# Folk-Lore Record/Volume 1/Some Italian Folk-lore

SOME ITALIAN FOLK-LORE.
ENDRILLON and Le Chat Botté, which in Perrault's pages have charmed Europe for centuries, are known to have their doubles in the Cenerentola and Gagliuso of the Pentamerone. This fact is of itself something more than an indication that there must be, as between French and Italian folklore, a connection which should extend beyond these charming little romances. More general evidence, however, upon this point has been hitherto wanting.
But the question thus raised is no longer to be discussed upon such restricted material. The recent compilation of Italian folk-lore by Signor Comparetti and his confrères has furnished satisfactory proof that between the folk-lore of the two countries there is a close and well-defined affinity. On this and many other grounds the collection to which I allude is a much more acceptable contribution to this kind of literature than the pleasant tales of Basile and others, though confessedly founded upon such old-world stories. For, unlike the Pentamerone, the narrations of Signor Comparetti and his friends have been taken down in the best faith from rustic tale-tellers in every quarter of the peninsula.
In his pages we of course miss (for this very reason), though not altogether, the arch felicity of Perrault and the sparkling turns of Basile. But, even where these fail, we know that in what Signor Comparetti has taken down there is neither interpolation nor fraud. His tales are the genuine traditions of the country side. In them there is no such literary figment as Mr. Keightley, by his own confession, ​palmed off on Mr. Crofton Croker, for publication in his Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland, and which the unsuspecting Brothers Grimm did their best to disseminate. In the interests of truth and philosophy, the simple idyl about the Cluricaune, which Molly Cogan told Mr. Coote of Kilmallock, heavily outweighs in worth the false, though brilliantly-told, story of the "Soul Cages," upon which Mr. Keightley wasted his talents.
Signor Comparetti's collection consists of seventy tales. With it as a whole I have no business at present, my only intention being to deal with those stories which have their counterparts in France, and not with all of these.
The Cenerentola.—There was once a man and a woman that had two daughters, one more beautiful than the other: one of these girls kept always in the chimney corner, and for this they called her the Cenerentola. Her mother did not mind this at all, and every morning sent her out with some ducks that she had, and gave her a pound of hemp to spin. One morning, being with the ducks, she arrives at a ditch, and sends them into the water, telling them in a rhyme of her own composition not to drink it if it is troubled, but if it is clear to drink emulously. Scarcely had she said the words than she sees a little old woman standing before her. "Oh, what art thou doing here?" says the little old woman. "I have led these ducks out, and I have got to spin this pound of flax." "Oh, why do they make thee do these things?" "It is mother's wish." "Oh, does she never send thy sister out with the ducks?" "Never." "Come, my little dear, I will make thee a present. Take this comb, and try and comb thyself." She gave her a comb, and the Cenerentola first combed herself on one side, and whilst she was combing herself corn came down out of her hair in quantities, and the ducks set to work eating it until ​they could eat no longer (a crepapancia). Then she combs herself on the other side, and there came down out of her hair brilliants and rubies. Then the old woman takes out a box and gives it to her, saying, "Come, put the brilliants and rubies in this, take them home and hide them well in your little trunk." "But now I have got to spin the hemp," said the girl. "Don't give thyself trouble. I am thinking of that," and she strikes with a little wand that she had in her hand and says, "I command that the hemp be spun," and in an instant the hemp was spun. "Now go home," said the little old woman, and return here every day and thou wilt find me." The Cenerentola returned and said nothing, and kept always in the chimney corner. Every morning she returned to the place and saw the little old woman, and the little old woman made her comb herself, and spun the hemp for her. One morning, after the hemp was spun, the little old woman said to her, "Listen, this evening the king's son gives a ball, and he has invited thy father, thy mother, and thy sister, and they will tell thee in jest that thou may'st go to it if thou likest, but say that thou dost not wish to go to it. Here is a little bird, hide it in thy room, and this evening, when they shall have gone away, go to the little bird, and say to him thus: 'Little bird Verdirio, make me more beautiful than I can conceive,' and thou wilt see thyself all at once ready dressed for the ball; and take also this little wand, strike with it, and there will appear a coach. Go to the ball and no one will recognise thee, and the king's son will dance with thee; but mind, when they shall go to the refreshment room, call the coach and go away, taking care that nobody sees where thou goest. Then return to the little bird and say to him thus: 'Little bird Verdirio, make me more ugly than I can conceive,' and thou wilt be the same as before. Go back to thy chimney corner and say nothing." The girl took the little bird, carried it home and hid it in the trunk. The mother, when she saw her come back, said to her, "Thou knowest we are invited to the king's son's ball. "Would'st thou wish to go there too?" "Not I indeed;," answered she; "amuse yourselves while I stay at home." And in the evening they went away and left her by the side of the ashes. They were scarcely out of the house when she ​goes up to the little bird, and does all that the little old woman had told her; and when she was at the ball the king's son danced with her and fell in love with her. But when the time for the refreshment came, she enters her coach and away home. When the King's son lost sight of her, he had her sought for everywhere, but she was not found, and no one knew who she was, and where she lived. Hoping at least that she would come again if he gave another ball, the king's son made it known to all the guests before they went away that tomorrow evening he invited them all to another ball.
The father, mother, and sister return home and find the Cenerentola in the chimney corner. "It has been a lovely ball," said the mother to her, "and there was a lady there that was a beauty, and it is not known who she was. If thou had'st only seen how beautiful she was!" "That does not concern me at all," answered the Cenerentola. "See," said the mother, "to-morrow there will be another ball, thou too can'st go to it." "No, no; I will stop in the chimney corner and be, comfortable." Next morning she goes out with the ducks as usual, and finds the old woman. "It went off well," said she; "this evening go there again and do as thou did'st yesterday. But mind, thou wilt see that they will follow thee when thou goest. Then strike with the little wand, and give the command: 'Money.' Take the money and throw it away from the coach. They will stop to pick it up and will lose sight of thee." When the evening was come the father and mother and sister went to the ball and left her at home. The little bird made her become even more beautiful than before. She went, and the king's son was quite pleased when he saw her and danced with her. He had given orders to the servants to keep their eyes upon her. Accordingly, at the refreshment time, when she got into her coach, they began running after it, but she threw down so much money, and they kept picking it up, that they lost sight of her. The king's son in despair determined to give a third ball the next day. The mother, on her return, told the Cenerentola that the next day there would be a third ball, but she pretended not to wish to know about it. Next morning she goes out with the ducks and finds the old woman. "So far it has succeeded, but mind, this evening ​thou shalt have a dress with little gold bells and little gold slippers also; thou wilt see them follow thee; throw a slipper and money at them; but now they will discover where thou goest in." Accordingly, when it was evening and she remained behind, the only one at home, the little bird gave her a magnificent dress covered with little gold bells, and also little gold slippers that were a wonder. The king's son danced with her and became more and more in love with her. When she was about to get into her coach as usual, the servants followed her at a distance; she got in and went off, and the servants after her. She threw out money and one of her gold slippers. But the servants had been told by the king that if they did not discover where that lady lived they should suffer death, so they did not pay any attention to the money. One picked up the slipper, and they all ran so fast that at last they saw where the coach stopped. They told this to the king and they brought him the slipper, and the king rewarded them well. The morning after, the girl goes out with the ducks and meets the old woman. The latter says to her, "Thou wilt have to make haste this morning, the king (so) is coming to fetch thee." She straightway gave her the comb and the box, and spun the hemp and sent hei home. The mother had scarcely seen her when she said, "How is it thou comest back so soon this morning?" "Go and see the ducks how full they are," answered she. The mother saw how full the ducks were and was silent. At noon the king's son arrives, and all run down except the Cenerentola. While they are below she goes to the little bird and says, "Little bird Verdiriò, make me more beautiful than I can conceive." And the little bird gives her back the dress with the little gold bells and the one gold slipper for her foot. The king, meanwhile, asks the man, "How many daughters have you?" "One, only; here she is." "What! you have no other?" "Yes, your majesty, I have another, but I am ashamed to say she is always in the chimney corner; she is all over ashes." "Be that as it may, go and call her here," said the prince; and the father called her, "Ohi, Cenerentola, come down for a bit." She comes down, and the little bells at each step make a jingling noise. "See, stupid," said the mother, "she has dragged down the shovel and the tongs." But ​she had scarcely appeared, beautifully dressed as she was, when all were struck with astonishment (rimasero). The prince said, "There she is, she whom I was in search of. She lacks nothing but one little gold slipper. Let us see if perchance this is the one" And he took out of his pocket the little gold slipper and gave it to Cenerentola, who blushed deeply and put it on her foot, and saw it was really her own. Then the king's son asked her in marriage, and the father and mother could not say no. The Cenerentola took with her the little bird and all her riches which she had had from the little old woman and went away with the king's son. The marriage was magnificently celebrated, and they gave the father, mother, and sister money, and treated them well, as if they had always been kind to her.
This tale comes from Pisa. It is an old tradition of Tuscany, at the same time that it is an equally old wives' tale of France—of Brittany, where Perrault heard it, and committed it to writing.
The reader will have seen that the Cenerentola's slipper is of gold in this Italian version, as it is in its German form, probably taken direct from Italy, while Perrault has given the improbable reading of "pantoufle de verre." This reading Mr. Planche has justified as "representing allegorically the extreme fragility of woman's reputation and the prudence of flight before it is too late." But, if folk-lore has such deep meaning in one case, it must be equally profound in another. What, then, is shadowed forth in a gold slipper?
More probably, however, "pantoufle de verre" is only an invention, or perhaps a mistake, of M. Perrault, for pantoufle de vair.
Ugly Gourd.—A certain king was so grieved at the approaching end of his queen, that he vowed he would never marry again. The dying queen begged him not to make so rash a vow, as they had only one little girl, and it was his duty to provide an heir to the throne. "Take another wife," said she, "who shall be your equal, and whose finger this ring shall fit."
Saying this she took off her wedding ring, and, giving it to her husband, expired. The king threw it into a little box, and locked it up in a chest, and thought no more of it. One day when the princess, who ​had then attained the age of seventeen, was rummaging through this chest she found the ring, which fitted her finger, and ran in great glee to show it him. The king, however, thinking that this was what his wife had prophesied, immediately proposed marriage to his daughter. The horrified young princess seeks the advice of her nurse, who recommends that she shall promise to marry her father, provided he shall present her with such and such dresses,—dresses which the nurse thought it impossible to procure. They are, however, all in turn procured, and the princess has no further excuse to offer, and the marriage is fixed. Nothing remains but to run away in disguise from the palace, and this is arranged by the faithful nurse. The disguise was this: the princess should put on a cambric dress, stitched all over with pieces of dried gourd. When she had put this on she looked like a great walking pumpkin. Besides this the princess took with her some money and the three beautiful dresses that her father had given her. The princess and the nurse left the palace, and travelled many days, until they found themselves in a city. The king's son, who was standing at the gate of the palace with his knights, saw the pair, and was so astonished at the princess's appearance that he sent after them to inquire of the nurse, "Whence come you? who is she? what's her name?" The nurse replies, "Ah, your majesty, we come from a distance seeking our fortunes. She that is with me is named Ugly Gourd." The prince is so amused at this that he offers to take Ugly Gourd into his service as a stable-help and scullion. The offer is readily accepted. The nurse went away about her business, and the princess commenced her new duties. The prince became very familiar with Ugly Gourd, finding her clever and amusing in conversation. One day he says to her in the kitchen that it is his custom to give three balls every year, and asks her to come to the first; as he said so he tapped her knees with the fire-shovel which she had just taken up. "You are joking," says Ugly Gourd; "who am I, to go to a ball?" On the night of the first ball there was a great assemblage of ladies and gentlemen dancing away as hard as they could, when suddenly a lady enters in a silk dress the colour of the air and bestrewn with the stars of the heavens, with a face of paradise, and ​fair hair all down her shoulders. Everybody is struck, the prince especially. He runs up to her, gives her his arm, dances with her, and devours her all the time with his eyes. He asks her her name, who she is, and where she comes from; but all he can get from her is, "I am from Rap Shovel upon the Knees." The prince cannot make out where this country is, but to show his pleasure at meeting her he gives her a gold hairpin, which he then and there puts into her tresses. He turns away to take some refreshment, and she avails herself of the opportunity to go away unnoticed by any one. The next day the prince, who from anxiety and love has never been to bed, looks up Ugly Gourd in the kitchen, and tells her all that has happened. "To-night, however, comes off my second ball, and if the unknown lady makes her appearance again I will find out who she is." He then invites Ugly Gourd to the ball, and whilst he is speaking taps her over the shoulders with his riding-whip. In the evening, when the ball is at its best, enters the same lady as before, but more splendidly dressed than ever, for she has on a silk dress the colour of seawater, with ever so many goldfishes swimming about in it. She creates as much sensation as before, and the king's son goes up to her, gives her his arm, dances with her, and asks her name, her condition, and where she comes from. Her only answer is that her country is called "Rap Whip upon the Shoulders." The prince gives her a stone ring with his name engraved on the stone. Ugly Gourd afterwards gets away unnoticed, as she did on the first occasion. The next morning the king's son, who is completely in love (innamorato cotto), goes down into the kitchen again, and tells Ugly Gourd all that has happened, and whilst speaking raps her over the feet with the tongs which he has taken up. The third ball came off, and Ugly Gourd made a greater sensation than even at the second, by wearing a dress interwoven with little bells and chains of gold. To the old question where she came from, she answers, "The country where I come from is called Rap Tongs upon the Feet." At this answer the king's son disconsolately bent his head over his hands, and when he raised it the lady was gone. Before this he gave her a medallion portrait of himself. He now fell ill, and would neither eat nor drink. He took to his bed, the Court physicians were called in, and saw that it was melancholy, and there was no cure ​for that. One morning he sent for his mamma, and told her he had a wish. "What is it, my dear?" said she. "I want some herb soup, and Ugly Gourd must make it." It was no use expostulating with him upon the unfitness of Ugly Gourd to make it. He insisted that she should. Accordingly the queen mother went down into the kitchen, where she found Ugly Gourd, and gave her the order. When the queen was gone away Ugly Gourd made the soup, and, having put the gold hairpin into it, sent it up by a servant. When he had taken the soup, and found the hairpin in it, he asked for more, and twice soup was sent up to him, the one containing his ring and the other his portrait. Upon this he gets up, goes downstairs, and asks Ugly Gourd who gave these. " I received them from your own hands," says she. The whole story then comes out. The prince and princess are married. Her father is invited to the feast, and recognises Ugly Gourd as his daughter on her producing her mother's ring.
There is another story resembling this in Signor Comparetti's collection called "Occhi Marci." They come respectively from Montale, and both stories are the famous French "Peau d'ane," which is always in France published in company with Perrault's contes, though most probably he did not write it.
Queen Angelica.—In this tale an old king falls blind, and no one can cure him. One day a physician says, "There is no remedy for this but the water of Queen Angelica; if it can be found the king will get well for certain." Thereupon the king's son goes in search of it. After a great many hardships he is enabled, through the unwonted good nature of an ogre, who takes a fancy to him, to find out the queen's palace. At the entrance there were two lions and two tigers. These he sets asleep by throwing bread, &c, to them. He enters the palace. Queen Angelica is lying on a bed sleeping, covered with seven veils. He lifts the veils, and sees that she is so beautiful that he cannot refrain from kissing her. He afterwards finds the bottle containing the water which he was in search of. The story proceeds to show how the old king is cured, and Queen Angelica, who has been enchanted, but is no longer so, marries the prince. ​This story comes from Pisa, while "La Belle au Bois dormant," which it resembles in the main incident, is supposed to have been picked up in Brittany.
The Woodman.— Once upon a time there was a woodman who had three daughters. He was very poor, and could not find any fire-wood, and did not know what to do to get his living. One day he was in a wood, and was weeping, when a lady appeared, and observed his weeping. "Why dost thou weep?" "What can I do but weep, my lady?" and he told his wretchedness. "Well," said the lady, "if thou bring me one of thy daughters for a companion, I give thee this purse, and besides, thou shalt always find as much wood as thou wishest." The woodman took the purse, and went home. He told his daughters what had happened, and that one of them must go as a companion to that lady. "I will go," said the eldest, and the father took her into the wood, and found the lady again, and delivered her to her. The lady took her away with her, and carried her to a magnificent palace. When they were arrived there, "See," said the lady to her, "thou art mistress here; I go away in the morning, and return in the evening. These are the keys of the whole palace. I only forbid thee to enter this room," and she showed her a closed door. The girl was pleased at finding herself become, as it were, a lady, and promised not to go into the room. But she was always saying to herself, "What ever can there be in that room?" and at last one day curiosity overcame her, and she opened the room, and saw the lady in a bath with two young ladies, who were reading a book to her. She shut the door again directly. The lady comes home in the evening, and calls the girl. "Thou hast disobeyed. Let me hear what thou hast seen." The girl, quite confounded, tells her what she had seen, and the lady, without saying anything more, took her, cut off her head, fastened the head to a beam by the hair, and buried the body. Next morning she went into the wood, sought out the girl's father, and said to him, "Thy daughter wishes to have with her one. of her sisters; wilt thou take her one?" and she gave him some more money. The woodman said, "Yes." He went home, took the second daughter, carried her into the wood, and delivered her to the lady. The lady carried her to the palace, and told what she had ​told her sister. Moreover, she showed her the sister's head fastened to the beam, in order that she should pay attention, and not come to the same end. That girl also refrained for a little while, but one day she said, "Here I am alone; if I open the door, who will tell?" and curiosity overcame her. She opened the door, and saw the lady sitting at a beautiful table with cavaliers. She closed the door again directly. The lady comes back in the evening. "Thou hast disobeyed; let me hear what thou has seen." The other told her, and the lady cut off her head, and fastened it to the beam, beside that of the sister. And again, the day after, she went into the wood, and asked the woodman for the third daughter, and the woodman brought her to her. Arrived at the palace, the lady made her the same speech which she had made to the two others, and showed her the two heads. This girl resisted much more than the others, but at last curiosity overcame her also. She opened the door, and saw the lady in a beautiful state-bed. She shut the door again directly. The lady returns home again in the evening. "Oh, let us hear what thou hast seen." "I have seen nothing." "If thou sayest that to me, I will kill thee." But it was of no use (non ci fu verso); she kept on repeating that she had seen nothing. When the lady saw she was so obstinate, she made her put on again her peasant's clothes, and put her in the wood, to go about her business.
The rest of the story does not concern us, and I therefore omit it.
It is obvious that the incident which I have translated is virtually the same as that upon which the French tale of Blue Beard turns, viz., a prohibition to open a particular door, of which a young girl has the key—the overpowering effect of curiosity, and the cruel punishment which overtakes its indulgence.
The Italian tale comes from Pisa, while Blue Beard is ascribed to Brittany.
Bellindia,—Once upon a time there was a merchant of Livorno who had three daughters—Assunta, Carolina, and the youngest, Bellindia. The two first were ambitious; Bellindia was modest and domesticated. One day the merchant announced to his daughters that they were ​ruined, through the loss of a ship which had a cargo of his on board. They thereupon retired into the country, to live at less expense, Bellindia attending to household matters, and the two others doing nothing. Several months passed away, when, one morning, the merchant gave them the agreeable intelligence that the ship, instead of being lost, had arrived safely in port, with all her cargo on board, and asked them what he should give them by way of present The eldest asked for a beautiful silk dress of the colour of the air, the second for a peachcoloured dress, and Bellindia for a rose-tree. The father and sisters thought her foolish for making such a request, and told her so; but she persisted in it. The next day the merchant went off to Livorno, received his cargo, and warehoused it. He bought the dresses for his two eldest daughters, but felt no inclination to comply with Bellindia's wish. In the evening he hired a horse to return home, but, being lost in thought, he left his horse to go his own way, and did not perceive his mistake until he found himself at dark in the middle of a thick wood, and the further he went the more he involved himself in it, until at last he came to a garden, at the end of which was a great palace brilliantly lighted up. He alights from his horse, goes up to the grand entrance, mounts the staircase, enters a saloon, but finds no living soul. He sees, however, a small room, with a table laid out. Being very hungry he enters it, sits down, and helps himself. Throughout the meal he was assisted invisibly, the empty dishes being removed, and others taking their place. After having eaten heartily, the merchant selected a bedroom, undressed, and went to sleep. The next morning he rises, and goes downstairs into the garden. He finds his horse in a stable, well-cared for, and curry-combed. He is about to mount him, when he sees a number of beautiful rose-trees. "Ah!" says he, "as it happens, I shall be able to satisfy Bellindia too;" and straightway culls a nosegay, when he suddenly hears a great noise, and there appears a magician as ugly and terrible as the Evil One, with his glazed eyes darting fire. The latter reproaches the merchant with his ungrateful conduct in wasting his roses after having received such kind treatment. The merchant excuses himself by throwing the blame upon his daughter Bellindia, and the magician accepts the ​excuse, but tells him that he must bring her there in eight days, otherwise he will suffer for it. After saying this the magician disappears, and the merchant, finding his right way by enchantment, returns home, and relates his adventures. Bellindia unhesitatingly accepts the condition, and at the end of the eight days is conducted by her father to the magician's palace. There they find everything prepared for her. Over one door is written "Bellindia's apartment." Nobody is to be seen, and Bellindia is left alone in the palace. After roaming through it, she finds her dinner prepared for her in one of the rooms. Whilst she is eating a great noise is heard, and the magician appears. "Don't be afraid, Bellindia; I only wish to know if you like me." "Yes; that I do," answers Bellindia. "Will you marry me?" says he. "Certainly not," says Bellindia, without any hesitation. The magician disappears. The same scene occurs over again every day afterwards. After some months, Bellindia receives a letter from her father, announcing Assunta's approaching marriage to a rich timber merchant, and asking her to attend it. At dinner Bellindia asks the magician's permission. He gives it, but tells her to return in eight days, otherwise she will find him dead. He gives her a ring, the stone of which will lose its colour when he shall be ill. He also tells her to fill a trunk, in the evening, with clothes and jewels and money, and put it at the bottom of her bed. She does so, and the next morning, when she wakes, she finds herself, trunk and all, in her father's house. At first her sisters make a great deal of her, but when they see that she is so happy and rich they become so envious that they take from her the magician's ring, and do not restore it to her until the seventh day, when she finds the stone discoloured. The next day she hastened back to the palace. The magician did not appear until supper-time, when he told her that he had been at the point of death, and should have died but for her return. Again he asks her to marry him, and again she says "No." Two months after this the second sister is engaged to be married. Bellindia repeats her visit to her father, and again her sisters detain her until the eighth day, when Bellindia, to her great grief, finds the stone of her ring is quite black. She returns in haste to the magi​cian's palace, roams everywhere in search of him, until at last she finds him in the garden, stretched out on the ground, apparently lifeless. She throws herself upon him, embraces and kisses him, saying, |Now there is no more happiness for me. If you were alive I would marry you, to please you." At these words the magician rose to his feet, entirely revived—no longer ugly and terrible, but a most handsome young man, saying, "Thanks, my Bellindia. Know that I am a king's son, and was enchanted by a fairy, so that I should not be able to resume my own figure until I found a young maiden who should promise to marry me—ugly as I was." Bellindia is married and becomes a queen. Her sisters are excluded from the marriage feast, and fall down dead from spite.
This story is identical with the famous "La Belle et la Bête" of Madame de Villeneuve. Planché (p. 536) considers the latter to have been founded upon an old tale, and there can be no doubt that it was so. The sentiment which it inculcates is the moral of Sir Gawaine's marriage.
The Italian story comes from Montale.
The Apes.—Once upon a time a king had twin sons, but so little heed had been given to their birth that nobody at court knew which was the firstborn. The king therefore, in order to settle the succession, told them to travel and find wives: whichever wife should make the king the most beautiful and rare present should decide who should be the successor. The sons, who were named Giovanni and Antonio, accordingly mounted their horses, and each set off in a different direction. Giovanni soon finds the daughter of a rich marquis, who is ready to take him on these terms. She gives him a little box containing her present, which Giovanni delivers to the king. In the meantime the other brother Antonio proceeds in his search, until one day he finds himself in a spacious glade in the midst of a dense forest, surrounded by marble statues of men and horses, but not a living soul near. In the far distance, however, he sees a most beautiful palace. He reaches this after a long time, knocks, and an ape opens the door. At the same time two other apes appear, assist him in dismounting, take his ​horse, and conduct him into the house. Everywhere there were apes only, and they gave him to understand that he had only to give his commands. Finally he reaches an apartment, where he sits down to cards with four apes, one of whom seems to be superior to the others. Towards evening supper is served, apes sitting at table, and apes serving. Later on he is conducted by apes to a bedroom, and is there left to his meditations over his strange adventures. Being sleepy, however, he undresses and goes to bed, where he sleeps soundly, until he is awakened by a voice which calls him. "Who calls me?" says he. The voice replies by the question, "What have you come here for?" The explanation is given, and the voice promises to provide such a present as will ensure him the kingdom if he will marry her. He consents, and the voice tells him that the next day he will find a heap of letters, which he is to give to a person who will be waiting for them at the door of the palace. The next morning he finds a multitude of letters in his bedroom. He delivers them to a crowd of apes, who deliver them to the king, his father, and the latter lodges all the apes in his city. The next night Antonio is awakened by the usual voice—"Antonio, are you still of the same mind?" "Yes, that I am," says he (si, che lo sono). "All right," the voice replies, "to-morrow you shall send another packet of letters to the king." The next morning these letters are conveyed to the king by another contingent of apes, who have all got to be lodged in the city, which is now quite full. These letters inform the king that Antonio has found a wife, who will bring the most beautiful and rarest present. The third night Antonio is again awakened by the voice. "Antonio, are you still of the same mind?" "Yes, that I am," says he; "when I have given my word I never change it." "All right," replies the voice, " to-morrow we will go to the king and get married." As soon as it was daylight Antonio rose, so anxious was he to see his intended. He goes downstairs, and at the door of the palace beholds a magnificent coach, drawn by four big apes, and driven by an ape. They open the carriage door, and within he sees an ape sitting. He takes his seat by her, and they drive off with a grand cortege of apes to the city of the king, his father. The ​intended wife of Antonio afterwards delivers to him a little box as her present. The next morning he goes to the room of his intended in order to conduct her to the chapel where they are to be married, when, to his amazement, he finds her no longer an ape, but a most beautiful girl, marvellously well dressed. They are married, of course, and after the ceremony the presents are examined, and Antonio's present, as containing a hundred ells of linen in so small a space, pleases the king the best, and he pronounces Antonio to be his heir. The wife of Antonio declines this arrangement, as she has a kingdom of her own, which has been under enchantment, until her husband, by consenting to marry her, broke it. She then gives Antonio a little staff broken into four pieces, and tells him to place them upon the roof of the palace at the four cardinal points of the compass." He does so, and all the apes in the city turn into lords and ladies, artizans and rustics, horses, and beasts of every sort.
There can be no doubt that this story, coming frdm Montale, is the same as the French tale of the "White Cat," which latter is too pretty ever to have been an original invention of a mere author or authoress. The Italian form is very quaint and graceful.
Fearless John.—There was once upon a time a woman who had a son half-daft, named John. The mother so illused her son that he determined to leave her. Accordingly he went away, and met a man on his road, who said to him, "Where art thou going, good young man?" "I am seeking my father," answered he. "Wilt thou come with me?" "With pleasure." John stayed with him a month, and then he said, "To-morrow I wish to visit my mother." The man tells John to call him the next day before he leaves, and he will make him a present. In the morning John called the father, and he gave him a donkey, and said to him, "Take this donkey, and, when you wish for money, say to him, 'Donkey, spit gold; donkey, spit silver,' and he will spit tine everything." John went away quite pleased. When night came he stopped at an inn. He had his supper, and afterwards, when it was time, said to the donkey, "Donkey, spit gold; donkey, spit silver," and the ass spat out gold and silver. The host was delighted, and ​when John was gone to bed he found a companion ass and exchanged it for the other. In the morning John set off with this donkey, and knocked at his own house, and said to the mother, "Mother, I have found fortune; throw down the bed and we will now get rich." He took a sheet, for the bed was all holes, and laid it out on the ground, and put the ass upon it and began saying, "Ass, spit gold; ass, spit silver; " but the ass spat nothing. The mother, feeling quite in a rage, gave him a heap of beatings and sent him off. He went back to the father and told him everything. Again he stayed a month with the father, and then told him that he wished to go and see his mother. "Well," said the father, "call me to-morrow and I will make thee a present." Next morning he gave him a table-cloth, and said to him, "When thou wishest to eat spread this table-cloth and say, 'Tablecloth, get ready,' and it will get everything ready for thee that thou shalt wish." John, quite pleased, took it and went off. In the evening he stopped and slept at the same inn that he did before. The host, directly he saw him, said, "John, come and take thy meal here;" but he replied, "I do not want anything. I have everything here." He then spread the table-cloth and said, "Table-cloth, lay the table." And it got ready wine, bread, meat, fruits, and everything. The host, when John was gone to bed, exchanged the table-cloth for him also. In the morning John set off and went home. The mother said, "Here comes the blockhead." He spread the table-cloth and said, "Mother, make thyself easy, we are going to eat." He commanded the table cloth, "Table-cloth, lay the table;" but it furnished forth nothing. Then the mother took a stick and beat him until he was stunned. He went off quietly to the father and told him everything. He stayed there for a month, and then said to him, "Father, to-morrow I wish to go and see mother." "Go; but call me, for I shall make thee a present." He gave him a cudgel, and said to him, "Go to the landlord and demand back the ass and the table-cloth that he took from thee in exchange, and, if he won't give them to thee, say to this cudgel, 'Cudgel, do thy duty, for I will belabour thee until thou sayest enough.'" John set off, and in the evening he stopped at the inn as before. The host invited him to eat gratis. When he was going to bed he put the ​cudgel on a bench and said to the host, "Don't say to this cudgel, 'Cudgel, do thy duty.'" When John was gone to sleep the host, who thought the cudgel must have some hidden virtue, said to it, "Cudgel, do thy duty." It straightway rose up and began to belabour him. He began to scream, and cried out, "John, for charity stop it, it is killing me!" "Until you shall give me back the ass and the table-cloth that you have exchanged it shall belabour you for ever." The host went out to look for the ass and the table-cloth, and the cudgel went after him. Finally he gave him back everything, and then John said to the cudgel, "Cudgel, enough." After this John goes home, and his mother is of course delighted at his good luck. This story comes from Jesi, and is told in the dialect of the country. There is a foolish sequel to the above which supports John's title to be called fearless; but the English reader would not thank me for giving it.
Joe (Geppone).—In times past there was a country-fellow named Joseph, and his landlord was a certain priest and prior named Pier Leone. The rustic had a farm on the top of a hill so buffeted by the North Wind that he could raise nothing. So one day he determined to come to an explanation with him, and set out across the Alps for Castel Ginevino. Arrived at the castle he knocks, and a woman looks out of the window. She tells him her husband is out blowing amongst the beeches, but will be in in a few minutes. By-and-bye the North Wind returns, and Joe tells him his grievances, and implores him to do something for his starving wife and family. The North Wind, touched with compassion, gives him a box, and says to him, "Whenever you are hungry open this and command whatever you please, and you will be obeyed. But mind you give it to nobody If you do, don't come back again to me." On his journey home, Joe, feeling hungry and thirsty, opens the box and says, "Bring wine and bread and meat." This order is immediately obeyed. When Joe gets home the order is repeated, and his wife and children get an unusual good dinner. He warns his wife not to say anything about the box to the prior, as he knows he will want to take it from him. His ​wife, however, tells the prior all about it, and, in the result, the latter induces Joe to part with it on a promise of providing him with corn, wine, and anything he likes. The priest, however, does not keep his promise, and Joe and his family are starving again. So he makes up his mind to go and see the North Wind again. He does so, and, after some remonstrance, the good-natured North Wind gives him another box—this time it is of gold. On his way home Joe opens this and says, "Provide," and thereupon a tall big man, with a stick in his hand, jumps out and belabours him within an inch of his life. Joe thereupon shuts up the box, and resumes his journey. As soon as he has reached home his wife and children ask him how he has succeeded. He tells them that he has got another box more beautiful even than the first, and desires them to sit down to table. He then opens his box, and two men with sticks jump out and belabour both wife and children until they cry for mercy. Joe shuts the box, and desires his wife to go to the prior, and tell him that he has got another box, more beautiful even than the first; that it is of gold, and provides marvellous dinners. She carries the message to the priest, and he is all anxiety to see Joe. Joe arrives with the box, and shows it in all its shining metal to the priest, who becomes so enamoured of it that he offers to exchange it for the old one. Joe accepts the offer, and the boxes are exchanged. "But you must mind," he says to the priest, "not to open it until people are very hungry." "That will do," replies the priest; "I shall have the titular and many clergymen here to dinner, and I won't open the box until noon-day." The morning comes; all the priests say mass, and, afterwards, some of them walk about round the kitchen. "To-day," they say, "the prior doesn't mean to give us any dinner. The fire is out; there is no preparation." But the others, who had seen the effects of the first box, answered, "You will soon see. When dinner-time comes, he opens a box, and makes all sorts of viands appear." As soon as the dinner hour arrived, the prior told all the priests to take their places, and they anxiously waited to see the miracle of the box. The box is opened, and six men armed with sticks jump out and belabour the whole company, right and left. The box falls from the priest's hand, ​still open, but Joe, who is outside, picks it up, and shuts it. He ever after retained the two boxes, and never lent them to anybody, and became a lord.
This story comes from Mugello.
These two Italian stories have their counterpart in the Breton tale of "Le Tailleur et l'Ouragan," given in the Mélusine. The Hurricane and his mother, of the French tale, is balanced by the Tramontana and his wife of the "Geppone."
But the most curious circumstance of all connected with these stories of France and Italy is that they all agree with a tale of another country, hitherto considered beyond the reach of Latin folk-lore — "The Legend of Bottle Hill," in Croker's collection. Except in its own local colour—for the whisky bottle figures in the county Cork story—there is no real difference. And yet it is a far cry from St. George's Channel to the Mugello, or Jesi, or even Brittany.
The Three Sisters.—Once upon a time there were three poor orphan sisters; one evening as they were sitting chatting round the fire one said, "I should like to be the servant that hands the king his shirt." The other said, "I should like to wait upon his majesty at table." "I," said the third, "should like to be his wife." The king, who was passing, overheard this conversation, and on his return to the palace sent for them all three. They were very much frightened, but of course obeyed the summons. When they came into his presence they confessed what they had said, and the king told them he would comply with their wishes, and he did so; he himself marrying the third. After their marriage his wife, the queen, whilst he was out hunting, was delivered of a beautiful little son. This excited the envy of her sisters, and they determined to make away with it, and show the king on his return a little dog as his wife's child. The real child is put into a box, and orders are given to throw it into the sea. When the king returns home he is shown the puppy in the cradle, and very naturally orders it to be ejected. The same thing happens over again, the queen's second child being ​a boy, for which another puppy is substituted; and the third a girl so beautiful, that she seemed a ray of the sun (una spera di sole). A kitten being shown to the king in the place of his daughter he loses patience, and orders his master bricklayer to build a wall round the queen up as far as her head, and in that state she is allowed a slice of bread and a glass of water a day.
The fate of the three babies is not what might be expected. A rich merchant, who happens to be on shipboard on each occasion when the boxes containing the children are floating by, picks them up, takes them to his palace, and brings them all up, having no children of his own. One day, when the two brothers are out hunting, and the sister is alone in the house, a poor old woman comes to the palace to beg alms for the souls in purgatory. The sister gives her half a loaf, and the two enter into conversation. The old woman tells her that in spite of all the grandeur of the palace, there lack three things: the yellow water, the singing bird, and the tree that makes sounds like music. If you do not find these three things, says she, you will never know your fortune. This makes the sister melancholy, and the brothers ask her the reason; when she tells them what the old woman has said. The elder brother, when he hears this, tells his sister to be of good cheer, he will find the three objects. Before starting he gives her a white handkerchief, and says, "If this remains white it will be a sign that I am living. If it turns black it will show that I am dead." He travels on until he arrives at night at a cottage in the middle of a great wood where some hermits are living. He knocks, "Who are you?" says an old hermit. "A good Christian," is the reply. "If you are truly a man, put the little finger of your right hand into the keyhole that I may judge of you." The young man does so, and being admitted, tells the hermit his errand. The hermit warns him of his danger, but he persists in his resolution. The hermit then gives him a ball, and tells him to stand upon it, and it will land him at the bottom of a certain hill. There he is to take a horse and ascend the hill opposite. Midway he will hear frightful noises like the clanking of the chains of hell. He is not to be afraid, but to continue the ascent and he will find what he seeks; if he loses ​his courage, however, midway, he with his horse will become a marble statue. The young man does what he is told, but, losing his courage when he is arrived half way, he becomes a marble statue. The sister looks at the handkerchief and finds it turned to black. The younger brother tells her not to weep, he will continue the search. He gives her a ruby, which will continue to keep bright as long as he is alive. Precisely the same adventures happen to the younger brother, and he becomes a marble statue also, and the ruby betrays it. The sister then puts on man's clothes, and starts on her own account. She goes over the same ground, sees the same hermit, receives the same advice, but supplements it with her own quick wit. She tells the hermit that she intends to stuff her ears with cotton, and so not hear the noises, and to bandage her eyes tightly with a handkerchief, and so see nothing. "Bravo, bene," says the hermit, taking her for a man. Her contrivances carry her safely to the top of the hill; when there, she takes the cotton out of her ears and the handkerchief from her eyes and sees a chapel and an ornamental basin of bright yellow water. Upon the edge of the basin was a most beautiful bird that sang delightfully; by the side was a tree that sounded as if it played the most beautiful music. This was the fairies' lake. The bird, who was a fairy, then transformed herself into a lovely young woman, and told the sister to take up a vase and fill it with the water, and then go to the tree and take off a branch. The sister does so, and, taking the fairy en croupe, canters down the hill, whereupon all those princes and knights that had gone to the fairies' lake, and through fear had become marble statues, all woke up with their horses, and followed in the wake of the sister and the fairy. Amongst this fresh cavalcade the two brothers are recognised. They afterwards all three, in company with the fairy, return home, and the merchant, whom they consider their father, in his joy at finding them alive, gives a grand dinner, to which he invites the king, their real father, and a hundred princes and knights. The fairy restores to the king his children; the queen is released from her confinement, and her two sisters are publicly burnt in a barrel of pitch.
This story comes from the Basilicata. There is another story in ​Signor Comparetti's collection called "The Little Speaking Bird," with the same motif, but which has curious differences, and comes from another part of the country—Pisa. Of course it is quite plain that either story has its double in the old Persian tale of King Khosroo and his children—"The Envious Sisters" of the Arabian Nights. But it may be an old Latin tale for all that. Undeniably there is the same story told in Brittany: "Les trois filles du Boulanger, ou l'eau qui danse, la pomme qui chante, et l'oiseau de verité."
Lion Bruno.—Once upon a time there was a fisherman who had a wife and three or four children. Misfortune came and he never could catch a fish, not even a sardine. One day, as he was at sea, and his only take being a shell, he (naturally as an Italian) blasphemed Madonnas and Saints. Whereupon, the evil one (il nemico) appeared to him, and finally a bargain was made between the two that the fisherman should deliver up to the other his next child, and on this condition should become a rich man. The fisherman, who thought he had the best of this bargain, through its apparent want of reciprocity, was shocked to find that his wife, who was no longer young, in due time afterwards gave birth to a son. The Evil One reappeared and reminded the fisherman of the agreement, and it was settled that the boy should be delivered over to his guardian at the end of thirteen years. Time went on, and the day before the completion of the term the Evil One again made his appearance and reminded the other of his obligation. Accordingly, the next morning the boy was sent off alone to the seaside. Whilst he was sitting on the shore he picked up some wood lying about, and making crosses of it planted them all round him, so that he sat within a circle of them, holding one also in his hand. The result of this in short was, that when the Evil One came, as he did, he could not touch the boy; and, whilst he was fuming and displaying his fireworks, the good fairy Colina came and carried away Lion Bruno—for that was the boy's name—to her magnificent palace. After a few years he asked leave to go and see his family. She gave him permission to stay away twenty days, after which he was to ​return and marry her. She also gave him a ruby ring, and told him that whatever he should ask he should have. He departs in great state, and, without discovering himself, goes to the miserable hut in which his parents are living—the luck of the Evil One apparently having deserted them. By the power of the ruby Lion Bruno soon sets all this to rights that night by converting the hut into a magnificently furnished palace, and the next morning he declares himself in a picturesque manner, too long to mention here. He then takes leave of his parents and goes to a great city (as it might be Naples, says the story-teller). There he reads a proclamation which announces that whoever shall successfully run the quintain at a star of gold shall have the king's daughter for his wife. Lion Bruno is successful on two days, and gets away to his inn unknown to everyone. On the third day, after having again succeeded and attempted to escape, the king's soldiers catch him and bring him before the king according to orders. There he is told he must marry the princess, and preparations are made for the marriage feast. Lion Bruno, however, cries off by explaining candidly that he is already engaged to a lady that for beauty and grace the princess cannot stand by the side of. The king and his court insist upon seeing this lady, but the ruby is powerless, it cannot compel her to appear, whatever attempt Lion Bruno makes. The fairy, however, hears the appeal, and instead of herself sends the meanest of her maids, who, on her arrival at the court, is pronounced incomparable. Lion Bruno of course disowns her, and the king insists upon seeing the fairy. The attempt is repeated, but the fairy sends the second of her maids. The same explanation takes place as before, and at last the fairy comes herself, and the king and his daughter and his lords were all stupified at her beauty. The fairy, however, is enraged at all this fuss, and takes away the ring from Lion Bruno's hand, saying, "Traitor, you shall find me only when you have worn out seven pairs of iron shoes." The king, seeing that Lion Bruno's skill at the quintain is not his own, has him bastinadoed out of his palace. He walks away, and hearing the noise of a forge he stops, and orders the iron shoes which the fairy required. These were soon made. Lion Bruno puts on one ​of these pairs and starts off. He finds three robbers quarreling in a wood, and is chosen to be their arbitrator. They had stolen three objects of great value and could not agree about the division of them. These objects were a pair of boots, a purse, and a cloak. The boots (they tell Lion Bruno) have this virtue: Whoever puts them on, will run a mile faster than the wind. The purse, by saying "open and shut," yields a hundred ducats. The cloak has, this virtue: Whoever puts it on and buttons it, sees and is not seen. Lion Bruno, as may be expected, tries all three, and by the aid of the boots gets safely off, leaving the robbers to quarrel amongst themselves while he pursues his journey. He finally arrives at a hut in the middle of a wood and knocks at the door, which is hardly distinguishable for the ivy which grows over it. "Who knocks?" says the voice of an old woman from the inside. "A poor Christian who has lost his way in the dark." The door opens and Lion Bruno enters. "What has tempted you to come to these remote parts," says the old woman, who is no less than Voria, the mother of the Winds. He confides to her that he is in search of his betrothed, the fairy Collina. The old woman tells him lie has made a mistake in coming there, for, when her sons return, they will perhaps want to eat him up. To prevent this catastrophe Lion Bruno is put inside a chest, where he creeps into a corner. Soon after the Winds all return, give a push at the door and enter, Scirocco, who is the youngest, coming last. As soon as they are all in they say, "What a smell of human flesh! Christians!" "Oh, go to Bath" (Oh andate alia malora), says their mother, "who do you think would risk coming here?" The winds, however, were hard to convince, particularly that hard-headed Scirocco. There was no coming over him for some time at least; at last they were persuaded to eat their polenta, while Lion Bruno was dying of fear in the chest. Next day Voria tells her sons the truth, and they promise to do Lion Bruno no harm. Yesterday it would have been different. Lion Bruno asks them where the fairy Collina is to be found. Nobody knows but Scirocco, who is better acquainted than his brothers with the secret places of the earth. He says the fairy is love-sick, complains of being betrayed by her lover, and is so worn by ​grief that she will not live long. Lion Bruno prevails upon Scirocco to show him the way to the palace of the fairy; and the next morning they set off together, the iron shoes giving Lion Bruno the advantage even over the wind. They soon arrive at the palace, Scirocco blows open the window, and Lion Bruno enters and conceals himself under the fairy's bed. He afterwards discovers himself and the two are reconciled.
In the "Voleur avisé," a Breton story, given in the Mélusine, the hero frightens three robbers out of their properties, which are, respectively, a cloak that, being put on, will transport its owner through the air to whithersoever he wishes to go, a hat which confers invisibility, and gaiters which give the faculty of walking as fast as the wind. The hero of the Italian tale gets an inexhaustible purse as well.
My extracts could be easily and largely augmented, but they are sufficient to show as well the close affinity between the two mythologies, as also another fact, that French fairy tales are not Gallic and local except by accident. They have come into Gaul from somewhere else. They have not grown up there. It has been superficially assumed, that, because these French tales have been found in Brittany (at least for the most part), they must one and all be considered to have had, if not a special Armorican, at least a Celtic origin. But my extracts show that the same tales which have been told by Celtic crones in sequestered and misty Basse Bretagne have been recounted in a more graceful tongue and under a better sky in sunny Tuscany, in the old Neapolitan kingdom, and elsewhere in the peninsula, as familiar household words. No communication between the two countries can be reasonably supposed since the disruption of the Western Empire. This simultaneous appearance of the tales in ​both countries, thus deprived of close intercourse, disposes of the Celtic ascription. Being found in a non-Celtic country, as well as in a Celtic one, the common origin of the romances cannot be Celtic merely. It should rather be sought in the free and unrestricted means of communion which existed between them when they were both parts of the same empire.
But it is not only in the motifs of the stories of the two countries that there is connexion and resemblance, there is also in the personages which figure in both the closest rapport. Where the French have an ogre and an ogresse, the Italians have an orco and an orchessa, the ogre and orco being naught else than the classical Orcus degraded from Dis into a gluttonous devourer of unprotected children. Though endued with supernatural powers—above all the gift of scenting out a Christian who has intruded under his roof—he is, in either mythology, as remarkable for his stupidity as his cruelty. Strangely enough, both the ogre and the orco have tender-hearted wives, though of their own race.
In each mythology there are witches equally mischievous and malevolent towards all decent man and womankind. At the same time they are sufficiently soft-hearted towards their own class to meet regularly, male and female, at some general rendezvous, anywhere in France, provided it be sufficiently secluded for their sabbat, but in Italy always under the secular walnut-tree of Benevento, a lucky difference of meridian which has made the trysting-place of the Italian streghe a pilgrimage for modern travellers.
To their rendezvous the French witches repair, after the fashion of ​their English sisters, astride upon a broomstick. But the gracefulness of antique mythology still adheres to the Italian witch, who has never degraded herself into electing and utilizing so mean a medium for locomotion, or at least very seldom uses it. Before starting the Strega anoints her whole body with an unguent, which turns her straightway into a bat. Her body is left on the ground as inert and lifeless as the clothes of which she has divested herself. On her return from her merry-making she re-enters the accommodating matter and becomes herself again.
This is, of course, a mere matter of subordinate detail.
There is, however, an additional property which the strega possesses to the exclusion of her French sister. She is a vampire, which the other never has been. She sucks the blood of sleeping people through the little finger, thus inducing an inscrutable and therefore incurable marasmus.
Fairies play much the same rôle in both the countries. Their ​name, of course, is the same, but the Italian fata is occasionally a vampire.
In both folk-lores the winds are personified. They are ogres and eat children. They can smell out the blood of a Christian who has hidden himself in their abodes, whether in Italy or France. There is a mother of the winds in both countries. In Italy she is named Voria. In France, so far as I know, she is anonymous.
The reader will, I think, agree with me that thus far there is a good family resemblance between these two neoteric mythologies.
* ↑ Novelline popolari Italiane, publicate ed illustrate da Domenico Comparetti. Volume primo. Roma, Torino, Firenze. A second volume will follow.
* ↑ Keightley's Fairy Mythology (p. 536, in note, Bonn's edition), and Croker's Fairy Legends (Murray's edition, vol. ii. p. 30). Mr. Keightley says, "We must here make an honest confession. This story had no foundation hut the German legend in p. 259. All that is not to he found there is our own invention. Yet we afterwards found that it was well-known on the coast of Cork and Wicklow." These italics are not Mr. Keightley's.
* ↑ Croker's Legends, vol. i. p. 211 (The Little Shoe).
* ↑ Fairy Tales of Perrault and others, p. 521.
* ↑ Planché, ante, p. 515.
* ↑ Col. 129, et seqq.
* ↑ Mélusine, col. 206, et seqq.
* ↑ Mr. Planché can be taken as the exponent of this school. In the preface to The Tales of Perrault (p. x.) he calls the French fairy tales "legends as old as the monuments of that Celtic race, by whom they were introduced into Gaul." Again, in his Appendix (p. 513) he calls Perrault's Tales, "tales of the nursery which had descended from the earliest ages of the Celtic occupation of Armorica or Bretagne to the peculiar superstitions of which we shall find as we proceed they all have more or less reference."
* ↑ The ogre is not an Ugrian, as some have thought. (Planché, ante, p. 518.)
* ↑ See ante.
* ↑ Lippi tells us of a wizard and witch (uno stregone ed una strega) who renewed an acquaintance first formed by them at Benevento— "E perche a Benevento essa di lui, Com' ei di lei avuto avea notizia." (Il Malmantile racquistato. Sesto cantare, xxxi.) In "Il figliuolo del re, stregato" (Comparetti, pp. 36, 37), when the clock strikes eleven the three young and beautiful witches are under an obligation to go and dance under the walnut-tree.
* ↑ In the "II figliuolo del re, stregato," the witches, while they are rubbing themselves over with the ointment, say, "Ointment, make me go three times faster than the wind." All then take their seats, and a bat coming ont of each one's mouth, they remain there like dead; at three o'clock the three bats return, re-enter their bodies, and begin to eat their supper. Lippi (Il Malmantile racquistato, terzo cantare), while he does not forget the ointment and the nudity, leaves out the bats altogether, and adheres to the goat and the broomstick. He is speaking of his witch Martinazza:— "Come quand' ella s'unge e s'inzavarda Tutta ignuda nel canto del cammino, Per andar barbuto sotto il mento Colla granata accesa a Benevento, Ove la notte al Noce eran concorse Tutte le streghe anch'esse sul caprone, I diavoli, e col Bau caprone le Biliorse A ballare, e cantare e far tempone."
* ↑ This is inferrible from the "Il figliuolo del re, stregato" (ante). The king is dying in this way through the witches. When the latter are publicly burnt "there arose a stench from their bodies as of the dead in a churchyard, because they ate the blood of the people of the country." In the "I dodici buoi" (Comparetti, p. 206) the witch sucks a girl's blood through her little finger. In "La Nuvolaccia" (ib. p. 128) it is through a finger, without specification.
* ↑ See "La Nuvolaccia," ante.
* ↑ See "Lion Bruno" and "Geppone" (ante). See also " Le sette paia di scarpe di ferro" (Comparetti, pp. 217, 218), and " L'isola della felicità." (ib. 215.)