, the storm
had lasted as long as that, and the peasants had stood watching,
utterly helpless. One old man had wrung his hands and burst into
tears, the others had watched with hard eyes and firmly closed Ups.
Why did God send these storms? they asked, hadn't everything been
done that could be done ? Hadn't the Madonna been carried through
the streets? It was certain that God was not at fault, it must be the
church then that was responsible for this, the church and the saints
and the priests. The male population of Campia swore and blasphemed
with flashing eyes, and the women Ustened, awestruck, always ready
to join in when they laughed in despair.
I felt I would not like to be in the priest's shoes at this crisis.

CHAPTER XV
BIRDS OF PASSAGE
Angelina and I were walking together.
'Have you heard from Raimondo again?' I asked her.
'Yes,' she repUed, without enthusiasm, 'I have at last heard
from Raimondo again.'
'And . . .?'
'And, signora? He has sent money to Biscotti to pay for his
ticket to America ! ' She seemed quite angry.
'Has he already saved so much?' I asked. 'But that was very
nice of him.'
'Nice?' repeated AngeUna, 'yes, very nice for Biscotti, but not
for me.'
' Did you want him to send you a ticket ? '
'Oh, no, signora, but I have a quarrel with Biscotti. None of
us have anything to do with him any more. Raimondo had quarrelled
with him, but they made it up before he left. But / wUl never make
it up, nor talk to Biscotti again — never. . . . Should I like it, then,
that Raimondo lends him money ? '
'I think it was very nice of him.'
AngeUna kept her own opinion on the subject. She was not
altogether satisfied with Raimondo. He did not write often enough
to please her, and she was more exacting than she should have been.
194

JB1RDS OF PASSAGE 195
The fact was Raimondo could hardly write, and to concoct a letter
was a slow and inky-fingered business which one could hardly expect
him to indulge in often. One quarter of what he wrote was whoUy
uninteUigible. Bigi or Nino would sometimes bring one of his letters
to me in despair, asking whether the incomprehensible words might
not be the EngUsh with which he interlarded his conversation. But
I was not of much help, my knowledge of American expletives being
limited, and of course Raimondo spelt phoneticaUy, according to
his own pronunciation. For instance, 'gutbai' meant good-bye,
and 'orait' meant ah right. . . .
'I don't beheve you wUl ever marry Raimondo,' I said to Angelina,
feeUng, perhaps, that it might be a good thing for Raimondo if she
did not. She seemed so bent on finding fault with him.
'I shaU and I shall,' she answered, 'that's certain.'
We walked on for a bit in sUence.
Presently she said, pointing : 'AU last summer Raimondo stayed
in that Uttle hut by the pink vUla, haymaking.'
"Then I suppose you saw a good deal of him?' I asked.
'During the whole time I only spoke to him twice — my mother
would not let me.'
'But you got over that?' I suggested.
'No, signora, my mother always beat me. . . .'
We stooped to gather the edible fungi growing along the path.
Angelina carried them in her apron. She walked along, singing
loudly, then suddenly stopped and looked at me.
'Go on,' I said.
'But, signora, I shouldn't have sung it when I was with
you.'

1 96 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'You know I don't mind,' I reassured her. 'Why, I'm one of
the "porchi signori" myseU. Go on, I want to learn the song.'
This is what AngeUna sang : —
'Por paesa
El ghia en polastrel
Chei porchi di quei si'ori
I ga mangia anche queU.
Quei porchi di quei si'ori
Noi sa pio che far,
I mars i bicicletta
A forza de robar.'
(Translation.)
'A poor peasant
Had a chicken,
Those pigs of signori
Have eaten it as weU.
Those pigs of signori,
We don't know what they are at.
They ride on bicycles
Bought with stolen wealth.'
'Now sing " Quando Sard in America." '
'O cari giovanotti
Domani dobbiamo partire.
A costa di morire

BIRDS OF PASSAGE 197
In America voglio andar.
Quando sard in America,
Quando sard in America,
Quando sard in America,
L'amante la qui sterrd.
Quando avrd qui stato,
Quando avrd qui stato,
Quando avro qui stato,
In Italia riturnerd.
Quando sard in Italia,
Quando sard in Italia,
Quando sard in Italia,
L'amante la sposerd.
Quando avrd sposato,
Quando avrd sposato,
Quando avrd sposato,
In America turnero.'
(Translation.)
"Oh, dear boys and girls,
To-morrow we must part,
Rather than starve here
I must go to America.
When I am in America,
When I am in America,
When I am in America,
I leave my darling here.
After I have been there,
i.p. °

1 98 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
After I have been there,
After I have been there,
I wUl come back again.
When I am back in Italy,
When I am back in Italy,
When I am back in Italy,
My darhng I will wed.
But after we are married,
But after we are married,
But after we are married,
I must go back to America.'
We neared Cornighe as she sang. The song had a beautiful
melody. I do not know who wrote it, it sounded as old as the hills,
and it must have been composed by some one who knew and loved
the mountains. The whole spirit of the place was concentrated in
those few bars.
During September the weather became worse, if that was possible,
and it was almost always hazy. Very few peasants were on the
mountain. The haymakers had returned to the viUage and were
busy clearing the land of their devastated crops. Giacom and his
wife were back in Campia, so was Angelina. Nino and his wife had
been back some time. In a few weeks the cattle would be driven
down to the vaUeys, and we should no longer be able to buy milk,
butter, and cheese on the mountain. The signor and his wife had also
departed, but the house did not stand quite empty. Marco and
Faustino slept there and used the kitchen, and Marco was aUowed

BIRDS OF PASSAGE 199
to put his milk-pans in the larder, now that the signor was
gone. Gioan was a great deal at Cornighe. He was unusuaUy energetic,
and a strange, adventurous light gleamed in his dark eyes. He spent
hours among the bushes, selecting and cutting long, bendy sticks,
which he brought into the kitchen. He trimmed and cut them the
required length, sitting on a low stool, placed so that he had a good
view of the path. His alert eye noticed every passer-by, and his
ears did not miss a footfall. He was afraid of the guardie — because
he was doing what he knew to be unlawful. He was making bird
traps. The traps were horrible, and I do not wish to describe them, nor
do I know how many he set. There must have been hundreds of them.
He hid them cunningly in out of the way corners amongst the bushes,
sometimes baited with red rowan berries. I came across traps in
all manner of places. Gioan was by no means the only one who
set them.
If the guardie found any traps, they either confiscated them or
else lay in wait to see who came to look after them, and then issued
a summons. Bird nets were also confiscated. Not long ago Nino
had spread one on his lands by the Ridge of Houses. Next morning
the net was gone. No one had seen the guardie, and Nino was in two
minds about its disappearance. It had been weU hidden, and if it
wasn't the guardie . . . who could have taken it? He blamed his
enemies by turn, but gave it up as hopeless. It was just his cursed
bad luck. It must have been the guardie after aU. But he couldn't
beheve that. On the other hand, nobody had ever had a net stolen
before. ... It was a new net and a good one. Who on earth knew

200 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
he had hidden it in that place? He was very dejected about it for
some time.
Once Gioan had a bad fright and came indoors greatly agitated.
He had seen the guardie. They had passed down the path towards
the signor's house. ... He didn't know where they were now — if he
only knew ! He went to see if they were visible from the upstairs
window. No. They were nowhere in sight.
There was nothing to be done but wait. Gioan kept indoors.
He never went near the traps for twenty-four hours. Then, with an
unconcerned ah, he went stealthUy among the bushes, visiting place
after place. The traps were aU there, and must have escaped the
vigUance of the guardie.
Gioan caught very few birds. It was not a good year for any
thing. The harvest had been spoUt, the hay was poor, and now there
was a scarcity of birds.
Sometimes FiUp's niece passed Cornighe on her way to her father's
hut, which was close to the pink villa. She was a strong, likely
looking girl. She carried her basket on a stick held over the shoulder,
and crowding at her heels were seven sheep and three goats, aU with
deep-toned tinkling beUs. She caUed continuaUy to the animals.
When they were safely grazing round her father's hut she sat under
the cherry-tree and read a novel, when she ought to have been
knitting stockings. The animals were very fond of her, always
nibbling and snuffling close by. She kept a staff handy to drive
them off.
One evening I found her meditating over a letter.
'It is from my brother,' she explained.

o

"q.

BIRDS OF PASSAGE 201
'WeU, how is he getting on?' I asked, knowing that he had lately
gone to serve in the army.
'He doesn't seem very happy,' she replied, 'but please read it
yourseU.' I took the letter and read as foUows : —
'Dearest Father,— I write to teU you that I have arrived safely
and am weU. But father, dear, I must teU you that the life a soldier
leads is dreadful. The first week they only gave us one meal a day,
after that I was sent to the infantry. We sleep out of doors in our
clothes and have no covers, but sleep on straw mats. Please send me
more money, as I have to spend it on food, and everything is very
dear. 'Your devoted son, ' Luigi.'
'Do they only have one meal a day ? ' I asked in surprise, knowing
that the conscripts were only paid two palanche a day.
"That is only at first,' she said, 'before it is decided which regiments
they are to join. But even then they only get two meals a day —
one at nine in the morning and the other at four in the afternoon.'
'He doesn't seem to Uke it,' I said, feeUng sorry for Luigi, who
was a nice quiet feUow.
"The thing is,' she said, laughing, 'that my brother has a tre
mendous appetite. He will like it weU enough when he gets used
to it.' On my way home I passed her father. He was cutting foliage,
which was dried and given to the goats and sheep during the winter.
Most of the older peasants firmly believed that it should only be cut

202 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
when the moon was in a certain quarter. Marget could scarcely
contain herseff when Giacom callously cut it at the wrong time. . . .
This evening Marget's mouth was firmly set, and I knew at once
that something had happened.
"The goats came home dry,' she announced, with an angry Ught
in her eye. 'Some one has milked them.'
'Whoever would do such a thing?' I asked in dismay.
'I knew whereabouts the goats have been this afternoon, and I
know who did it. It was Beppo down at the hut. He is a rascal.'
'But surely  '
'Yes, he did. If the goats go on his land there is nothing to
prevent him doing it, he is in his right. Only ... it isn't done. But
I didn't think he was capable of such a thing. . . . What am I to
make the soup of?'
She was very upset and aU the more so because it was a thing
which rarely, if ever, happened. The peasants did not steal from each
other.. Only once, in Marget's remembrance, had anything been
stolen from FUip's lands. On that occasion a woman had helped
herself to a basket of beans. She thought herseff unobserved, but
Gioan had caught sight of her and seen what she was at. Nothing
was said, no one was told of it, and the Di Marchesis kept it a secret.
A few days after the goat incident, Beppo's three goats came
grazing over FUip's grassland. In an unostentatious way, Gioan
coaxed them back on to their owner's property. But he never dreamt
of mUking them, a Di Marchesis wouldn't.
• *»•¦•#
The signor had a roccolo which Faustino was getting ready.
A roccolo is a place for catching large numbers of smaU birds

BIRDS OF PASSAGE 203
It is a privUege of the wealthy, because it involves a Ucence which
is beyond the means of a peasant. AU other traps are prohibited,
and the peasant is only entitled to what he can shoot. But he wants
the birds because he is hungry — for the signor they are a dehcacy.
Without doubt roccolos ought to be forbidden altogether, for the
number of migratory birds caught in this way must be enormous.
It took Faustino a long time to get the roccolo ready. The place
had always been a mystery to me, and I had investigated it several
times without understanding in the least what it was for. I wiU try
to describe it.
Half-way down a sparsely wooded slope was an erection of poles.
They were nearly twelve feet high, and stood in the ground about six
feet apart in a double row, three feet between the rows. The poles
were connected with cross poles, one at the top and one half-way down.
The row was irregularly curved and very long, about forty-five yards.
Wherever trees grew close enough, their boughs were tied to the
poles and trained along them.
Higher up the slope stood a number of trees. Some of them were
covered with leaves, but many had been chopped off a few feet from
the ground. TaU, dead tree tops had been naUed and corded on to
these stumps. Their dead branches were stiff and brittle. Empty
tins stood on flattened places on the ground.
The rest of the slope was bare of trees. Nearly at the top stood
a smaU square tower about twenty-five feet high. It was a rickety
looking plank erection, and sticking out of the top was a long pole
with a rope attached to it, looking Uke a fishing-rod.
One afternoon I passed close to the roccolo, and saw Faustino up
a ladder at work on one of the trees. Coming closer to see what he

204 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
was doing, I was surprised to find him picking all the leaves off the
tree, and dropping them on to the ground. It was a sUver birch
tree. 'Whatever are you doing?' I asked.
'I'm getting it ready,' he answered, looking down at me. 'It
won't be long before the birds pass now on their way south.'
' But why pull the leaves off ? '
' Because, signora, when the birds have flown across the mountains
they are tired, and ff they catch sight of these nice bare twigs, they
are sure to settle on them to rest. Then, if they are thirsty they can
hop about on the grass and drink from the little tins which I keep
filled with water.'
' How do you catch them ? ' I asked.
"The net is stretched across the lower line of poles,' he answered,
pointing to the erection, 'and I sit hidden in the tower. Then — at
the right moment, I frighten the birds — by waving the pole to which
boughs have been tied — and the birds at once fly low and down the
hill — straight into the net. . . . Sometimes we catch hundreds.'
It seemed a strange occupation to pick every leaf from a tree.
Several stood already naked with patches of withering foliage round
them on the grass. Down by the pole erection Marco was occupied
in covering the bare parts with green boughs. The ugly plank tower
was to be decorated in the same way — to look Uke a bush. The birds
were to be completely taken in.
"The first time I saw this place,' I said to Faustino, 'I walked
aU over it and aU round it, and came to the conclusion that Italians
must be crazy to make such a place. The dead trees tied to stumps
particularly puzzled me.'

mKDS OF PASSAGE 205
'You'U soon see whether Italians are crazy or not,' answered
Faustino with a grin.
'I hope you won't catch any birds, that's aU,' I said. 'It's horrid
to snare them hke that.'
'I've a perfect passion for it,' he answered, his blue eyes twinkling.
I knew he was an expert at the work.
The Uttle leaves fluttered down, and I marveUed at his patience.
Marco sauntered up.
'The signora Antonia thinks we are quite mad,' observed Faustino
from the tree. 'She has never seen a roccolo.'
'Faustino's as happy as a king now the birds are coming,' answered
Marco. 'He's an awful feUow,' he went on, 'for getting up in the
morning. He woke me up at two o'clock to-day for breakfast.'
'I can't sleep when there's a change in the weather,' explained
Faustino, picking the leaves and dropping them down.
'Oh, nonsense,' I said, 'you don't mean to say the weather is
going to change ? Do you reaUy think it is going to stop raining ? '
'WeU, it's a fact I can't sleep when the weather changes. So it
ought to change. Perhaps to-morrow.'
Marco laughed. ' Look ! ' he said, and we watched the low clouds
blow across the summit. 'There's fine weather for you.'
'How much longer are you staying up here with the cows?' I
asked Marco. He had a nervous look about him, which he had not
had earUer in the summer, and he had grown thin.
' If only the signor would say ! ' he replied, with a sigh. ' Perhaps
two weeks, periiaps three, perhaps four. How should I know?'
'Marco frets himself thin,' said Faustino.
'I know I do. It's more than I can bear to be always alone.

206 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
AU day I tramp after the cows, and aU day it rains. In haytime it
was a bit better — then at least there was some one to talk to . . .
only I was so tired in the evenings I feU asleep. I would sooner work
at one of the cattle farms where there are several cowmen together
— but I am always alone. Do you know, I've been up here since
April, and during aU these months I've not had a single day off,
nor a chance of going to mass. Not even to a festival ! '
'But surely the signor could have arranged for you to have a
day off  '
'He hasn't,' said Marco. 'Of course, if I cared to pay some one
to do the work for a day — but the signor would not like that. He'd
say the cows were used to me, and must not be looked after by any
one else.'
'What the signor thinks,' Faustino enlightened us, 'is that if
he did aUow Marco a day off he'd get so drunk he wouldn't be able
to walk back.'
'Very likely,' answered Marco, and trudged off to see where the
cows had strayed to.
'I'm quite anxious about Marco,' said Faustino, climbing down
the swaying ladder. ' It is making him quite Ul. He's been up here
six months . . . and not once been to mass.' He slipped his feet
into his shppers, which had been left at the foot of the ladder, and
sat down beside me on the wet grass.
'TeU me, Faustino,' I asked, 'wouldn't it be possible to rent a
house in Campia if I came back later on ? '
'Of course it would,' he answered, 'I have a house myself which
stands empty. It has four rooms and a piece of garden waUed in,
and if it is not let you can have it any time.'

BIRDS OF PASSAGE 207
'What would the rent be?'
'Thirty lire a year,' he answered, smUing at my astonishment.
' Had you asked my advice when you first came, I would have told
you how to Uve very cheaply.'
'If I had asked your advice then,' I answered, 'I wouldn't have
understood a word you said.'
"That's quite true, so I wiU give you my advice now. When you
come back, take a house in Campia and say you want it for at least
six months or a year. Even if you pay for six months, and only stay
for two, you wiU find it very much cheaper than taking the house
by the month. You could easUy borrow or buy the few sticks of
furniture you would need. Make sure that the house has a Uttle
garden and grow your own vegetables. Keep rabbits for your meat,
and a goat for milk. In that way, signora, you would spend one-tenth
of what you did at San Lorenzo. Rosina is my cousin, and although
I'm ashamed to say so,' he added, with evident rehsh, 'I don't think
much of her. We quarreUed about a pig. I had paid her for it and
she said I hadn't. Bortolo, who had been present when I paid it,
took my part. But Rosina abused me, signora, I never heard any
thing like it. She is too fond of money. I am ashamed to have to say
so, because she is my cousin, but I don't think much of her. Orca
cane, fancy charging you thirty Ure a month for a room at San
Lorenzo ! Why, U you stayed much longer you'd have paid enough
to buy the whole house ! Do you know that both she and the boys
are bragging that you pay Riccardo twenty lire a month for bringing
your food up the mountain ? '
'How amusing. Last month I paid him about nine lire. I pay him so
much every time he comes, and when I go down I carry up my own things. '

208 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
Faustino's merry blue eyes twinkled. He was a fair-haired,
rather stout man, with a bald patch on his head, one of the few who
did not always wear a hat. His wife was in very poor health. She
was consumptive and had not long to Uve.
'Riccardo is very tiresome about bringing my things up,' I went
on. 'He never comes near Cornighe but he upsets my Uttle girl. He
pinches her and puUs her hair, or takes her toys away. There is
always a squabble about something. I never quite know if he is very
stupid or exceedingly clever.'
'I hardly know what to make of that boy myself,' said Faustino,
' but he is certainly not stupid. On the contrary, he is far too knowing.
And so lazy and disobedient. ... Do you know,' he added,
lowering his voice to a confidential tone, 'that boy knows as much
as any married man in Campia. When he grows up he wiU be a menace
to the vUlage. There's nothing that boy doesn't do or know, he will
demorahse the others. Rosina can't manage him as it is. . . . Has
Gioan caught any birds?'
'No, scarcely any.'
'Ostia, neither have I.' Faustino also set traps. 'Birds are
scarce. But there is still time. In a week or two the migratory
birds wUl be here, then you must come and see me catch
them.' 'I shall be in England then,' I said, getting up.
' Oh, no, you must stay here always. We have become so accus
tomed to you, that you are like one of us.'
I left him and wandered aimlessly down into the vaUey. On the
farther side I came upon two men cutting down a copse. For a whUe
I watched, and then walked up to Girolomo. The other man, shy of

BIRDS OF PASSAGE 209
being seen in his patched workday clothes, went off out of sight. It
was Giacomi. He was as sensitive as Toni about that.
Girolomo, noticing my critical look, shrugged his shoulders. ' One
must make money somehow in a year Uke this,' he explained.
'It seems a pity to cut it.'
'You are right,' he rephed, 'we didn't mean to cut it for some
years, but you see the haUstorm has spoUt everything else. We
shaU make the wood into charcoal.'
I watched him chop the copse, feeling rather sad.
'They say,' he said presently, stopping for a minute, 'that we
ought to puU up aU the vines and make a bonfire of them. . . . But
U we did that, signora, I do not know what we could grow in their place.'
Farther up the vaUey Gheco was burning charcoal. The copse
belonged to the signor, and he employed Gheco to cut and burn it,
paying so much for each Idlo of charcoal delivered in the town. As
jobs went on the mountain, it was not a bad one, and there was so
much wood that Gheco would have plenty to do for the next ten
years to come.
He had buUt himself a joUy little baita with thick waUs made of
brushwood. A large beech-tree stood before it, reaching nearly
from side to side of the cleft, and spreading its protecting branches
over the charcoal hearth. Leaning against the tree trunk was the
precious board on which Gheco kept a tally of the sacks of charcoal
sent down. In a Uttle cave hoUowed out of the cliff-side his two
goats sheltered from the weather.
ApoUonia's younger brother was working under Gheco, who felt
both important and responsible. Just now AchUle was at the top
of the slope getting some biUets down. He tied an immense bundle

210 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
together, about four feet in diameter, and set it in motion. It
tumbled and roUed down, gaining speed as it went, but toppling
awkwardly over a stone it took a new direction, and ran dead up
against one of those trees left standing, because they were of a size
forbidden to be hewn. AchiUe clambered down and tried to shift
the bundle, but it was far too heavy. Finding it useless, he walked
round and began cautiously to hack at the tree. He was in terror
lest the bundle should roU down on top of him. Four times he had
to clamber back and make another cut at the slender stem. At last,
giving the bundle a vigorous push from above, the tree gave way
and the bundle roUed down to the bottom.
Gheco was arranging a fresh stack of wood. A number of sacks
packed with charcoal were standing about, ready to be taken away
on donkeys. ApoUonia, with a large straw hat askew on her head
and kept on with a thick knitting needle stuck through the crown,
was making fascines of the smaU wood that could not be used for
charcoal. Loose ends of hair hung round her sunburnt face, and her
big brown eyes were bright and friendly. She was talking loudly to
Gheco. I had often been there before, for I had sketched Gheco and
AchUle. Gheco had been a patient sitter, horrified when he saw I
had painted in aU the patches on his clothes, and very anxious that
I should do his moustache justice. WhUst I was drawing AchUle,
Gheco and ApoUonia sat in the baita talking. ApoUonia laughed,
and we could hear great smacking kisses. It was thought a sure
thing that they were to be married, but as yet Gheco had not been
to ApoUonia's parents to make the final proposal for her hand. But
he had decided to visit them the following Sunday.

BIRDS OF PASSAGE 211
I did not loiter long, but wandered up the track worn by FiUp's
oxen-wagon. The track was fringed with bushes. Fine rain feU
gently and clouds blew across the crags. Big drops fell from the bushes.
I left the track and walked on the grass, thinking how few flowers
I had seen since the hay was cut. Dainty pink cyclamen grew among
the bushes, and I had grown very fond of them. I gathered a few
edible fungi and carried them in my hat.
Some one was talking loudly. As I came near I saw it was the
Uttle cowboy from the cattle farm. With great eloquence he was
haranguing three stolid cows. He was the officer, they the recruits.
He stopped abashed when he saw me and grinned ! I had never seen
any one with a face so Uke a monkey, especiaUy about the nostrUs.
I asked him what his name was.
'Angel,' he answered.
Then I asked how old he was.
'Thirty,' he rephed, thinking I was inquiring how many cows
there were.
I repeated my question once, twice, three times, and three times
over again, but he only shook his head. It seemed extraordinary
that he should not understand so simple a question — he must have
learnt Italian at school.
Giving it up, I repeated my question in the language of Campia,
saying, 'Quae agn ghe te ti?'
He answered promptly: 'Dodesz,' which means twelve.
Then he chased the cows off, for he knew as weU as I did that
they were out of bounds, grazing on the grassy slope belonging to
FUip. I think the cowman found that a very good way of feeding
the cows when grass was scarce. Once some of the cows strayed

2i2 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
right up to Cornighe and one of them devoured a napkin Marget
had put out to bleach. Marget lodged a complaint. It wasn't the
grass they ate — that was a mere trifle — she explained to the cowmen,
but FUip did not like the cattle on the slope cutting the turf with
their hoofs. She was given two pounds of butter as compensation.
I could hear Marget on the path above me caUing to the goats,
and I could hear the tinkle of goat-beUs. I began to scramble up
the last steep bit. The damp wind blew in my face. Haff-way I
stopped in surprise, for on one side of the slope the grass was dotted
with flowers. Pale Ulac flowers and a few white ones amongst them.
They were autumn crocuses, so fresh and unexpected.
Upon the path I met Marget. She was trying to coax the goats
home to shut them up for the night, but they had no intention of
coming. They were the most contrary creatures. They stared at
her impudently, just out of reach. Marget gave vent to her annoy
ance in a sphited flow of abuse, but the goats did not mind. In the
end, when they had wearied of dodging her, they turned round and
capered madly up the slope untU the mist screened them from sight.
Marget watched for a moment, then shaking her fist at them,
she shouted angrily : ' Bastard ! '
Then she turned back, laughing at herself.
We walked home together, glad to be in the warm dry kitchen
again, and made our evening soup. We spoke of Marget's little
grandson who had just died. He was the son of Stefen and Maria,
and had lived for only one short week. Stefen had been greatly
disappointed when the baby died, for he had always longed for a
son. The poor Uttle mite's end had been tragic. The mother had
no mUk for him, so in their ignorance they fed the baby on caf6 au

BIRDS OF PASSAGE 213
lait. Finding that diet did not agree, they gave him the best cow's
milk they could procure, but did not know that it ought to have been
dUuted with water. As the baby stUl continued to be sick, they
asked Francesco's wife, who had a baby a few months old, to suckle
it. She was quite wiUing to do this, and would have done so from
the first if she had been approached. However, it was too late.
The foUowing day the baby died, shortly after having been christened.
'And what did they caU him?' I asked.
'He was caUed after Filip, of course,' answered Marget.
'Why "of course? " '
'Because it's the custom. The eldest boy is always caUed after
bis father's father, and the second boy after his mother's father.
The eldest girl is caUed after her mother's mother, and the second
one after her father's mother.'
That must have settled a great many of the chUdren's names
without further worry on the part of the parents. It also accounted
for the fact that so many vUlagers bore the same Christian names.
Cousins would be caUed aUke. In order to distinguish between the
different individuals they would be caUed by different diminutives.
Thus the Francescos would be known as Franceschi, Gheco, or Cesco.
Dominico would become Meneq or Minghi. If this was not sufficiently
clear the nickname was added.
Not every famUy in Campia, but most of them, had a nickname
which was hereditary. It could be used by any member of the family,
but custom usuaUy decided to whom it should be apphed. The nick
name was always placed after the Christian name, not before it, as
the surname invariably was. For instance, the Bertoldis had the
nickname Merlo (blackbird). Bartoldi Toni was known amongst his

i.p.

214 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
friends as Toni Merlo, and his son, Vittorio Merlo. Toni's grandmother,
who had been a dark woman with a beautiful voice had been the first
to bear that nickname. Nino's branch of the family, although the
elder one, did not use the name, but frequently boasted that they
had every right to. Some of the CasteUis were caUed Colombo (dove).
The original Colombo was an uncle of Bortolo, but as the name was
only borne by Colombo's descendants, Bortolo had no right to it.
Gheco's family nickname was Macuccia, and the SUvestris were either
Cumbu or else Marchini, according to which branch they belonged.
The Di Marchesis' nickname was FUip, FUip's real name being
Dominico. He was never caUed Dominico, but just simply FUip.
His younger brother was called Paolo Filip. AngeUna was spoken
of as Angelina FUipa or La FUipa, whUst the name was never asso
ciated with Marget. The original FUip had been FUip's grandfather's
brother, who had been christened FUippo. I do not know why his
nephew took his name and made a nickname of it. I never heard
it used in connection with the grandchUdren of the original FUip.
Most of these nicknames were of recent origin, but I do not
beheve the custom was a new one. Probably after a few generations
the name would fall into disuse or a more appropriate one be invented.
Or the fact that there might be six Dominicos in the viUage at once
would make it imperative that one at least should bear a dis
tinguishing nickname. It was a fact that ten per cent, of the male
population were called Francesco.
These nicknames were by no means a custom confined to the
viUage, but were common to the countryside.
Marget sat on the hearthstone picking over fungi, cutting the
larger ones in half — preparatory to boihng and salting them for

BIRDS OF PASSAGE 215
the winter. Fungi were very plentiful on the mountain and there
were very many different kinds and very few indeed which Marget
did not consider edible. She had even gathered some fly agaric —
bright vermUion fungi, spotted white, and was preparing them with
the others.
'I've always been told that that sort is poisonous,' I informed
her. 'So they are if you eat them like that. But if you boU them and
drain them, and throw away the water and salt them, they are quite
good to eat. We always prepare them Uke that.'
But I preferred to eat the kinds I knew, and there was no lack of
them. Boletus scaber dotted the green grass everywhere. Canther-
eUus were not so plentiful, but we found a great many Lactarius
deliciosus. And they were deUcious. We put them upside down on
the fire-tongs, poured ohve oU into them, sprinkled salt and chopped
parsley or onion, and roasted them over the embers.
I was glad of these fungi, as Rosina was very remiss in sending
up our supphes.
Not only were there enough of them for us, but for every one
else as weU. At dawn the girls would come up from the viUage and
gather fungi untU they could carry no more. Between five and
nine in the morning, the slopes below Cornighe would ring with the
laughter and noisy gossip of these girls. Very often a peasant lad,
out shooting, would loiter there and Uven them up stUl more. And
they would talk and laugh with him untU he was out of earshot
again. By nine o'clock the girls would have gone back to the viUage,
and the slopes below Cornighe be once more sUent and deserted.
I met Teresina there one morning, and helped her fiU her basket.

2i 6 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
She told me she had been up all night nursing Anetta, who had
suddenly been taken Ul with pains in her eyes. After giving Nino
his breakfast at dawn, she had wandered up the mountain, that
wearying two hours' walk, and had been on her feet ever since, looking
for fungi. She was on her way home now, to give Nino his dinner.
She took a Uttle dead bird from her pocket and showed it to me.
She had seen it quite early that morning perching in a bush, its head
tucked under its wing. She had just grabbed it. . .
Marget, the Uttle girl, and I, did not confine our fungi hunting
to the morning. We often went out together in the afternoon and
became most enthusiastic fungi gatherers. Marget salted aU we
picked, and when she had enough for winter use she salted some for
her daughter Francesca.
Once we went out on the slopes behind the pink viUa, which had
remained unoccupied during the summer owing to the bad weather.
Thick clouds swept across the mountain, and we lost sight of each
other, and could only see a small patch of ground at a time. By
constantly calling we kept in touch, but no doubt we often went over
the same ground, not knowing where the others had been. But we
managed to fill our baskets. Tired and wet, our hair beady with the
mist, we returned to Cornighe. Marget made up a large fire and we
sat round it warming and drying ourselves.
I made some cocoa. At first Marget would not take any, but in
the end curiosity overcame her scruples, for she had never tasted
it before. She drank a bowlful with great satisfaction and seemed very
pleased to think that she would now be able to have an opinion when
other folk spoke about cocoa.
We sat talking by the fire for a long time. We were great friends

BIRDS OF PASSAGE 217
and latterly Marget had put off some of her reserve. To-night she
discussed her neighbours.
Marget did not Uke Nino, nor did she think I ought to either.
Hoping, perhaps, to turn me against him, she began, at first cautiously,
to blacken his character, thinking, perhaps, that I too judged people
by the rigid Di Marchesi standard, and that I should condemn on
hearsay. However, she told me no more than I already suspected.
When Bortolo went to America, Nino, who was then unmarried,
managed Bortolo's farm, staying nearly a year at San Lorenzo. That
in itself was enough to make the villagers thoughtful, but when it
ended by Rosina suddenly becoming Ul and being carried off to
hospital in a half-dying condition, it was rumoured that she had
swaUowed strong drugs to avoid a scandal.
The strange part of it was that Bortolo stiU had such affection
for Nino. There was no one in the viUage he loved or esteemed
more. Even his habit of seeing only the best of things could hardly
overlook such an action in his friend. I never quite understood
Bortolo. He must have known Rosina was faithless, Nino was by
no means the only one her name was coupled with. As the Di
Marchesis significantly said : ' Rosina wiU do anything for
money.' Perhaps Bortolo had been disgusted with her and didn't care
any more. He deeply resented it if she showed him any affection
in pubhc. He, at least, had been a faithful husband, and the only
scandal in which his name figured happened long before he was
married. At that time he made love to a married woman whose
husband had gone to America, where he remained for fifteen years.
The woman had had four children, presently a fifth was born.

2i 8 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
Bortolo, who was said to be its father, flatly denied it. He might
have been beheved if the boy had not grown up so hke him. He
was more like Bortolo than Bortolo himself.
The woman brought the child up, and when her husband returned
from America he accepted the situation and treated the boy as tf
he were his own. He sent him to America as soon as he was old
enough, and the young feUow came back to Italy for miUtary service.
He spent a short time at Campia. Neither Bortolo nor Rosina would
speak to him. On one occasion he boldly went to San Lorenzo and
ordered a drink. Without a word Rosina hastily placed the measure
of wine on the table. Then she went out into the fields where the
rest of the family had scattered at the lad's approach. So he sat
alone in the empty house and drank his wine. Whether he was sad
or amused I do not know. After having put the money on the table
he walked back to the viUage.
It was a great pity so few men took their wives with them when
they went to America. Statistics say that one-third of the ItaUans
take their wives, but this is not true of Campia.
There were already twelve men from the viUage in America and
seven more went out the autumn after the haUstorm. So that
altogether twenty-four men had been, or stiU were, in the States.
Six of these had made the journey twice. This was quite a large
number when it is remembered that Campia had barely two hundred
inhabitants, including children. Of these twenty-four men, only
three had taken their wives to America with them.
Wives left behind in Campia invariably got into trouble, they
were not to be trusted. Home-coming was often a tragedy — as if
it hadn't been bad enough to have to go to America. . . . And

BIRDS OF PASSAGE 219
home-coming was sometimes put off, and in the end abandoned,
because of a tragedy which could not be faced.
There was the woman the priest had relations with — she was
as much given to drink as he was; there was Giacomina who had a
lover. There was JuUetta, herself above reproach, but said to be
the chUd of a former Campia priest. This could not be excused on
the plea that her mother had been abandoned by her husband, he
had never been away from Campia. Neither had Cristofolo abandoned
Anetta in that way. But her daughter Dominica was not hke the
others. It was supposed that her reason for disappearing for six
years was because her sister had written an abusive letter, disclosing
her parentage. Poor Dominica. Nevertheless she forgave them
and came back rich, a benefactress to them aU, forgiving even the
hard blows which had made her run away in the first place.
Only one girl in the viUage had a bad reputation. She had had
two chUdren, the first being taken by the foundling hospital. And
there was another girl who had a baby and who flatly refused to
marry its father, although he moved heaven and earth to make her
do so. Her refusal was reckoned as one of the most disgraceful things
that had ever happened in Campia. The viUagers with their wonderful
solidarity, personaUy felt the taint of it.
Rosina told me the tale with horror in her voice. The viUage
women would not speak to the girl, but I have no doubt she will
Uve that down, as so many other things have been Uved down in
the viUage.

CHAPTER XVI

SAN LORENZO AGAIN

Towards the end of September it became too cold and damp to
make our stay on the mountain any longer enjoyable. I had always
hoped for a speU of fine weather, but I had hoped in vain. Cold,
thick clouds blew across the heights day after day, and it was some
times as dark at midday as London in a fog. So I decided to go
back to San Lorenzo for a few weeks before returning to England.
We were sorry to leave Cornighe. Our stay there had been very
happy and we had grown quite fond of the Di Marchesis. With
feeUngs of regret I watched Angelina and Marget load our baggage
on the donkey. Marget's eyes were bright with unshed tears.
The donkey started to walk down the hiU and to my concern I
noticed that it limped.
In answer to my reprimands AngeUna said that she had not
known it. Did it matter ? '
Marget said emphaticaUy that it did not.
'How dare Minghi send me up a limping donkey?' I asked.
'Does he think I have a heart of stone?'
AngeUna did not reply.
Marget spoke to the donkey. 'Num,' she said.
The animal started and limped down the path. We watched
criticaUy, It seemed unusually willing to go. . . .

SAN LORENZO AGAIN 221
'Come on,' said AngeUna, who had a practical mind, 'there's
no other donkey on the mountain, and if you don't have this one,
you won't get your things down before to-morrow.'
I was watching the donkey — it had not stopped yet. If its leg
had been very painful, I reasoned, surely it would have come to a
dead stop long ago. After all, it did not limp so badly.
Marget said good-bye. She was staying at Cornighe for a few
more days. She watched until we were out of sight round the bend
and then walked back to the deserted cottage. Angelina told me
afterwards that her mother went upstairs into our bedroom, and sat
for a long whUe on the hay which had been our beds, the tears
streaming down her old face.
• ••••••
I went back to San Lorenzo with misgivings. I did not want to
faU out with Rosina, but I was afraid that I might. She had been
so good to us whilst we were with her, stiU she had been very trying
during our stay on the mountain. Besides, I had offended her, and
what an offended Rosina was like I did not know.
It happened Uke this.
A few Sundays back Angelina and I had started off from Cornighe
for a long walk to a distant vUlage. We zigzagged down the northern
slopes of the mountain into a beautiful valley, and following the
course of a rushing stream, came out on to the new military road.
Here I left Angelina and went back to bathe in a pool we had passed.
She did not like the idea of a cold bath and so sat sat by the road
and changed her shoes. She had brought her best boots in a paper
parcel and now exchanged them for her zupei. Then she wrapped
the zupei up in the paper and waited for me.

222 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
We arrived at the viUage in time for mass, and after dinner set
out for Campia.
It was a very long walk and a very hot day. We arrived in the
evening, both very tired. On making inquiries for a night's lodging,
Giacomina offered me a bedroom in her house, and I was only too
thankful not to have to go on to San Lorenzo. I was going up the
mountain early next morning, and it would have been out of my
way. Rosina did not expect me.
Giacomina showed me into a fair-sized bedroom which was used
by her daughter, but ever since her lover had gone to America, Catina
had been away in service. The room had been built on to the second
floor of the house and stretched across the yard. Exactly under
neath was the manure heap. Through a tiny trap-door in the floor,
rubbish could be dropped down on to the heap.
Giacornina told me that they had had news from Gaetano. He
had sent home £40. This money he had been able to save during the
five months he had been away. Part of it was to repay her, for she
had lent Gaetano the money for his fare, part of it was a loan to
Nino to pay his fare to America, and forty lire was a present to his
old father. Clear of his debts, Gaetano could now work and save.
'Then Nino wiU be able to go soon?' I remarked.
'Yes, poor feUow, he will try to.' Giacomina sighed and closed
the window. She bid me good-night, and I wearily undressed,
Ustening to the young people singing by the fountain. I wondered
whether it would not be better to open the window. When shut,
the smeU of manure coming up through the plank floor into the hot
room was intolerable; but when open, mosquitoes whirred in. I
effected a compromise, and opened the window a Uttle. After aU,

SAN LORENZO AGAIN 223
what did it matter, open or shut, I was so tired I should drop asleep
at once. Presently the young people clattered off to bed. It became
very quiet and I feU asleep.
I awoke at dawn. The viUage was fuU of sounds. The men were
off to work, some up the mountain, others down. ChUdren were
calling to goats and driving them up the mountain road. Oxen and
braying donkeys were gathered round the trough, taking turns to
drink whUst the women fiUed their copper paUs at the tap. People
shouted and bustled about, and some girls were singing. There was
a smeU of burning oUve wood in the air from a dozen breakfast
fires. By five o'clock the last stragglers had passed by. The vUlage
was sUent and deserted when the sun rose above Monte Moro.
Giacomina was downstairs making some coffee. She went out
to buy me an egg and a roU, for which I paid, but she would not hear
of my paying for the use of her room. No. She would be ashamed
to take anything after I had been so good to her brother Nino. Would
not I for once accept something from her?
Rosina had been furious.
What right had I to stay in the viUage, she asked, when San
Lorenza was there? Why hadn't I come to her? Wlw dare entice
away her lodgers ?
She vented her feeUngs on poor Giacomina and others who
passed by, whUst the temper was on her. What had been said came
to my ears through Marget. WUd rumours were in the air. Rosina
had said. . . . She had said a number of things, but I knew she
would not be base enough to put them into practice. Nevertheless,
it was with a feehng of uneasiness that I went back to San Lorenzo.

224 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
I had sent a note down by Riccardo saying that we were coming, so
that Rosina could get in certain stores, as she always had done
when she expected us.
Late in the afternoon we entered the gates of San Lorenzo. Our
appearance must have been decidedly picturesque. In fact we looked
Uke a couple of gipsies. My Uttle girl carried Christine under one
arm, and she was dressed like a boy, and ran barefoot by my side,
her soft, fair hair tousled by the wind. My hair too was blown about.
We were both as brown as sun and weather could make us. My
clothes were shabby with wear and rain, and my hat, though stiU
useful, was suffering visibly from old age. I carried a knapsack on
my back and a long staff in my hand. Round my neck hung a neck
lace of dried hips, and my brown arms still bore the scratches that
had been made when I picked them off the wild rose bushes. The
donkey, laden with various parcels, and aU manner of things not
wrapped up, completed the picture. AngeUna was by far the most
presentable-looking of the party.
Rosina was standing by the door, and the little one, thrusting her
doU into my hand, scampered down the path to be embraced.
Two fashionable Italian ladies who were staying at San Lorenzo,
regarded us with some surprise. They were walking under the pergola,
each carrying a parasol to shade her delicate complexion from the
rays of the sun. But they stopped to stare at us.
Rosina, who was aU honey, helped me to unload the donkey
and carry the things upstairs. The house was evidently quite full.
Signora Rosa and her ten-year-old daughter were in one room.
Signora Bianca and her little girl were in the other, whUst her two
Uttle boys — who had probably been using my room — now slept

SAN LORENZO AGAIN 225
downstairs with Bortolo, Paolino, and Riccardo, aU five of them
in the big bed !
Ever since the haUstorm, Bortolo had been strangely irritable.
The peaceful old feUow would get angry and flare up about nothing.
Rosina dare not answer back ! I suspected a scene or two in which
she must have been worsted, for her manner towards him had
altered. She had become tactful and considerate — half in pity,
perhaps, for she knew how bitter had been his disappointment. .
With what love he had worked, with what hope he had looked forward
to the promise of a splendid harvest. Alas, he was not gathering
it in, instead, he was clearing the rubbish away, or trying to put
some heart into the sorry-looking vines.
In the mulberry-tree, just outside my bedroom window he had
rigged up a swing, and here the chUdren played continuaUy, scream
ing at the tops of their voices. They squabbled the whole time.
Signora Bianca's two Uttle boys were particularly spiteful, and if
it was not they upsetting the Uttle girls, it was Riccardo pinching
and punching the lot of them. They quarrelled for turns in the
swing, forcibly ejecting each other. Then somebody would get knocked
over and shriek.
Unfortunately my Uttle girl feU Ul. She became feverish, com
plained of a headache, and suffered so much from the noise that I
had to ask the chUdren to go away and play elsewhere. They took
no notice whatever of what I said, but after staring at me, went on
playing as before. So I went down into the kitchen and asked
Rosina to teU them to go away. She went out and spoke to them,
but they took no notice of her either.
By this time the sick chUd was frantic.

226 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
I went to Rosina again.
"The noise must be stopped,' I said.
'I can't do anything.' She shrugged her shoulders.
"Then the swing must be taken down.'
'If the chUd is as Ul as aU that,' said Rosina rudely, 'you ought
to have a doctor — that is what Signora Bianca thinks too ! '
'What the chUd needs is quiet so that she can sleep,' I answered,
'surely that is not asking too much. She cannot sleep with such a
noise. Why can't the chUdren play somewhere else this afternoon —
the garden is large enough.'
Rosina, who evidently meant to be disagreeable, shrugged her
shoulders again. But Signora Bianca, who had overheard our con
versation, went out.
'Be good chUdren,' she caUed sweetly, 'and go away from the
swing, the Uttle EngUsh girl is Ul and wants to sleep.'
Having done her duty thus far she came indoors. Experience
must have taught her that she was never obeyed.
'Where is Bortolo?' I asked in desperation, and found him by
the stable. I suggested that he should take the swing down and put
it up elsewhere. It would have taken him five minutes and there
were a number of suitable trees on the other side of the house.
But he did not want to take it down. Instead he fetched a ladder
and twisted the ropes out of reach. The six chUdren ran off and for
five minutes it was quiet and peaceful.
Presently Riccardo came noiselessly across the grass in his socks.
StealthUy he chmbed the tree and unwound the swing ropes. In a
moment the others were around him, pushing and shouting for turns.
I went straight to Bortolo.

SAN LORENZO AGAIN 227
'If the swing isn't taken down in five minutes,' I said, ready to
burst with anger, 'I shall run up to Campia and find some one else
to do it for me — and pay them for it 1 '
This was too much for Bortolo. He took the swing down at once
and put it on the farther side of the house, where the chUdren played
and squabbled to their hearts' content, without annoying any one.
The sick chUd became calmer and slept restlessly, waking up at
intervals to cry.
Rosina, who was off to town, promised to bring up some medicine
for her. However, she came up later without any, she had forgotten
it . . . and apologised.
The next day the Uttle one was better. I went down to get
breakfast. Outside, close by the door, sat Signora Rosa. She wore a checked
petticoat and a bright pink dressing jacket. Rosina was combing
and bnishing her hair with the dexterity of a hairdresser, at the
same time keeping up a loud-voiced conversation with Stefen and
Giuseppe, who had passed by and had now reached the gates.
'Rosina, where are my eggs?' I asked, when I could not find
them. "There are no eggs,' said Rosina, 'they are not to be had.'
'But surely, in Campia  '
'No,' said Rosina.
'And where are my other things' I asked.
'Other things?' repeated Rosina, affecting surprise, 'you never
sent a message by Riccardo about anything.'
'But, Rosina,' I protested. 'You know you always get bread
and eggs and butter for me . . .'

228 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
Rosina went on combing Signora Rosa's long dark hair.
'You'd better take some of my bread,' she said at last, 'you
know, in the basket on the waU.'
The day passed peacefuUy. The chUdren played by the spring
down in the vaUey, and after dinner Signora Bianca lay down to rest.
I noticed that Rosina had no difficulty whatever in keeping the
children quiet during that time. . »
On Sunday there were great rejoicings in the town. It was the
twenty-fifth anniversary that the priest had held office, and the
townspeople had coUected hundreds of lire to defray the cost of the
festivities. In the morning there had been a procession to the church, and a
magnificent choir took part in the service. And now in the after
noon a special band was to play in the piazza, and later in the evening
there would be fireworks and Uluminations.
In Campia these festivities were looked upon with Uttle favour.
That does not mean that the viUagers did not go down to the town
and enjoy the music and the Uluminations — nearly every one went.
But they thought it wrong — wrong in principle that so much money
should be spent on frivolity when the viUages round about were
suffering heavily from the hailstorms.
Rosina, Signora Rosa, Signora Bianca, and aU the children,
except Riccardo and PaoUno, had gone to the town directly after
dinner. The boys were to foUow in the evening.
Together with my Uttle ghl I stroUed up the road. The wind
fitfuUy wafted sounds of music along the mountain side. Peasants
were hurrying down to the town, eager to hear the band.

SAN LORENZO AGAIN 229
On our way we met Riccardo, dawdhng along towards the village
with his hands in his pockets.
'I'm going to fetch Minghi,' he informed me, 'for the cow.'
Minghi was always called in when the cows calved.
T think Minghi must be in the town,' I answered. 'I met him
going down about two hours ago. But maybe he's home again by
now.' 'I'U go and see.' Riccardo sauntered on.
'But Riccardo, you ought to hurry  '
'He, he,' he caUed back vacantly.
I hastened to San Lorenzo. Bortolo was running between the
cowshed and the kitchen, where he was warming some food for the
cow. 'Bortolo,' I called, 'I don't beUeve Minghi is in the village — he
went to town two hours ago.'
' Per Dio ! ' exclaimed Bortolo, ' and I've just sent Riccardo to
Campia. PaoUno, PaoUno ! ' he caUed.
Paohno emerged from the cowshed.
'Minghi is probably in the town  '
Paolino did not wait to be told, but tossing off his zupei, ran
barefoot down the path and on to the town.
Bortolo was greatly agitated. We entered the cowshed together.
'The poor animal — the poor animal — she is suffering,' ejaculated
Bortolo. He stroked her gently. 'The food must be hot by now,'
he added, and hurried restlessly to the kitchen.
Presently he returned with the food and tried to coax the cow
to drink. But the poor beast would not.
'Oh, she suffers, she suffers,' exclaimed Bortolo, nearly breaking
i.p. 0-

23o AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
his heart over her. The perspiration trickled down his face. 'My
poor cow ... if only Minghi would come.' He glanced through
the door at the viUage road. 'Why doesn't Riccardo come back?'
It was nearly an hour since I had seen him on the road. I
wondered how long Paohno would take to get to the town and find
Minghi. Bortolo went about restlessly, lamenting over his cow. I never
saw a man so upset. Perhaps in remote ages his ancestors worshipped
the cow — that might account for his agitation now. I hardly beheve
he would have fussed so much over his wife. Ah, he grieved for
his cow, his kind heart bled for her. He stood stroking her back and
soothing her with his voice. 'The poor thing — she suffers,' he kept
on saying. The cow held her head low and moaned.
Just then I caught sight of Paolino and Minghi coming down the
path as fast as they could walk.
T found . . . him ... in ... a .. . cafe,' PaoUno caUed, out
of breath. 'You never got as far as the town?' I asked, thinking he must
have met Minghi on the road.
'Yes, I did, I beheve I got down in a quarter of an hour.'
It was certainly a record. Bortolo might weU be proud of his
eldest son. But where was Riccardo? He was in the viUage playing
baU with some other boys. Evidently he did not think it necessary
to come home to teU his father Minghi was not there. He did not
return before it was time for him to go down to see the fireworks.
The foUowing evening I went through the accounts with Rosina.
'Why,' I asked, 'have you charged me half a hre for a kilo of

SAN LORENZO AGAIN 231
bread, when you know the price has been considerably lower for
some time?'
For a moment she was taken aback.
'I have charged half a lire because that is a round sum,' she
answered, 'besides there are always things I don't put down. . . .
For example, matches.'
'Matches are included in furnished rooms,' I suggested.
'I never thought a lady Uke you would make a fuss about a
halfpenny.' 'I would not do so if you had sent up the fuU amount of bread.'
Rosina did not answer.
This was the point, I beheve, where the ladies Rosina was used
to have dealings with became angry and even abusive. Then she
could get angry too and let off steam in a regular row. But being
in the wrong, she could not very weU begin to quarrel — however
much she ached to. She did not know what to say, so she said nothing.
Now, if only I had called her a thief — or a cheat.
I said nothing further about the bread, but went into one or
two other matters that had aroused my suspicions. Then I watched
her refill my oU-bottle and found that it did not contain as much
as she had been charging me for. SUently she submitted to my
altering the price in the book.
I left her and hurried off to Campia, before she could find words
to express her feeUngs.
After calling at the inn to ask Teresina to have some supper
ready for me in half an hour, I went off to find some eggs. I had
no difficulty in procuring some. The fact was Rosina would not
pay full market price to the village people. She beat down the

232 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
prices and, having secured the eggs, sold them to her lodgers at a
handsome profit. Campia women preferred to take the eggs to town,
rather than be the means of putting a few pence into Rosina's pocket.
I went back to the inn. Teresina had spread a white cloth at
the end of one of the long tables and laid it for three. She took it
for granted that we should have supper together, and put off her
own meal untU it should suit me to turn up. We sat down together,
she and Nino on one side of the table, I on the other.
The story of the swing had already penetrated to the viUage in
detaU, and Teresina was eager to give me her views on the subject.
'Rosina had no business to treat you Uke that,' she said. 'It
was wrong in the first place to put the swing under your window.
We aU remarked that you wouldn't Uke it. As for the children. . . .
As though Rosina didn't know how to keep chUdren quiet ! '
' Per Dio, she need only have appeared at the door with a broom
stick,' said Nino.
'You would have been in the right if you had sent her straight
back to the town for the medicine she forgot ! '
'She ought to know better than to disobey you, when you are
the padrona.'
I felt I had quite underrated my powers as padrona.
'And how about you,' I asked Nino, "are you going to America?'
' Signora, I have seen the agent, and it is quite impossible for me
to go like the others do. But I can go to Canada. They aren't so
particular there whether one has two eyes or not. Once in Canada
I can work my way down to Buffalo and cross the frontier into the
States. But go I shaU— even if it had to be first class on a finer.
It would pay me,' he added optimisticaUy.

SAN LORENZO AGAIN 233
'How soon wiU you go?'
'Next month.'
'And your wife?'
'She and Battisti wiU come later, as soon as I have saved the
money for their tickets.'
'Aren't you pleased?' I asked Teresina.
She smUed at me.
'You won't Uke it when you are there,' I said, giving her the
four palanche she charged for as much minestra as I could eat.
'They aU write home and say it's horrid,' said Teresina. 'Poor
Mrs ComineUi is very unhappy. She, who is used to hving on a
mountain, is now at the bottom of an ugly vaUey . . . with no view
at aU and hardly any air to breathe. She says it's hateful, and every
day she thinks of Campia and longs to be back. . . .'
'How about your Ucence?'
'Rosina wishes it to be transferred back to her at the new
year.' 'What a rehef to my mind ! She could never go on selling wine
hke that without being caught sooner or later.'
It was time for me to go home and I hurried through the tunnel.
Turning sharply into the road I nearly ran into Minghi's plain
daughter. I made the best of this opportunity to teU her of the
limping donkey, and the more I said the bigger her eyes grew.
'But, signora, the donkey eats just the same, whether she Umps
or not,' she excused herself, ' and she must work for her keep ! '
'You don't work if you have a sore foot,' I answered, 'yet you
.have a good appetite.'
'But, signora — I am a human being.'

234 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
It was twiUght when I reached the gates of San Lorenzo. Stand
ing on one side of the road was Gheco, on the other two women sat
on the grass. One was elderly, the other held a hat over her face,
obviously to hide it. Could it be ApoUonia?
The gate slammed behind me and I stumbled down the uneven
path. Bortolo had carried the kitchen table out into the garden and
had put the lamp on it. He was reading the newspaper. Rosina was
sewing. The dog ran barking to meet me, and Bortolo looked up
to see who was coming.
Rosina, who had been thinking matters over, had come to the
conclusion that it was best to keep in with me. So she was very
amiable. In order to demonstrate that she stUl cared for my
interests, she had asked Cristofolo, who had passed by, to inquire
down at the post office if any letters had come for me.
'Where are the boys?' I asked.
'They are in bed,' she answered.
'So early?'
'Yes, signora, Bortolo gave Riccardo a good beating.' She sighed.
'He heard him swearing — using the most wicked words.'
Bortolo seemed very interested in the newspaper.
I told her of the trio I had seen by the gate.
'Ah!' she cried, with sudden interest. 'ApoUonia, of course.
So she has come back and her mother with her, I suppose. . . . She
ran away yesterday, because La Macuccia was more unbearable than
usual, and scolded her. ApoUonia, who is young, answered back.
They had words, and ApoUonia put on her hat and just marched.
home.'

sajn 1AJKEJNZ0 AGAIN 235
'And?' I asked.
'Gheco went aU the way after her to-day, to make peace and
bring her back. ... So ApoUonia has decided to return. How any
one can hve with La Macuccia I don't know. Do you know they
only pay that girl five lire (4s. 2d.) a month, beyond her keep ? '
'Is she going to marry Gheco?' I asked.
Rosina shrugged her shoulders. "ApoUonia's mother isn't much
in favour of it. She thinks her daughter might do better.'
'And ApoUonia?'
'She says she likes Gheco and wishes to marry him — but that she
cannot disobey her mother.'
Oh, dear ! That was hke Angelina, who wouldn't talk to Raimondo
because her mother did not like it. I wondered whether the women
folk were stirred by passions as deep and strong as the men.
At ten o'clock we went up to bed as usual. Shortly after midnight
I woke up.
Some one was banging at the front door. There was a pause,
then renewed banging and a great deal of talking. I got out of bed
and leant out of the window, which was at the side of the house.
I could hear the voices more distinctly. The knocking vibrated
through the house.
"They are — ostia — either asleep — ostia — or dead — ostia,' said some
one in a drunken voice.
'Ostia — knock again,' said some one else.
There was more banging, foUowed by a dead silence. I wondered
why Rosina did not get up and find out what it was aU about. Of
course she must have heard the noise.
I went back to bed.

236 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
Away they banged at the door, stopping every now and then to
argue. One was for going home, but the other two would not hear
of it, and urged each other to bang at the door with renewed vigour.
At last, after a quarter of an hour, curiosity got the better of
Rosina. She shpped a dress over her nightgown and, going out on
to the balcony, asked what they wanted.
It was Cristofolo's familiar voice that answered.
'I came to say — ostia — that I caUed in at the post office — ostia
— as you asked me to — ostia — and that there were not any letters
for the signora.'
Rosina's answer was hardly polite.
The other two at once began clamouring for something to drink.
They were so thirsty they couldn't walk on to Campia — just a Uttle
wine? Rosina referred them to the rain-water tank; but that would
not do at aU.
Cristofolo interrupted. 'I wanted to teU you that I have been
to the post office — ostia — but that there were no letters for the
signora.' 'I heard you,' shouted Rosina impatiently. 'Now be off!'
But they wouldn't budge. They tried to wheedle her into coming
downstairs to open the door. They argued with her, but she wouldn't
let them in. Safe upon the balcony she shouted at them and
insulted them.
What matter the insults, thought the thirsty men, if we can only
get her to open the door?
In the end, after they had aU had a good shout and thoroughly
awakened aU the inmates of the house, Rosina gave in. She Ut the

Nocturnal Visitors.

SAN LORENZO AGAIN 237
lamp and opened the door. She might have done so at once, because
it always ended that way. She couldn't resist the temptation of
making a palanca, besides, the men were so obstinate. They wouldn't
go. She couldn't have the door banged all night.
For fuUy half an hour they sat drinking in the kitchen, carrying
on a most animated conversation. At last they went off, talking
loudly, and for a long whUe we could hear their voices in the distance.
Rosina, with a great deal of sighing over the hard lot of those
forced to get up at night, went back to bed.

CHAPTER XVII

the last days

Signora Rosa and Signora Bianca promenaded about San Lorenzo,
usuaUy deep in conversation. They found me very poor company.
Our interests were widely different, and they were disappointed to
find that their favourite topic scarcely interested me. Fashion was
what they talked about, fashions, hats and the cost of their clothes.
Signora Bianca's httle ghl wore a hat that cost seventeen lire. Signora
Rosa had only given fifteen and a half lire for her chUd's hat — but
she outdid Signora Bianca's extravagances when it came to jackets.
I do not know what effect it would have had on either lady if I had
divulged that my aged hat had cost only two and a half lire. They
thought me odd enough as it was. My interest in the peasants was
quite incomprehensible to them, and they looked at my sketches and
did not understand them at aU. They Uked sentimental and romantic
works of art, such as ladies should paint.
They did not care for the peasants, whom they considered far
beneath them. In fact, their mode of hving seemed to aim at accen
tuating the differences between themselves and the lower classes.
The peasants looked healthy, sunburnt, and vigorous. The signori
were languid and cultivated pale complexions. They carefuUy screened
the sunshine from their houses, closing the big shutters early in the
238

THE LAST DAYS 239
day. In these sombre sunless rooms they hved, taking but httle
exercise out of doors. No wonder they looked pale and deli
cate. The four children were undersized, giving the impression that
they had grown up in the dark and had been unwisely fed. At San
Lorenzo they ran about in the sun and grew brown and a httle sturdy.
Rosina looked after them weU. They were fed rather differently
from peasant children, going to the other extreme, which was perhaps
as unfortunate. They were given a maximum of meat and a
minimum of vegetables and bread, and of course a lot of wine. Rosina
insisted on the chUdren eating polenta with their meat, which, I think,
did a great deal to pick up their constitutions. They were never
given puddings of any description.
The signori had none of the easy-going pleasant manners which
made the peasants so attractive. They were hampered with formal
and chilling conventionaUties which went weU in harmony with
their sunless rooms. It was in them to be hard and selfish. Hedged
in with artificiahty, and brought up in an atmosphere of false values,
they had httle experience of things that matter — of real Ufe. No
wonder they understood the peasants as httle as the peasants under
stood them.
I once met an elderly commercial traveller at San Lorenzo. He
was not at aU Uke these ladies. He was charming, his manners were
dehghtful, and he was fuU of Ufe and energy. In him the best
quahties of the signor and peasant were united. He was an
enlightened and highly-educated man. His son was a doctor in MUan.
I cannot beUeve that he was an isolated type, but I met so many
people hke Signor Bianca and Signora Rosa and the Signor of the

24o AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
mountain, that that type must be the more representative of
the signori who came in touch with the peasants in those
parts. Signora Bianca was very pretty, and her summer frocks were
dainty and cool-looking. She was quite a picture sitting under the
olive-trees with her gay parasol. Signora Rosa joined her, and they
sat wondering about the EngUsh signora.
It was aU very weU for Rosina to insist on the eccentric millionaire
story. The two ladies knew better. Eccentric — perhaps, but
wealthy — no. That tale was aU very weU for the country people
who were ignorant and would beheve anything.
The peasants had accepted us and put a very simple construction
on our doings. They noticed that I did not wear grand clothes nor
hve in grand style. Nevertheless, they firmly beheved that I was
an heiress.
When I went to Uve in the mountain hut where there was a
minimum of comfort, and to sleep on hay, Gioan remonstrated with
me. In glowing colours he described how he would spend a hohday
if he were rich. I pointed out to him that what I wanted was a
change, and what change could be greater from the wild whirl of
dissipation he pictured my hfe in England to be — than the quiet of
the mountain? But Gioan simply would not beheve any lady would
hve in a mountain hut from choice. No, no, he shook his head. He
had only wanted to sound me himself, but he knew quite weU the true
motives that drove me to it. That had been decided in the viUage
long ago, and had been whispered from door to door.
'Signora Antonia is doing penance.'
That accounted for everything to the peasant mind.

THE LAST DAYS 24 r
'If the signora does not wear stockings, it is not that she cannot
afford them,' Ghita reassured her friends.
One morning Signora Bianca went down to the town to do some
shopping, and buy some eggs. She returned about an hour before
dinner time, rather hot from her walk, and sat down in the kitchen
to undo her parcels. One was a large tin box containing about twenty
new-laid eggs. The children crowded round her and she distributed
the eggs as if they had been so many sweets. She gave one to my
Uttle girl, and offered one to me. The children ran joyfully into the
garden sucking their eggs.
Rosina was astounded at such extravagance.
I went out into the garden and up to Campia.
The women at the fontana were getting ready to go home as I
passed by, hanging the dripping clothes on to both ends of a long
stick which was carried balanced on the shoulder. In this way the
washing was taken up to the viUage, where it was dried and ironed.
The linen was never boUed, but put in a large wooden wash tub. A
piece of sheeting was spread over the top and a spadeful of wood-ash
put on it. Boiling water was scooped over the ashes and drained
down through the sheeting, running out of a bung hole at the bottom.
Afterwards the linen was rinsed and hung up to dry, looking as white
as snow. I stroUed on up the road and passed an old woman who saluted
me by raising her straw hat. A few sad plants which the hailstorm
had not quite spoilt looked lonely on the terraces. Bruised bunches
of grapes hung on the vines. Higher up at the tap in the wall, children
were filling water bottles. Campia people always fetched their

242 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
drinking water from this tap, although it was much farther to walk
than the viUage fountain.
A few men were squatting in the road outside Giacomina's house.
I went straight to Cristofolo's, because I wished to say good-bye
to Dominica and her husband and Teschini, who were leaving on the
morrow. Poor Anetta had gone away. After suffering agonising pains in
her eyes she had completely lost her sight, and the skiU of the doctors
and the speciahst to whom Dominica sent her, were quite unable
to restore it. She was cared for now in an institution in the town,
and for the first time in his Ufe Cristofolo was master in his own
house. I mounted the stairs and entered the kitchen, which was filled
with people sitting round the waUs.
Bigi was gently playing the mandoUne to Tona's accompaniment.
Tona sat on the hearthstone, Maria beside him. Her husband,
Stefen, sat in the chimney corner, Giuseppe's fair-haired nephew
by his side. Big Giuseppe sat opposite them, solemnly smoking his
long-stemmed pipe. Bigi, with his mandoline, and Giacomina, who
was knitting, were on the maize-meal chest. Juhetta sat on a chair
by the door. Dominica, between her adoring husband and old Cristo
folo, was Ustening to Giuseppe's loud-voiced wife, eager to hear the
latest feat of her enterprising baby. Several of Giuseppe's elder
chUdren were there, too. A chair was offered me close to JuUetta
and Teschini.
We talked gaily together, with the music as a sort of background.
One of Cristofolo's granddaughters handed round glasses of vermouth,
pressing the reluctant to drink. It was good manners to be reluctant

THE LAST DAYS 243
Dominica had engaged this girl as servant and was taking her to
Florence. The girl looked a Uttle flushed and excited. . . .
Every one was full of the latest news. Dominica had bought
a piece of land on the Ridge of Houses. So that old site would be
used again. She was going to build a house on it, in which to spend
future summer hohdays. There would be no lack of stones for building
purposes and the fontana would be quite close. But it was uncom
fortably near the edge of a precipice. The whole plot, which had
been bought from Agostino, cost twelve pounds.
Those friendly to Agostino said the place was worth double the
money, others said it was outrageously dear. Dominica, however,
was weU satisfied.
At first she had tried to buy a plot on the mountain. The first
place selected had been at such a distance from the vUlage that it
had been rejected as too inconvenient. I knew the plot well, I
should like to buUd a house there myself. It was just below the
summit, a long level stretch of grass fringed with beech-trees.
After that Dominica went to Filip, but he flatly refused to seU.
No Di Marchesi sold land, it was his pohcy to accumulate it. Next
Negretti was approached, but his daughter, the cross-eyed milliner,
wanted the coveted plot herself. Finding no other site that pleased,
Domimca looked elsewhere and at last decided on the Ridge of
Houses. From a practical point of view it was by far the best place.
Teschini had taken no part in our conversation, but sat sUent
beside me, deep in thought. Suddenly he stood up, commanding
our attention by his attitude.
'My dear friends,' he began, and we aU stopped chattering to
fix our eyes on him.

244 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'My dear friends,' he repeated, as soon as we were aU quiet, 'I
am leaving you to-morrow, and I want to say a few words before I
go. I want to teU you how much I appreciate and honour the good
people of Campia. Listen. . . . When I left Florence I was a butter
fly — a butterfly with a broken wing. For three months I wandered,
vainly trying to ease the pain. But to no purpose, untU by chance
I came to join my friends here. ... In this httle vUlage — this gem
of the mountain, I began to Uve again and to wish to go on hving.
Neither the mountain — the clear air — the polenta, nor the fine views
gave me this renewed Ufe. No — it was you — you yourselves. . . .
From the first I felt I was amongst friends. Although I had no
claim on you, you overflowed with good wUl. Many the happy hours
we have spent together when the day's work was done. I passed
among you in the fields and saw that your hfe was ceaseless toU and
not very much to show for it — that made me admire your tenacity
and courage. . . . Then the hailstorm came. ... I saw the haU
and the fields afterwards. . . . My friends, had those fields been
mine, I would have been crushed with grief and despair. But that
is not your way. The day after the storm you were at work as early
as usual, thinking, probably, of next year. The foUowing Sunday
you actuaUy danced and were merry. Yet there was not one amongst
you who doubted that the winter wiU be a terribly hard one to face.
. . . And there will be some of you forced to go to America. ... I
envy you the spirit with which you have met this disaster, your
patience and your eagerness to go on working and to make the best
of it. It is your example that has strengthened me. I thought to
cure my wound by Ught hving, but it healed as I gained peace and
courage. ... My friends — let me once again thank you and tell

Teschini Makes a Speech.

THE LAST DAYS 245
you that never, as long as I Uve, wiU I forget my friends in
Campia.' Teschini sat down.
'Thank you — thank you, many thanks,' murmured the listeners
round the waU. We were aU much moved.
'Signor Teschini,' I said, leaning towards him, 'had I known
what you were going to say, I would have asked you to include me
in your speech. Not a word you have said but it had an echo in my
heart. I, too, have learnt a lesson here.'
'Aren't they splendid?' he asked, and then shook his head, as
U the thought pained him. 'I am an ItaUan myseU, but yet I had
no idea that such people were to be found in Italy. I was born in
Rome. It has been a revelation to me.'
It was some httle time before conversation was in full swing.
Bigi played several gay tunes and Giuseppe was pressed to sing, but
refused. Teschini stood up again and we looked at him expectantly.
' I should hke to say a few more words — for the Signora Antonia,'
he said, to my astonishment. 'She is not able to make a speech
herseff in our language nor is it necessary for her to do so, for what
she wishes to say you have doubtless aU read in the eloquence of her
eyes. Like me, she came to Campia with a broken wing — Uke me
she has grown strong here. She wishes me to thank you for aU your
kindness and hospitaUty, and to teU you that in her heart she wUl
never forget Campia nor the example of the good people here. On
your behalf I wiU say that there is no one who wiU not be sorry when
she leaves, or who does not hope she wiU come back again. Pleased
that she should have been happy here, it has been a joy to us to
i.p. K

246 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
know a signora who is so beautiful and inteUigent, and who has been
the friend of every one. In the name of Campia — viva la signora ! '
The next day was Sunday. Some of the men were playing la baUa
in the vUlage street, and most of the other people were out in the
road talking. A number were up at the fountain sitting on the
stones just outside Giacomina's courtyard, or squatting, Eastern
fashion, in the road. A second group was outside the Di Marchesi's
shed. AngeUna and Gioan were there, and Bigi and several others,
myself amongst them. Some sat on doorsteps, others on stones,
and a few on the ground. We were aU talking at once about nothing
in particular. Gioan was playing with Biscotti's baby, which a child had been
carrying. He held the baby on his knee and tried to make it smile,
but it looked at him with big serious eyes. He was very gentle and
sweet with it.
Bigi, who had been sitting opposite, crossed the road and sat
down on the ground beside me.
Costante from an adjacent doorstep began to sing 'Tripoli.'
'What did you think about the acquisition of Tripoli ? ' I asked Bigi.
'Only that it wasn't worth the number of Uves sacrificed,' he
answered. 'The men that have been there say there is nothing but
sand.' 'If you dig the sand away there is plenty of soil underneath,'
said Gioan, 'but the first wind blows the sand back again. So I've
been told.'
'No doubt our statesmen know to what end it was acquired,'
remarked Bigi, 'but they do not let us into those secrets.'

THE LAST DAYS 247
'Gaetano hated the place,' put in Teresina.
'Signora,' said Bigi, 'I hear there has been warfare even at San
Lorenzo. You have fallen out with Rosina. I am not surprised.'
'No,' I answered, 'she made me very angry.'
' I only just heard about it. You know, it would be a good thing
U Bortolo gave Rosina a sound beating sometimes. It's the only
way to keep a woman like that reasonable. But if anything further
happens to make it unpleasant for you at San Lorenzo, we could
always put you up in our house. Now that Dominica has gone, there
is plenty of room.'
'Thank you, Bigi,' I said, 'that is very kind of you, but you
know we are leaving to-morrow.'
'So people have been saying, but I did not know that it was
true. I was afraid that Rosina was being unpleasant and that you
did not know where to turn to for a night's lodging.'
Two strangers came in sight beyond the fountain. As they were
not peasants but signori, aU conversation ceased. The men playing
la balla waited.
The strangers were tourists, a lady and a gentleman, dressed as
only German tourists know how to dress. We sat sUent as they came,
each assuming the mask of cold indifference with which the peasant
greets a stranger of the upper class. I felt I must have acquired that
look as weU. . . .
They passed by and untU out of earshot we remained passive.
Gioan, without moving, broke the sUence.
'Tudesg,' he said contemptuously. That means 'Germans.'
I remembered my first walk through Campia and how those
indifferent looks had chiUed and even frightened me. With what

i.p.

R 2

248 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
httle confidence I had gone to the dance at the inn. Things were
certainly different now. I was a friend and might sit and talk in
the street. No one scooted off when I came ; on the contrary, some
times more would come if they saw me and we would be quite a
party. But it needed a great deal of tact and patience to become so
intimate. After ah, what did I know about them? It was very
httle. I was on the threshold and now I was leaving — to go back
to England. Ghita came down the street in her dignified manner.
'Si'ora,' she shouted at me, 'there wUl be dancing to-night, caU
in for me on your way up.'
Ghita was waiting in the street when I came, and emerged from
one of the shadows. We walked along arm in arm. It was pitch
dark. Ghita, who ought to have been familiar with the uneven street,
stumbled frequently. I clung to her arm and we laughed together.
We turned into the Piazza. From the dimly-lighted inn could
be heard the voices of men playing murra. A boy hung out of the
window and gazed into the blackness.
Crossing over to the side of the church, Ghita led me up some
steps and along a winding passage. It brought us into a large and
very long kitchen. An old man and an old woman were sitting
peacefuUy on either side of the hearth. Ten years ago, the old man
had spent two years in America. His aged wife was as hvely and
as amusing as her brother Cristofolo. Her only sister had been
Nino's mother.
We were among the first-comers, but the room fiUed rapidly.

THE LAST DAYS 249
Giacomi and Giacom came with mandohne and 'ceUo. Tona, who
had promised to play, was not to be found. Toni had gone to the
town and might come later.
Some one was sent to look for Tona.
Presently some one else was sent to look for Tona.
A stranger came into the room, a taU, dark, and very ugly man.
He was a peasant just back from a fifteen years' stay in America.
He stUl suffered from the hysteria of home-coming. The greater
part of the day he had spent at the inn, drinking copiously of
Teresina's best wine at one lire the bottle. But why he chanced on
Campia, or where he was going, nobody seemed to know. He was
bkssfuUy happy to be in his dear Italy once more. No one paid
much attention to him, although he talked continuously both in
Italian and broken Enghsh, Uttle dreaming that there was any one
present who could understand the latter language. Nor did any
one trouble to enlighten him on that point.
At last Tona came.
Giacomi, as captain of the band, upbraided him whUst Giacom
glared with reprimanding blue eyes. It had been arranged earher
in the day that they should play, and Tona had promised to come.
Why had he kept them waiting? Tona had a good deal to say in
his defence, and aU three players shouted at each other. The
bystanders joined in, and there was a storm of words.
Just as I thought a free fight must be inevitable it aU ended in
a laugh. To teU the truth, Tona had been unable to tear himself away
from the society of a man from the town, who had been teaching him
some new tunes.

250 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
The players struck up a polka, and we were so eager to dance
and had waited so long, that we crowded the room, and couples
turned and bumped against other couples.
No one would dance with the intoxicated stranger, but that did
not daunt him. After having begged every woman in the room for
a dance — and been refused, he remained by the waU watching the
others. During the intervals he had the whole floor to himself and
stroUed about, talking and joking good-naturedly with any one and
every one. Nobody encouraged him, the women were stiff and hardly
answered. The men watched him criticaUy, ready to turn him out
at the slightest indiscretion. Any one in a less blissful state of mind
would have felt snubbed ! But not he. He persisted, and, finding
him good-humoured and irrepressible, the women relented. They
began to answer him back. Towards the end of the evening he
dominated the intervals, and finding his audience at last responsive,
expanded, becoming more and more amusing. But he was not able
to persuade any one to dance with him.
It was not long before Toni turned up, and with him Lucia, carrying
Uttle EmUio. She sat down on the vacant chair beside me, whilst
Toni walked across the room to join the players.
I looked at httle Emiho and marveUed at him. Lucia brought
up her children on the survival of the fittest principle, and Emiho
looked as if he was going to survive. He would be the sixth survivor
of eleven children.
Lucia leant towards me and whispered confidentially : —
'I hear you had a quarrel with Rosina.'
'Yes,' I answered.
'I just wanted to teU you that we thought you would find her

THE LAST DAYS 251
out in the end. We know what sort of a lady she is.' Lucia
readjusted EmUio, who was rapidly falling asleep. 'I don't want
to say any more — but you understand — we know what she's hke —
now you do.'
She glanced searchingly at my eyes to see if I understood her.
Satisfied with what she saw, she concentrated her attention on
EmUio. Lucia did not refer to the subject again. She did not ask for
my version of the affair, nor did she say a word about her own
experiences of Rosina.
The stranger was in the middle of the room again. Taking his
blue silk pocket-handkerchief in one hand he crushed it into a httle
baU. Then he opened his hand wide, letting it he on his palm. The
handkerchief slowly distended itself, rebeUing against such treat
ment. Then he wiped it off his hand and held it up for inspection.
There was not a mark, not a crease on it. Truly a wonderful piece
of silk! The old woman had fetched a bowl of water and was splashing
the brick floor again to lay the dust. The players struck up.
'Come on, signora,' said FUip's niece, sUpping off her zupei to
dance in her stockings.
'How is your brother getting on?' I asked. 'Does he stiU think
a soldier's Ufe is too awful?'
'Oh, no,' she laughed, 'he writes now that he never enjoyed
himself as much as he does now. He simply loves it ! '
We sat down together. The stranger walked across to the
players and begged Giacomi for his mandohne. Giacomi did not want
to give it up. The stranger was obstinate, having once got it into

252 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
his head that he wanted to play. Nothing could stop him. They
tried to dissuade him, but he wouldn't hsten. He was told not to
make a fool of himself : there was nothing he wanted more. There
were several offers to see him home to his lodging. No thanks, he
wanted to play the mandohne.
So he sat down and Giacomi reluctantly gave him his cherished
instrument. Tona, who was good-natured, agreed to accompany a
tune he had never heard before.
The stranger could play weU — that was evident to every one.
But he was far from sober now. The tune was peculiar, and every
now and then he landed on the wrong string and put aU our teeth
on edge. His style was marvellous; his flourishes superb. Tona,
who never knew what was coming next, got aU wrong with his
rum-tum-tum accompaniment, but remained passive and unruffled.
The time grew quicker and the tune weirder.
'Please,' cried the stranger, in the middle of a wUd finale, 'please
applaud — even if you don't Uke it ! '
We applauded long and loudly.
The stranger stood up and bowed elegantly. He waited for the
applause to die away. Then he bowed again and, pausing a second,
so as to give it its fuU effect, he said : —
' Zank you ! ' in EngUsh.
With another flourish he handed the mandohne back to Giacomi
who immediately struck up a tune.
Giacomina danced with me, and Vittorio and Stefen.
Afterwards I rested, Stefen by me on the wood-box.
'Signora,' he said, leaning down to my level, 'very probably I
shaU be going to America.'

THE LAST DAYS 253
'You too— wiU you be going with the others?'
'No, not until the spring/ he answered.
'And your wife?'
'She says she won't come,' he answered in a dissatisfied voice.
'But she ought to.'
'She says that she does not want to. Her parents are so old.
She does not wish to leave them for the few years that remain.
It was true that both Cristofolo and Anetta were very old, but
so were Marget and FUip.
Splash, splash, the old woman was sprinlding the floor rather
UberaUy with water, and I drew my feet in under my chair.
'My parents,' went on Stefen, 'are also very old, and I do not
hke to leave them — but how can one Uve without money?'
'Must you really go?' I asked.
'During this year, signora, I have barely made seven hundred
Ure (£28), and that is not enough.'
No, indeed, and he had a wife and two chUdren.
'I am sorry you are leaving us,' he said. 'I had hoped to be
charcoal-burning on the mountain whUst you were there — but with
aU this rain I never got finished at the other place.'
The stranger was talking loudly to my neighbour.
'In America,' he was saying, 'it was so duU that I became a
hunchback.' He was trying to translate into Italian 'it gave me the hump !'
Then he puUed out his handkerchief and went through the trick of
crumpling it.
'How is Conrado getting on in America?' I asked, turning to
Giacomina,

254 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'Very weU,' she answered, 'he has work and good wages. But
my daughter is not at aU pleased with him. He doesn't write often
enough to her, so she says. There is always trouble, signora, when
they get out to America.'.
So it seemed. Raimondo and Teresina, too, were at loggerheads
again. This time it was Raimondo that was angry. And I did not
wonder at it.
At ten o'clock, as soon as the inn was closed, a few more people
came in; Bigi, Nino, and Teresina amongst them. Bigi was the best
dancer in the viUage, although big Giuseppe had been a better dancer
in his day. AU the men danced weU, and so did most of the women,
Stefen and Nino, perhaps, being not quite up to the mark. Nino
looked a bit odd, dancing with slightly bent knees, and his chin in
the air. But he was nice to dance with, except when he trod on your
toes. That was a trick Gaetano also had had.
'And you are reaUy going back to England?' Toni asked, during
an interval, resting his hands on his guitar.
'Yes, I reaUy am,' I answered, 'but I mean to come back and
see you aU again.'
'We shaU never see you again,' Toni answered.
' But the signora says she is coming back ! ' interposed Ghita.
'People always say they wiU,' said Toni, 'but they never come.'
Giacomi twanged his mandohne and the others got ready for
the last polketta. I danced with Nino. Afterwards, instead of
dispersing, we all stood talking. Bigi was joking with AngeUna and
FUip's niece, and I was noticing how very elbowy his gestures were
— just hke Cristofolo's. I scarcely heeded what Nino was saying.
Costante and Vittorio were dancing round and round in a circle.

THE LAST DAYS 255
Ghita was searching desperately for one of her zupei, which she had
taken off for dancing, and which had somehow found its way into
Faustino's pocket.
I suddenly became attentive and turned to Nino. Wonder of
wonders, he was offering to lend me his house !
'Signora,' he was saying, 'should you come to Italy whUst we
are in America, remember that our house always stands ready for
you. You need only fetch the key from my sister's, and it will be yours.'
'You can have the house for as long as you like whUst we are
away,' said Teresina.
'We should consider it an honour,' continued Nino. 'In any
case you can always reckon on a bedroom when we are here — we could
always put you up.'
'Of course for no payment,' said Teresina, so that that should
be quite clear.
I thanked them as best I could, deeply touched by this kindness.
There was no doubt they were in earnest. They were ready to lend
me their house and all their things.
'We mean it,' said Teresina simply. She gave me a triumphant
look. She was saying jubUantly to herself; 'Now we are quits.'
But I was feehng that after aU I was the debtor.
The next morning we left San Lorenzo, in plenty of time, so I
thought, to catch the 9.15. Fihp had taken our luggage down earher
in the morning and was to meet us at the station. Rosina, Pina, and
Angelina walked down with us.
About half-way Rosina stopped and pointed to some smoke in
the distance.

256 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
'Ah ! your train,' she cried, in a voice of consternation. 'You
wiU never catch it. In a quarter of an hour it wiU be at the station.
. . . Let us turn back.'
'We must try to catch it,' I answered, and began to run. We aU
ran. It was imperative to catch the train, which was the only one
that connected with the express on the main line. To lose it meant
twenty-four hours' delay.
We hurried down the road, which seemed ^terminable, Rosina
expostulating. She tripped up on the way, tore her dress, and cut
her knee, but she got up and ran on. Hot and breathless we arrived
at the station at the same moment as the train. I rushed to buy the
tickets. There was hardly a moment for fareweUs. Angelina hurriedly
kissed us on both cheeks. We mounted the train, and our luggage
was bundled in after us. I thrust aU the sUver in my purse into FUip's
big hand. There was no time to count out what I owed him for
bringing our luggage. The train began to move. One last handshake
through the window, and we were off.
I could never make up my mind whether it was Bortolo or Rosina
who put the clock back half an hour that morning.

CHAPTER XVIII
AMERICA
Since the days when Campia men first went out to America, con
ditions in the viUage had somewhat improved. There was more
ready money about. But hand-in-hand with better times went
increased expenses. The vines required a great deal more care since
the phyUoxera plague, and that meant greater expenditure in money
as weU as labour. Prices, too, had risen. Little wonder that the
men, finding the future to hold no promise, turned their thoughts
to America. A journey there was becoming as inevitable as military
service. But this money from America was by no means a solution to the
economic problem. A man seldom remained long enough to save
a sum sufficient for the next generation. He tried to make his savings
last as long as he hved — but his son would have to go to America
in his turn. And as long as the men came back and spent their
savings in Italy, the Government would hardly do otherwise than
encourage it. For in this way money was brought to the impoverished
viUages, and made Ufe there possible.
Unfortunately it is no longer so easy a matter to make money
in the States, and the stricter laws in regard to ahens passed by the
United States Government, put new difficulties in the way of would-be
fortune hunters. 257

258 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
I could not help wondering why nothing was done to improve
the conditions at home. The peasants were not at aU ignorant of
agriculture, and especially in the care of vines were quite up-to-date.
They did not seem to understand the care of live-stock so weU.
Bortolo frankly told me that fowls would die if kept in runs. No
doubt they would if he had the care of them. Moreover, the cost
of wire netting appalled him, and an incubator had never been seen
in Campia. It was on the vines and oUves the peasants pinned aU their faith.
Wine played such an important part in their diet that they could
not do without it. It took with them the place of tea and coffee.
It was the custom to grow vines — so they grew them. I do not
know what else they could have grown. Peasants cannot learn things
from books, and there was no one in the viUage to show them by
example nor any one who came there to teach. Perhaps there is
nothing it would pay to grow that would mature before the August
hailstorms. . . .
Charcoal-burning and lime-burning were both sources of additional
income, but they could only be phed hi moderation. As it was, the
copses were cut for charcoal as fast as they grew, and when it came
to lime-burning, the supply of lime exceeded the demand. Besides,
a lime-kiln needed such a quantity of fuel. The culture of silkworms
also helped to sweU the income of many families, but it was not work
undertaken wiUingly. No trade nor handicraft, other than spinning
and knitting, was practised in the viUage. The women did not
know how to weave, and it was exceptional if they were able to
make their own clothes. Although most houses had an oven for the
purpose, nobody baked bread, but perhaps lack of fuel accounted

AMERICA 259
for that. However, in every house, Italian paste was made for
home use, and, of course, wine.
The olives, which were never destroyed by the hail to such an
extent as the grapes, were taken to the co-operative society in the
town, where the oil was extracted. The olives brought by each were
kept apart and the oU extracted separately; some oUves being
richer in oU and therefore of more value. One luckless man, whose
trees stood on poor soU, and had suffered from drought, once brought
a cartload of oUves to the society. Not a drop of oU would they
yield — so, at least, I was told by Nino.
The other crops were maize, beans, and a small quantity of wheat.
The sweet chestnuts were usuaUy taken to market, but fruit for
home consumption, such as apples, pears, peaches, figs, almonds, and
cherries, were very plentiful. Mulberries were despised and never
picked. Strawberries were unknown.
The signor on the mountain, who was Campia's representative on
the Town Council, did not interest himseff in the economic problems
of the viUage. When I spoke to him about the hailstorm, he shrugged
his shoulders and said: 'They can go to America.' As far as he
was concerned the matter ended there.
In former times, some of the peasants had kept the wolf from
the door by carrying on a brisk trade in contraband. The frontier
was not far off. Nowadays it was too risky for any but the most
daring. One man, however, regularly visited the village, secretly
selling tobacco and sugar to thoroughly trustworthy customers. He
had got these things through from Switzerland— La Sguissera, as
Campia caUed it— recklessly incurring the penalty of imprisonment.
A peasant from the town, a man of the last generation, had made

260 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
a fortune dealing in contraband. Towards the end of his Ufe, he
was the richest man in the town, and built himself a beautiful house
there. He invested his money in several successful commercial
enterprises. He did a great deal for the poor, and supported various
charities. It was no secret that he had been a smuggler. The grateful
townsfolk have erected a monument to his memory. His daughters
still Uve in the beautiful house, and are said to be fabulously rich.
I became acquainted with their chauffeur. He was a languid Uttle
man, with dainty hands, adorned with rings, looking half asleep, but
reaUy very wide awake. He sometimes came to San Lorenzo with
his friends. I think he must have studied some branch of engineering,
for he had once made a tour in Wales, inspecting the coal mines.
After aU, it was not altogether impossible for a peasant to get on
and even do comparatively weU if he stayed at home. But it needed
hard work and rigid economy. It was necessary, however, in order
to reach this happy state, to work continuaUy. There could be no
thought of a rest on Sundays. Clothes would have to be patched,
food be of the simplest, and the spending of every palanca con
sidered. And it is hardly necessary to add that it was only possible
to those blessed with very small famiUes.
A man in the vUlage was working himself to death in this way.
Probably in his case, the desire for gain had passed from thrift to
avarice. There were not many who would work thus with no
pleasures but the counting of halfpence.
¦ ••••••
In the States, the peasants usuaUy stayed together with others
of their own nationality, so that they came very Uttle in contact
with Americans. Very few of them seemed to Uke the Ufe there,

AMERICA 261
and worked hard in order to make the stay as short as possible. Every
spare palanca was put by, and next to nothing spent on pleasures.
When Gioan, Nino, and Bortolo were in California, economy
prompted them to Uve in a cabin with three other Campia men.
They did their own housekeeping and cooking. Gioan baked the
bread. Nino and Bortolo were both ardent sportsmen — whenever
the larder was empty they would get up before sunrise, and bag a
few birds before going off to work in the gold mines. The life must
have agreed with them, for they grew fat and looked uncommonly
weU, as a photograph taken at the time testifies. Unfortunately that
weU-nourished look had soon worn off on their return to Campia.
Polenta is fattening, but it does not nourish like bread.
When the Fourth of July came round, the six men thought they
would enjoy themselves, and agreed to spend the day in the nearest
town, and in order to save the raUway fare, decided to walk. I think
they must have had a very hazy idea of the distance. Campia
fashion, they set off at dawn. They walked on and on . . . and on.
It was not before midday that they reached the town. Exhausted,
hungry, and thirsty, they found their way to an eating house, and
afterwards to a shady spot where they slept.
They woke up just in time to catch the last train home.
Thus passed the Fourth of July, the only holiday untU Christmas,
for they worked both week-days and Sundays.
Christmas Day they decided to spend at home. Feehng home
sick, they thought they would celebrate the occasion by drinking
some wine. Some real red wine, such as they bad not tasted for
months. They put their money together and bought some. It was
port. Thinking of la bella Italia they tossed it off as they would

262 AMONG ITALIAN PEASANTS
the wine of their own country. The result was lamentable. They
were horrified to find that only a httle of it made them drunk. . . .
In October, shortly after we left for England, seven men left
Campia for America. They were Agostino, who was now old enough
to travel alone, Marco, who had been the signor's cowman, Faustino's
youngest son, who had just finished his mihtary training, Biscotti,
and an uncle of Giacomi's. These five went direct to New York.
Stefen did not go. Perhaps Dominica, who was always ready to
give a helping hand to her relatives, made it possible for him to stay.
Nino and Bertoldi — both one-eyed men — saUed for Canada.
They worked their way south, to Buffalo, where they succeeded in
crossing the frontier. Then they made their way to Pennsylvania,
where Raimondo, Gaetano, and many others, were at work. They
arrived at Christmas, very much the worse for wear, having suffered
terribly from the cold, for which they were most unsuitably clad.
'We had all sorts of adventures,' wrote Nino, 'here it is less bad,
but it is much better to be in Campia — because of these benedette
palanche I have to put up with every sort of trial.'
Fortunately there was plenty of work, so for a time aU went weU.
The foUowing March, Nino was able to send his wife the money for
her fare, and early in April she made the journey with her httle boy.
Poor Teresina Uked America even less than she had expected.
'This is an ugly place,' she wrote from the coal mines of Penn
sylvania. 'Here we are in a desert, deprived of every amusement.
I do not wiUingly remain in America.'
Nino's temporary good fortune soon turned. Poor feUow, he was
always so unlucky that if he had taken to hair-dressing, people

AMERICA 263
would surely have been born without heads. In August war broke
out in Europe. As a result the coal mines were partiaUy closed.
For a time Nino worked three days a week. Afterwards he had no
work at aU, but Uved on his savings, feehng more and more desperate
as they dwindled away. Teresina gave birth to a baby, another
httle boy, red-haired like his exceUent aunt, the wife of Giacom.
Nino was still without work. In despair they moved to another
town, but fresh disappointments awaited them there. As a last
hope Nino borrowed money, and they crossed the continent to
California, to the gold mines where he had worked during his former
stay. On the day of arrival Battisti feU iU and for a fortnight added
to the anxiety of his already distracted parents. Then he recovered.
Nino found a job at last, but not a very remunerative one. Many
months and perhaps years wUl pass before he wiU be able to bring
Teresina back to Campia. Meanwhile the house stands temptingly
empty — but it is too near the frontier for us to venture there.

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