2
Another version of this story was told me, or rather an entirely different story embodying the same purport, which, though full of fun, turned on the double meanings of common words of household use too homely for the most part, and some too coarse to please the English reader. The husband, among other things, tells his wife to prepare dinner for a friend and to mind she has ‘brocoli strascinati’ and ‘uovi spersi,’[8] as they are his favourite dishes. ‘Strascinare’ is to drag anything along, but is technically used to express brocoli chopped up and fried, the commonest Roman dish. ‘Spergere’ is to scatter, but the word is used among common people to express eggs poached in broth, a favourite delicacy; (eggs poached as in England are called ‘uova in bianco’). The wife, taking the words literally, drags the brocoli all over the house and all over the yard, till it is so nasty it cannot be eaten, instead of frying it, and scatters the eggs all about the place instead of poaching them, and so on through a number of other absurdities difficult to explain in detail. In the end the husband falls ill, partly from her bad cooking and partly from annoyance; a doctor is called in, who tells her (among other directions which she similarly misunderstands), that he must have nothing but ‘brodo,’[9] but she is to make it ‘alto, alto.’ ‘Alto’ is literally ‘high,’ but he uses it for ‘good,’ ‘strong;’ she, however, understands him to mean her to make it in a high place, and goes up on the roof to make it. When the husband asks for it she says she cannot get it for him then as it is up on the roof.
Ultimately the husband dies of vexation.
There is a very familiar German story which everyone who has any acquaintance with the people must have met, of a lady who complains to her servant that the tea has not ‘drawn,’ and the simple girl answers, ‘It is not my fault, I have drawn it all about the place enough I’m sure’ (Ich hab’ es genug umhergezogen).
[1] ‘La Sposa Cece,’ the simple wife. ‘Cece’ among the common people seems to mean pretty nearly the same as ‘tonto,’ ‘silly,’ ‘idiotic;’ in this place more exactly ‘simple’ or ‘half-witted.’ [↑]
[2] It is a characteristic of the Roman people that as a rule they never call people by their names; the ‘casato’ or married name, and the ‘cognome’ or family name, are used indifferently when such a name is called in request at all, by married people. If they must give a name to a stranger it is always the Christian name that comes first to their lips; among themselves, however, it is seldom the genuine name that is used. They have some ‘sopranome’ or nick-name for everybody, or at least a shortening of the Christian name, as ‘Checca’ and ‘Checco’ for Francesca and Francesco; ‘Pippo’ for Filippo; ‘Pepe’ for Giuseppe; ‘Cola’ for Niccola; ‘Maso’ for Tomaso; ‘Teta’ for Teresa; ‘Lalla’ for Adelaide; ‘Lina’ for Carolina; ‘Tuta’ for Geltrude; the abbreviations for Giovanni are innumerable.
But what they most love to designate people by is a description of their persons. When you come home from your walk, your servant does not tell you Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so have called, but it will be ‘Quel signore vecchio ingobbato’ (that old hump-backed kind of gentleman), if he be the least grey and high-shouldered, however young he may be; or ‘Quel bel giovane alto’ (that tall, handsome, young gentleman), whatever his age, if he be only bien conservé. Then ‘Quella signora alta, secca, che veste di lutto’ (that tall thin lady dressed in mourning). ‘Quella signora bella bionda, giovane’ (that lady, pretty, fair, young). Or ‘Quello che porta il brillante’ (he who wears a brilliant), because the same friend happened to have a diamond stud in his cravat one day; or ‘Quella contessa che veste di cilestro,’ because the lady happened once to wear a blue dress, and so on, with all manner of signs and tokens which it may take you half-an-hour to recognise a person by, if you ever make it out at all. Or, if there is no distinctive mark of the kind to seize upon, it will be ‘Quel signore,’ or ‘quella signora di Palazzo,’ or ‘Via,’ or ‘Piazza’ So-and-so. And this not from the difficulty of catching a foreign name, because it is still more in vogue when designating their own people; if you are asking for the address of a servant, a tailor, a dressmaker, &c., it is in vain you try to make them out by the name, you must do your best to describe them, and then they will break out with an exclamation hitting it off for themselves: ‘Ah! si, quel scimunito’ (that silly-looking fellow); ‘quel gobbo’ (that high-shouldered fellow—lit. ‘hunchbacked’); ‘quella strega’ (that ugly old woman, cunning woman—lit. ‘witch’); ‘quella bella giovane alta’ (that tall handsome girl); ‘quella donna bassetta’ (that short little woman), for with their descriptions as with their names they must super-add a diminutive or a qualification, and ‘basso’ (short) is pretty sure to be rendered by ‘bassetto,’ ‘piccola’ (little) by ‘piccinina,’ ‘vecchio’ (old) by ‘vecchietto.’ ‘Quella scimia’ or ‘scimietta’ (that old woman, or that little old woman who looks like a monkey). ‘Quella donna anziana’ (that respectable old woman). ‘Quella donniciuola’ (that nasty little old woman, contemptible old woman). ‘Quel ragazzino, tanto carino, tanto caruccio’ (that nice boy, that very nice boy). ‘Quel vecchietto’ (that nice old man); and in this way the hero of this story is designated as ‘The man who has a daughter to marry.’ [↑]
[3] ‘Boccione,’ a large coarse glass bottle commonly used in Rome for carrying wine. When it is covered with twisted rushes—like the oil-flasks that come to England—it is called a ‘damigiana,’ a young lady, a little lady. [↑]
[4] ‘Mettetevelo addietro.’ Lit. ‘Put it behind you,’ a way of saying ‘Never mind it,’ ‘don’t care about it.’ But the woman is supposed to be so foolish that she understands it literally. [↑]
[5] The Italian custom of the newly married couples continuing to live with the parents of one or other of them is here brought in. [↑]
[6] ‘Tegame,’ a flat earthen pan much in vogue in Roman kitchens; ‘ova in tegame’ is a favourite and not a bad dish. A little fresh butter is oiled, and the eggs are dropped into it as for poaching, and very slowly cooked in it; when scarcely set they are reckoned done. [↑]
[7] Such notions are not altogether so impossible as they seem. I myself heard a very intelligent little boy one day say to his mother, ‘Mama, I should so like to see a horse’s egg.’ ‘A horse’s egg, my dear—there are no such things,’ was the reply of course. ‘Oh yes, there must be,’ rejoined the child, ‘because I’ve heard Pa several times talk about finding a mare’s nest.’ [↑]
[8] ‘Uovo,’ by the way, is a word with which great liberties are taken. The correct singular is ‘uovo’ and the plural ‘uova,’ but it is very common to make the plural in ‘i’ and also to say ‘uova’ for the singular, and ‘uove’ for plural, while the initial ‘u’ is most usually dropped out. [↑]
[9] ‘Brodo’ is beef-tea or clear broth with nothing in it; broth with vermicelli or anything else in it is ‘minestra;’ ‘zuppa,’ which sounds most like ‘soup,’ is rather ‘sop,’ and when applied to broth, means strictly only broth with bread in it, from ‘inzuppare,’ to steep, soak, or sop; but it is also used for broth with anything else in it besides bread, but never without anything in it. [↑]
THE FOOLISH WOMAN.[1]
There was once a couple well-to-do in the world, who had one only daughter.
The son of a neighbour came to ask her in marriage, and as the father thought he would do, the father asked him to dinner, and sent the daughter down into the cellar to draw the wine.
‘If I am married,’ said the girl to herself, and began to cry as she drew the wine, ‘I shall have a child, and the child will be a boy, and the boy will be called Petrillo, and by-and-by he will die, and I shall be left to lament him, and to cry all day long “Petrillo! Petrillo! where are you!”’ and she went on crying, and the wine went on running over.
Then the mother went down to see what kept her so long, and she repeated the story all over to her, and the mother answered, ‘Right you are, my girl!’ and she, too, began to cry, and the wine was all the time running over.
Then the father went down, and they repeated the story to him, and he, too, said, ‘Right you are!’ and he, too, began to cry, and the wine all the time went on running all over the floor.
Then the young man also goes down to see what is the matter, and stops the wine running, and makes them all come up.
‘But,’ he says, ‘I’ll not marry the girl till I have wandered over the world and found other three as simple as you.’ He dines with them, and sets out on his search.
The first night he goes to bed in an inn, and in the morning he hears in the room next him such lamenting and complaining that he goes in to see what is the matter. A man is sitting by the side of the bed lamenting because he cannot get his stockings on.
The young man says, ‘Take hold of one side this way, and the other side that way, and pull them up.’
‘Ah, to be sure!’ cries the man, and gives him a hundred scudi for the benefit he has done him.
‘There’s one of my three simpletons, at all events,’ says the young man, and journeys on.
The next day, at the inn where he spends the night, he hears a noise bru, bru! goes in to see, and finds a man fruitlessly trying to put walnuts into a sack by sticking a fork into them.
‘You’ll never do it that way,’ says the young man; and he shows him how to scoop them up with both his hands and so pour them in.
‘Ah, to be sure!’ answers the man, and gives him a hundred scudi for the favour he has done him.
‘There is my second simpleton,’ says the young man, and goes further.
The third day——Ah! I can’t remember what he meets the third day; but it is something equally stupid, and he gets another hundred scudi, and goes back and marries the girl as he had promised.
When they had been married some time, he goes out for two or three days to shoot.
‘I’ll come with you,’ says the wife.
‘Well, it’s not quite the thing,’ answered he; ‘but perhaps it’s better than leaving you at home; but mind you pull the door after you.’
‘Oh yes, of course,’ answers the simple wife, and pulls it so effectually that she lifts it off its hinges and carries it along with her.
When they had gone some way he looks back and sees her carrying the door.
‘What on earth are you bringing the door along for!’ he cries.
‘You told me to pull it after me,’ answers she.
‘Of course, I only meant you to pull it to, to make the house secure,’ he says.
‘If merely pulling it to, made the house secure, how much securer it must be when I pull it all this way!’ answers she.
He finds it useless to reason with her, and they go on. At night they climb up into a tree to sleep, the woman still carrying the door with her. A band of robbers come and count their gains under the tree; the woman from sheer weariness, and though she believes it will rouse the robbers to come and kill them, drops the door upon them. They take it for an earthquake and run away. The man and his wife then gather up the money, and are rich for the rest of their lives.