I have been lately reminded of this manifest impression of time on the form of a legend by examining several traditions which had been collected for me, in Florence, by a woman alluded to in my “Etruscan Roman Traditions.” She is ever impecunious, and when reduced to living on air, like the wolves of François Villon, waylays me in the road, when a few francs change owner, and a promise is passed that traditional folk-lore shall be collected and written, as an equivalent. Then my agent goes about, among old women, into Florentine slums, and out into peasant homes, and anon delivers to me sheets of note-paper on which, in very pronounced Tuscan, is written a tale or two, cosa being given as chavusa, and many words divided, the first half tacked to its predecessor, and the last half to its follower, as certain worms, when dissected, amicably unite with pieces of their neighbors.
When I lately met my collector, she was, by her own account, going full speed to utter ruin,—ad inopiam, velis remisque properat,—with all sail set. She had been cited to be fined by the police, her landlord had warned her for a month’s arrears, all her clothes were in pawn,—she had in the world only a cent, and that was counterfeit. Result—five francs surrendered, and a week after sundry writings received.
One of these was called Oldegonda (Aldegonda), the Spirit of Joy. That there might be no mistake, the writer had put a real ivy leaf in the MS., partly to serve as an object lesson, and partly to aid in conjuring the Spirit, or in attracting her favor. And thus ran the legend of Oldegonda, la fata della Ellera (allegría), or the Fairy of Joy:—
Oldegonda, or Aldegonda, fairy of the country (della campagna), was found in a field when but a few days old. One day a contadino, passing by a forest, discovered a little animal which clung to his leg, and this creature was a hedge-hog, which led him to a mass of ivy, in which he found sleeping a beautiful little infant girl. Taking it home to his wife, he bade her treat it as their own child, and also be kind to the little animal,—che non le maneba altro che la favella,—who needed only speech to show a human soul.
But the woman disobeyed her husband, and was wont to kick the hedge-hog, and neglect Aldegonda, as the foundling had been called. For the woman had a daughter of her own, who grew in ugliness with every year, even as Aldegonda grew in beauty and gentleness, so that the former hated the latter with all her heart. And one day, when they were in the woods, the little hedge-hog led Aldegonda to the piles of ivy, where she sat in state. But the daughter of the peasant, seized with jealous rage, that the hedge-hog was only attentive to the other, cried,—
Siete due stregone!
Tu sei le bella strega
La strega dell’ ellera!
E tu spinone,
Tu sei il stregone!