Italian Yesterdays, vol. 2

by Mrs. Hugh Fraser

When the time comes to go, you give Sposa what you think right, and she takes it rather unwillingly, but very gratefully, and as you ride away she and her girls stand at the door and wave their hands and say, “La Madonna v’accompagni”; and the boys, young rascals, will race your horses to the foot of the hill or the turn in the road, knowing well that you will give them a few coppers for their very own as soon as you are out of sight of “Mammà,” who, you may be sure, will never hear of the transaction.

If one is an invited guest at some important farmhouse, an elaborate feast is prepared, and there are heart-burnings if the guests do not eat heartily of everything. I remember once going with the Cavalettis to the “bene” of one of their tenants, for dinner—a really mediæval repast which staggered even my robust young appetite. It began with the “polentata,” a curious first course which is de rigueur in Sabina when guests of honour are being entertained. The chief table was already set out with a dozen kinds of fresh and dried fruits, “alicetti” (the tiny local sardines), smoked ham, and home-made liqueurs, all intended to stimulate the appetite. But before sitting down to that we were led to a small pinewood table at one side of the room and requested to take our seats around it. Then the mistress of the house advanced with a huge cauldron of polenta, which, to my consternation, she poured out on the freshly scrubbed table-top, so deftly that it exactly covered the entire surface. I stared, wondering what was to happen next; but my companions took no notice of me, and the Marchese, whom his peasants adored—as did everybody else who knew him—leant back in his chair and discussed the condition of the game in the woods with “Sor Giacomo,” while the wife, a piece of new string in her hands, watched the polenta cool and fix to about the consistency of cream cheese. Then, suddenly leaning over my shoulder, she cut it swiftly across and across with the string in symmetrical divisions nearly a foot square, one for each person, solemnly handed us each a spoon, and, bowing gracefully, begged us to eat!

It was a searching preparation for a hearty meal!

On another occasion we were invited to dinner at the house of a country notable many miles away, but still connected with the Cavaletti domains. It was early autumn, and we had an enchanting ride in the bright cool morning through the deep woods, where the chestnut burrs came padding down on the moss with soft thuds as we passed, and here and there some delicate ash or birch was already flaming into orange with the first touch of the frost. They looked like torches alight in the forest. They are so deep and green, those woods of Sabina, rich with oak and chestnut, elm and beech, a fairyland of moss and fern below, a world of sun and shadow above! The flowers are very delicate, too, harebells like thin amethyst, and the dainty wild pansy that lifts her little startled head like a Louis XV beauty who has lost her way; and there are stars of Bethlehem, growing always apart and lonely, five white petals with a touch of greenish gold for a heart, swinging in the breeze on a long translucent stem; and wild strawberries—snowy flower and crimson berry springing side by side among the broad trefoil leaves; and wild garlic, a mass of spotless bloom, and magic elder with great posies of perfumed level rime; and fern so tall that one could lose oneself in it, seeking for the threaded turquoise of forget-me-nots that grow beneath; and thousands more, fragile, exquisite things blooming in the deep peace of the undergrowth, while far overhead the strong tree-tops laugh in the wind and take all the sun.

I remember how sorry I was when we left the woods behind that day and reached a tiny walled town with, of course, a Church, a piazza, a fountain, and one big house standing aggressively square to the street, a typical Italian house with as many windows as could possibly be put into it, all green-shuttered, and most of them balconied. That was all I saw, for as we drew rein at the entrance we were surrounded by the whole family, all grown-up men and women, who lifted us girls down from our saddles, took possession of all our belongings, and all but carried us up to a big cool room on the first floor, with many expressions of sympathy for our supposed fatigue after the long ride. I believe they thought us rather daring for venturing ourselves on the shaggy mountain ponies at all, for few Italian women in the country ever mount anything more frisky than a tried and sober donkey.

Having settled us on the “canapé”—a very large sofa covered with green and scarlet checks—and provided us with rosolio and cakes to keep us good, all the ladies disappeared together. The men were buzzing around the Marchese, who, like the lover of horses he was, insisted on seeing the animals housed and fed; then a kind of electric thrill ran through the house, the Signora and her daughters came to fetch us from the salone, and everybody moved towards the dining-room. I was a little surprised to see so few seats at the table, which was covered with every kind of dainty and very prettily arranged; but the matter was explained when it became evident that the ladies of the family were to wait upon us and their own men in approved feudal fashion. I say “ladies” advisedly, for these were people as far removed from the peasant class as they considered themselves from that of the Marchese. They had never worn the costume of the contadine; they belonged to the great respectable middle class, from which most of the professions are supplied; both men and women spoke without a trace of dialect, and their manners were perfect—but then, thank Heaven, Italy is the natural home of good manners! I shall never forget the gentle, unobtrusive sweetness of those women, as they moved about in perfect silence, in their black Sunday frocks and little bits of ancient jewellery, attending to all our wants so carefully and deftly, but refusing to take any part in the conversation. That was not what was expected of them!

The long elaborate feast had gone from “ante-pasto” and vermouth right through to the sweets; my girl friend and I looked at each other questioningly. We were growing fidgetty and wondered who was to give the signal to rise, since we were the only women at the table—when, to our dismay and despair, the whole meal began all over again! Course after course, in regular sequence, we had to sit it through and pretend to taste the new varieties of fish, flesh, and fowl which came in a steady stream from the kitchen. It was like some crazy dream! I think we had sat at that table nearly four hours before we were invited to take our coffee in the salone. The sun was sinking then, and, to our intense relief, the Marchese announced that we must be moving or we should not reach home that night. The farewells were elaborate, and our gratitude for all the trouble the dear people had taken was very real; they packed a whole hamper of ancient Roman dainties for us to take along lest we should faint by the way; but our joy when we got into the open air, with our faces towards home, was inexpressible. As we entered the woods—less alluring in the dusk than in the fresh morning hours—a shadowy fourth joined our party, a smiling little man on a very small donkey. In two minutes the Marchese had made friends with him and called out to us in English: “Girls, think up some compliments! This is the man who cooked the dinner. They sent twenty miles for him—and he wants to know if you liked it!”

A woman noted for the charm and variety of her entertainments once said to me: “I do try to give respectable parties, but somehow they always turn into school feasts!” I am afraid the same kind of thing happens to me in regard to serious subjects. With the best intentions in the world I start to tell the story of some great person who has kindled my admiration—and in the middle of the tale the sun strikes on my page—a child laughs across the street—or some old refrain comes lilting to my ears, and farewell to the historic train of thought! My hero or saint recedes into the shadows and relinquishes the canvas to a thousand amiable little sprites of memory, who hold it till they have frisked through the very last step of their dance!

I do not know why, on this sunny July morning, there should rise before me a picture of a dark old house in the steep street of a Sabina town, where we drew rein after a long day’s ride to ask for rooms. The night was falling, there was no inn in the place, and somebody had told us that perhaps the people here would take us in. Our party was that with which I left Castel Gandolfo some chapters ago—my stepfather, Marion, and the Hon. and Rev. G—— C——, who had already several times saved my life by stopping my runaway steed, a wall-eyed old crock given to me because he looked so reassuringly tame. He was quiet enough at that moment; we were both stiff and tired; and I slid to the ground, resolved not to go a step further, whatever the people of the house should say. The padrona came down and looked us over critically. Yes, she could take in the gentlemen if they would all sleep in one room, but it was impossible to receive the signorina—there was really nowhere to put her! I replied by walking into the house, and sitting down on the first chair I could find, and defying her to turn me out. She stood and looked at me, considering. “Well,” she said at last, “there is a room—it belongs to my little boy—perhaps he will not come home to-night. Yes, you may sleep there, Poverina! I see you are tired out.”

She led me down a long twisting passage and threw open a door, holding the brass “lucerna” high to light me in. I saw a bed and a chair, and what I took to be a highly variegated wallpaper. “It will do beautifully,” I said. “Tell the gentlemen that I don’t want any supper—I am going straight to bed!”