Italian Folktales (71 page)

He went down to the cellar and found the two women bawling like two newborn babies. “What in God's name has happened?” he asked.

“Oh, my husband, if you only knew! We got to thinking that this daughter of ours is now married and in practically no time she'll be having a son we'll name Cicco Petrillo, and what if Cicco Petrillo goes and dies?”

“Ah!” screamed the father. “Our poor darling Cicco Petrillo!”

And they all three broke down and wept right in the middle of the wine.

When nobody returned, the bridegroom said, “But what kind of stroke could they have had down in the cellar? Let me go and see.” And he went downstairs.

Hearing all that wailing, he asked, “What the deuce has come over you to wail like that?”

“Ah, dear husband!” answered the bride. “We were thinking that now we are married and will have a son we'll name Cicco Petrillo, and what if our Cicco Petrillo should die?”

At first the bridegroom thought they were joking, but realizing they were serious, he blew up. “I always figured you were all a trifle stupid, but never to such a degree as this. It would be my luck to get mixed up with such simpletons! But I'm not staying! I'm leaving, and you, my dear, can be sure you'll never see me again unless, on my travels, I should meet three people crazier than you!” At that, he left the house and never once looked back.

He walked until he came to a river, where a man was trying to unload a boatful of hazelnuts with a pitchfork.

“What are you doing, my good man, with that pitchfork?”

“For some time I've tried, but I can't pick up a single one.”

“Naturally! Why not try the shovel?”

“The shovel? Bless my soul, I never thought of it!”

“That's one!” said the bridegroom. “He's even dumber than all my wife's family put together.”

He continued on his way until he reached another river. There a farmer was working himself to death watering two oxen with a spoon.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“I've been here for three hours and can't seem to quench these animals' thirst.”

“Why not let them put their muzzles in the water?”

“Their muzzles in the water? What a dandy idea! I never thought of that.”

“He's number two,” said the bridegroom, and moved on.

After going some distance he spied a woman in the top of a mulberry tree holding out a pair of breeches.

“What are you doing up there, my good woman?”

“Oh, let me tell you!” she replied. “My husband died, and the priest told me he went up to Paradise. I'm waiting for him to return and step back into his breeches.”

That makes three! thought the bridegroom. It seems that
everybody
is dumber than my wife, so I'd better go back home!

And so he did and was glad of it, since they say that if you look far enough you can always find something worse.

 

(
Rome
)

106

This particular Bertha was a poor woman who did nothing but spin, being a skillful spinner.

One day as she was going along she met Nero, the Roman emperor, to whom she said, “May God grant you health so good you'll live a thousand years!”

Nero, whom not a soul could abide because he was so mean, was astounded to hear someone wishing him a thousand years of life, and he replied, “Why do you say that to me, my good woman?”

“Because a bad one is always followed by one still worse.”

Nero then said, “Very well, bring to my palace all you spin between now and tomorrow morning.” At that, he left her.

As she spun, Bertha said to herself, “What will he do with the thread I'm spinning? I wouldn't put it past him to hang me with it! That hangman is capable of everything!”

Next morning, right on time, here she was at Nero's palace. He invited her in, received the thread she had spun, and said, “Tie the end of the ball to the palace door and walk away as far as you can go with the thread.” Then he called his chief steward and said, “For the length of the thread, the land on both sides of the road belongs to this woman.”

Bertha thanked him and walked away very happy. From that day on she no longer needed to spin, for she had become a lady.

When word of the event got around Rome, all the poor women went to Nero in hopes of a present such as he had given Bertha.

But Nero replied, “The good old times when Bertha spun are no more.”

 

(
Rome
)

 

107

A king's son was eating at the dinner table. While slicing the ricotta, he cut his finger, and a drop of blood fell on the white cheese. He said to his mother, “Mamma, I would like a wife white like milk and red like blood.”

“Why, my son, whoever is white is certainly not red, and whoever is red is by no means white. But go out all the same and see if you can find such a girl.”

The son set out. After some distance he met a woman, who asked, “Where are you going, young man?”

“How can I confide my secret to a woman? The very idea!”

On and on he went, and met a little old man, who asked, “Where are you going, young man?”

“You I'll tell, respected sir, who will certainly hear further of me. I'm seeking a girl both milk-white and blood-red.”

“My son, whoever is white is not red, and whoever is red is not white. Take these three pomegranates, however. Open them and see what comes out. But do so only beside the fountain.”

The youth opened a pomegranate, and out jumped a very beautiful girl white like milk and red like blood, who immediately cried:

 

“Dear young man, bring me some water,

Otherwise I'm Mother's dead daughter!”

 

The young man dipped up water in the hollow of his hand and offered it to her, but he was too late: the beautiful creature was dead.

He opened another pomegranate, and out jumped another beautiful girl saying:

 

“Dear young man, bring me some water,

Otherwise I'm Mother's dead daughter!”

 

He brought her water, but she was already dead.

He opened the third pomegranate, and out jumped a girl still more beautiful than the other two. The young man threw water in her face, and she lived.

She was as naked as the day her mother gave birth to her, so the young man threw his own cloak over her, saying, “Climb this tree while I go for clothes to dress you in and a carriage to take you to the palace.”

The girl remained in the tree beside the fountain. Now every day, this
fountain was visited by the ugly Saracen woman, who came there for water. As she went to dip up water with her earthen pot, she saw the maiden's face reflected on the surface of the fountain from the tree, and sighed:

 

“Why must I, who am so beautiful,

Trudge home with water by the potful?”

 

At that, she slammed the pot down, smashing it to smithereens. When she got home, her mistress said, “Ugly Saracen, how dare you return with no water and no crock!” She therefore picked up another earthen pot and returned to the fountain, where she again saw that image in the water. “Ah, I am truly beautiful!” she said to herself, adding:

 

“Why must I, who am so beautiful,

Trudge home with water by the potful?”

 

Again she slammed down the crock. Again her mistress scolded her. Again she went to the fountain and smashed still another pot. Up to then the maiden had merely looked on from the tree, but now she had to laugh.

Ugly Saracen looked up and saw her. “Oh, it's you? You are the one who made me smash three pots to smithereens? But you are truly beautiful! Just a minute, I want to do your hair for you.”

The maiden was reluctant to come down the tree, but Ugly Saracen insisted. “Let me dress your hair, so that you will be still more beautiful.”

Helping her down, Ugly Saracen undid the maiden's hair and found a hairpin, which she thrust into the poor girl's ear. A drop of blood fell from the maiden, then she died. But when the drop of blood hit the ground, it changed into a wood pigeon, which flew away.

Ugly Saracen went and settled in the tree. The king's son returned in the carriage and, seeing her, said, “You were milk-white and blood-red. How on earth did you become so dark?”

Ugly Saracen replied:

 

“Out came the sun

And made me dun.”

 

“But how could your voice have changed so?” asked the king's son.

She replied:

 

“The wind came up,

My voice came down.”

 

“But you were so beautiful, and now you are so ugly!” said the king's son.

She replied:

 

“Also rose the breeze

And caused my face to freeze.”

 

That was that. He took her into the carriage and carried her home.

From the moment Ugly Saracen settled down in the palace as the wife of the king's son, the wood pigeon would alight on the kitchen window ledge every morning and say to the cook:

 

“Cook, O cook of the cursèd kitchen,

Tell me, tell me

What the king is doing with old Ugly Saracen.”

 

“He eats, drinks, and sleeps,” replied the cook.

The wood pigeon said:

 

“Please, a bit of soup for me,

And plumes of gold I will give thee.”

 

The cook served her a plate of soup, and the wood pigeon gave a little shake and shed a few feathers of gold. Then she flew off.

The next morning she was back:

 

“Cook, O cook of the cursèd kitchen,

Tell me, tell me

What the king is doing with old Ugly Saracen.”

 

“He eats, drinks, and sleeps,” replied the cook.

 

“Please, a bit of soup for me,

And plumes of gold I will give thee.”

 

She ate her soup, and the cook took the golden feathers.

A little later, the cook decided to go to the king with the whole story. The king listened carefully, and replied, “Tomorrow when the wood pigeon returns, catch it and bring it to me. I shall keep it.”

Ugly Saracen, who had eavesdropped and heard everything, knew only too well that the wood pigeon would be her undoing, so next morning she beat the cook to the window when the pigeon lit, pierced it through with a spit and killed it.

The wood pigeon died, but a drop of blood fell in the garden and right there a pomegranate tree sprang up at once.

This tree had the magic property that whoever was dying and ate one of its pomegranates got well. And there was always a long line of people begging Ugly Saracen for a pomegranate.

Finally only one pomegranate remained on the tree, the biggest one of all, and Ugly Saracen announced: “I will keep this one for myself.”

An old woman came to her, asking, “Will you give me that pomegranate? My husband is dying.”

“I have only one left, and I am keeping it for decoration,” replied Ugly Saracen, but the king's son objected. “Poor old thing, her husband is dying, you can't refuse her.”

So the old woman went back home with the pomegranate. She got home and found her husband already dead. “That means I keep the pomegranate for decoration,” she told herself.

Every morning the old woman went to Mass. And while she was at Mass, the girl would come out of the pomegranate, light the fire, sweep the house, do the cooking, and set the table. Then she would go back inside the pomegranate. Finding everything in order upon her return, the old woman was baffled.

One morning she went to confession and told her confessor all about it. He replied, “Know what you should do? Tomorrow morning pretend to go out to Mass, but hide somewhere at home instead. That way you'll see who's doing all your housekeeping.”

The next morning the old woman pretended to leave the house, but stopped outside the door. The maiden emerged from the pomegranate and started on the housework and the cooking. The old woman came back in and caught the girl before she could reenter the pomegranate.

“Where do you come from?” asked the old woman.

“Peace to you, ma'am, don't kill me, don't kill me!”

“I'm not going to kill you, but I want to know where you come from.”