Legends Of Florence Part 32

The following ballad may be cla.s.sed as Florentine, since it was in Florence that I heard it sung, but it is not attached to any particular place. It is one of those compositions which are either sung or simply recited, and quite as often intoned in a manner which is neither singing nor speaking. In such chant, when a rhyme happens to fall in by chance, the utmost is made of it by dwelling on the word or drawling it out.

Sometimes, as in the following, there are verses of four lines each, but only the concluding line of every verse rhymes, _i.e._, with the preceding last line of the previous stanza:

IL STREGHONE COI DENTI ROSSI.

"C'era un gran signore Che una bella figlia aveva, Far la felice lo credeva, Col far la maritar.

"'Babbo, no'voglio marito, Prendo uno soltanto, Se si uomo coi dente rossi, Di famelo trovar.'

"'Figlia, non e possibile A me mi strazzi il cuor Avanti di morire Vo farti tranquillo il cuor.'

"Un giorno allor comparvi, Un giovane a.s.sai bello, E denti rossi li teneva, La sua figlia, Amelia, 'Mi dica dove ella.'

"'Io lo vo sposare, E con me la vo' portare.'

'Dimmi dove la porti, Giovane sconosciuto, La mia figlia no ti rifiuto, Coi denti rossi lo vuol sposar?'

"Sposa la siora Amelia, E se la porta via.

La casa dove sia, Questo poi non lo sa.

"La porta in una capanna, Di foglie, legno, e fieno, 'Ortello fa sapere, Se vuoi saper chi sono.

"'Io sono un' streghone, Te'l giuro in verita, La notte a mezzanotte Io ti faccio levar.

"'Ti porto al camposanto, A sotterar i morti; E se tu vuoi mangiar, Quel sangue, bella mia, Tu l'ai da succiar.'

"La giovana disperata, Piange, grida e si dispera, Ma rimedio piu non v'era Anche lei una strega, Toccava diventar."

TRANSLATION.

"There was a grand signore Who had a daughter fair; He longed to see her happy, And wished that she were wed.

"'Oh, father! I would not marry, I have vowed to have for my husband One with teeth as red as coral.

Oh! find him for me,' she said.

"'My daughter, it is not possible, You wring and pain my heart.

Ere I die and pa.s.s away I would fain be at peace,' said he.

"One day there appeared before her A knight of goodly seeming, His teeth were red as coral.

Said the beautiful Amelia, 'There is the spouse for me.'

"'I will marry her,' said the knight, 'And bear her with me away.'

'Tell me where wilt thou take her, Thou strange and unknown man.

I do not refuse her to thee, But whither wilt thou roam?'

"He married fair Amelia, And carried her far away.

"Where is the house thou dwell'st in?

And say where is thy home?'

"He took her to a cabin, All leaves and sticks and hay, 'My true name is Ortello.

To-night, at the hour of midnight, I will carry thee away.

"'I will bear thee to the graveyard To dig up the newly dead; Then if thou hast thirst or hunger Thou mayst suck the blood of the corpses,'

To her the Sorcerer said.

"She wept in desperate sorrow, She wrung her lily hand, But she was lost for ever, And in the witches' band."

This was, and is, a very rude ballad; its moral appears to be that feminine caprice and disregard of parental love must be punished. It is very remarkable as having to perfection that Northern or German element which Goethe detected in a Neapolitan witch-song given in his Italian journey. {224} It has also in spirit, and somewhat strangely in form, that which characterises one of Heine's most singular songs. It impresses me, as I was only yesterday impressed in the Duomo of Siena at finding, among the wood-carvings in the choir, Lombard grotesques which were markedly Teutonic, having in them no trace of anything Italian.

"Quaint mysteries of goblins and strange things, We scarce know what-half animal half vine, And beauteous face upon a toad, from which Outshoots a serpent's tail-the Manicore, A mixture grim of all things odd and wild, The fairy-witch-like song of German eld."

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

"Wherever beauty dwells, In gulf or aerie mountains or deep dells, Thou pointest out the way, and straight 'tis won, Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death."

-KEATS.

"Silvestres homines sacer interpres que Deorum Caedibus et victu deterruit ORPHEUS.

Dictus ob hoc lenire tigres, rabidosque Leones."

-HORACE.

It may have happened to the reader, in his travels, to trace in some majestic mountain-land, amid rocky ravines, that which was, perhaps, in prehistoric times a terrible torrent or a roaring river. I mean, indeed, such a furious flood as is now unknown on earth, one which tore away the highest hills like trifles, melting them in a minute to broad alluvials, and ground up the grandest granite cliffs to gravel-dust, even as a mighty mill grates grain to flour.

You trace the course of the ancient river which when young vaulted the valley, which it had made, on either side with overhanging precipices, which now bend like silent mourners over its grave. And it seems to be dead and buried for ever.

Yet it may chance that, looking more deeply into its course to see if, perhaps, some flakes of antique gold are not to be found in the bed of the old water-course, you hear deep in some rocky crevice far below, and out of sight, the merry gurgle or voice-like murmur of a spring or unseen rivulet which indicates that the river of ancient days is not quite lost in the land. Unsuspected, like the sapphire serpent of Eastern legend, that diamond-clear rivulet has wound its mysterious course deep in the earth for ages, and, following its sound, you may come to some place where it again leaps forth into sunlight-little, indeed, yet ever beautiful. It is almost touching to see that diminished rill creeping timidly round the feet of giant boulders which it once rent in sport from the mighty rocks, and rolled into what were for it in its whilom power, mere marbles. It is small now, and very obscure, yet it lives and is ever beautiful.

Such a stream, which I traced yesterday in an ancient gorge in the heart of the Apennines, where the grey tower of Rocca looks down on the mysterious Ponte del Diavolo of the twelfth century-the most picturesque bridge in Italy-forcibly reminds me of the human stream of old tradition which once, as marvellous mythology or grand religion, roared and often raged over all this region, driving before it, and rending away, all the mighty rocks of human will, now tearing down and anon forming stupendous cliffs of observances, and vast monoliths of legend and faith. Such were the Etruscan and early Roman cults, which drove before them and engulfed irresistibly all the inst.i.tutions of their time, and then disappeared so utterly that men now believe that the only remaining record of their existence is in their tombs or rocky relics of strange monuments.

But by bending low to earth, or seeking among the people, we may hear the murmur of a hidden stream of legend and song which, small and shrunken as it may be, is still the veritable river of the olden time. Many such streams are running in many lands, and that full openly on the earth's surface, but this to which I specially refer is strangely occult and deeply hidden, for to find it we must seek among the _strege_ and _stregoni_, or witches and sorcerers, who retain as dark secrets of their own, marvellous relics of the myths of the early ages. These are, in many cases, so strangely quaint and beautiful that they would seem to have kept something of an original perfume which has utterly perished in the dried flowers of tradition preserved in books, or even by poets.

This seems to me to be the case with the incantation to Orpheus, which is now before me, written in rude dialect, which indicates, so to speak, the depth of the earth from which it was taken. I had asked the woman who gave it to me whether she knew such a name as that of Orpheus or Orfeo, as connected with music. This was the reply which I received:

ORFEO.

_Scongiurazione a Orfeo per suonare bene uno Zuffolo_. This is the invocation to Orpheus for him who would fain become a good player on the shepherd's pipe. {227}

SCONGIURAZIONE.

"Ogni giorno io mi metto Questo zuffolo a suonare, Per poterlo bene inparare, E a preso dei maestri Per potermi fare insegnare, Ma non so come mi fare, Nella testa non mi vuole entrare, A che part.i.to mi devo apigliare: Io non so come mi fare; Ma tu Orfeo che siei tanto chapace Per lo zuffolo, e il violino, Suoni bene pur lo organino, La chitarra e il mandolino, La gran ca.s.sa, il trombone, Suoni bene lo clarino, E non 'ce uno strumento Che tu Orfeo tu non sia Chapace di bene suonare, Per la musicha siei molto bravo, E tu ai ogni potenza, Che da diavoli siei protetto, Dunque insegnami come fare, Questo zuffolo va scongiurare, Per poter bene suonare, Questo zuffolo lo prendo, Sotto terra io lo metto, E tre giorni ce lo fo stare, A fine che tu Orfeo, Bene tu me lo facci a suonare; Che tanto siei amante Di suonare sarai amante, Pur d'insegnare per quanto Ai soferto la tua _Auradice_, Dal inferno non potere levare, Ma vollo lei a preghare, Che ti aiuti questo zuffolo volere suonare, E tu che sempre e di musicha, Siei chapace che fino Le bestie ti vengono ascoltare, Orfeo! Orfeo! ti prego; Orfeo! volermi insegnare Questo zuffolo bene suonare, E appena suonero, Il maestro musicho Orfeo ringraziero, E a tutti sempre faro, Sapere a chi mi a dato, Questo talento che le stato, Orfeo dal inferno lo scongiurato, E per la musicha o tanto, Pasione al mio zuffolo a dato, Lezione e lo zuffolo e un strumento Che ne son tanto inamorato Che dai miei vecchi era molto ramentato, E sempre mi dicevano, Se dinparar lo non siei chapace, Orfeo devi scongiurare; E cosi io faro, E Orfeo preghero!"

TRANSLATION.

"Every day I try, and yet I cannot play the flageolet; Many masters I have sought, Naught I learned from all they taught; I am dull, 'tis very true, And I know not what to do In this strait, unless it be, Great Orpheus, to come to thee; Thou who the greatest skill didst win, On flageolet and violin, Who play'st the organ, pealing far, The mandolin and the guitar, Thou wak'st the clarion's stirring tone, The rattling drum and loud trombone; On earth there is no instrument, Whate'er it be, to mortals sent, Enchanting every sense away, Which thou, O Orpheus! canst not play; Great must thy skill in music be, Since even the demons favour thee; And since on this my heart is set, Enchant, I pray, this flageolet, And that its tones may sweetly sound, I bury it beneath the ground; Three days shall it lie hidden thus, Till thou, O mighty Orpheus!

Shalt wake in it by magic spell The music which thou lov'st so well.