Furicchia, Or The Egg-Woman Of The Mercato Vecchio

“Est anus inferno, vel formidanda barathro,
Saga diu magicis usa magisteriis,
Hæc inhians ova gallina matre creatis.
Obsipat assueto pharmaca mixta cibo,
Pharmaca queis quæcunque semel gallina voratis,
Ova decem pariat bis deciesque decem.”

STEUCCIUS, _cited by_ P. GOLDSCHMIDT,
_Verworffener Hexen und Zauberadvocat_. Hamburg, 1705.

“E un figliuolo della gallina bianca.”—_Old Proverb_.

The Mercato Vecchio was fertile in local traditions, and one of these is
as follows:

LEGEND OF THE LANTERNS.

“There was in the Old Market of Florence an old house with a small shop
in it, and over the door was the figure or bas-relief of a pretty hen, to
show that eggs were sold there.

“All the neighbours were puzzled to know how the woman who kept this shop
could sell so many eggs as she did, or whence she obtained them, for she
was never seen in the market buying any, nor were they brought to her;
whence they concluded that she was a witch and an egg-maker, and this
scandal was especially spread by her rivals in business. But others
found her a very good person, of kindly manner, and it was noted in time
that she not only did a great deal of good in charity, and that her eggs
were not only always fresh and warm, but that many persons who had drunk
them when ill had been at once relieved, and recovered in consequence.
And the name of this egg-wife was Furicchia.

“Now there was an old lady who had gone down in the world or become poor,
and she too had set up a shop to sell eggs, but did not succeed, chiefly
because everybody went to Furicchia. And this made the former more
intent than ever to discover the secret, and she at once went to work to
find it out.

“Every morning early, when Furicchia rose, she went out of doors, and
then the hen carved over the door came down as a beautiful white fowl,
who told her all the slanders and gossip which people spread about her,
and what effort was being made to discover her secret. And one day it
said:

“‘There is the Signora who was once rich and who is now poor, and who has
sworn to find out thy secret how thou canst have so many eggs to sell,
since no one sees thee buy any, and how it comes that invalids and
bewitched children are at once cured by the virtue of those eggs. So she
hopes to bring thee to death, and to get all thy trade.

“‘But, dear Furicchia, this shall never be, because I will save thee. I
well remember how, when I was a little chicken, and the poultry dealer
had bought me, and was about to wring my neck—b’r’r’r!—I shudder when I
think of it!—when thou didst save my life, and I will ever be grateful to
thee, and care for thy fortune.

“‘Now I will tell thee what to do. Thou shalt to-morrow take a pot and
fill it with good wine and certain drugs, and boil them well, and leave
it all hot in thy room, and then go forth, and for the rest I will
provide. _Addio_, Furicchia!’ And saying this, the hen went back into
her accustomed place.

“So the next morning, Furicchia, having left the wine boiling, went forth
at ten o’clock, and she was hardly gone ere the Signora, her rival,
entered the place and called for the mistress, but got no answer. Then
she went into the house, but saw nothing more than a vast quantity of
eggs, and all the while she heard the hen singing or clucking:

“‘_Coccodé_! Dear me!
Where can Furicchia be?
_Coccodé_! Furicchia mine!
Bring me quick some warm red wine!
_Coccodé_! Three eggs I have laid!
_Coccodé_! Now six for your trade.
_Coccodé_! Now there are nine,
Bring me quickly the warm red wine!
_Coccodé_! Take them away;
Many more for thee will I lay,
And thou wilt be a lady grand,
As fine as any in all the land;
And should it happen that any one
Drinks of this wine as I have done,
Eggs like me she will surely lay;
That is the secret, that is the way.
_Coccodé_! _Coccodé_!’

“Now the Signora heard all this, and knew not whence the song came, but
she found the pot of hot wine and drank it nearly all, but had not time
to finish it nor to escape before Furicchia returned. And the latter
began to scold her visitor for taking such liberty, to which the Signora
replied, ‘Furicchia, I came in here to buy an egg, and being shivering
with cold, and seeing this hot wine, I drank it, meaning indeed to pay
for it.’ But Furicchia replied, ‘Get thee gone; thou hast only come here
to spy out my secret, and much good may it do thee!’

“The Signora went home, when she begun to feel great pain, and also, in
spite of herself, to cluck like a hen, to the amazement of everybody, and
then sang:

“‘_Coccodé_! Che mal di corpo!
_Coccodé_! Voglio fa l’uovo!
E se l’uova non faro,
Di dolore moriro.’

“‘_Coccodé_! What a pain in my leg!
_Coccodé_! I must lay an egg!
And if my eggs I cannot lay,
I shall surely die to-day.’

“Then she began to lay eggs indeed—_tante_, _tante_—till they nearly
filled all the room, and truly her friends were aghast at such a sight,
never having heard of such a thing before; but she replied, ‘Keep quiet;
it is a secret. I have found out how Furicchia gets her eggs, and we
shall be as rich as she.’ And having laid her eggs, nothing would do but
she must needs hatch them, and all the time for many days she sat and
sat, clucking like a hen—_coccodé_! _coccodé_!—and pecking at crusts like
a hen, for she would not eat in any other way. And so she sat and
shrivelled up until she became a hen indeed, and was never anything else,
and died one. But when the eggs hatched, there came from them not
chicks, but mice, which ran away into the cellar, and so ends the story.”

* * * * *

This story greatly resembles one given by Peter Goldschmidt in “The
Witches’ and Sorcerers’ Advocate Overthrown,” published at Hamburg in
1705, and to the same as sung in Latin song by a certain Steuccius. The
Italian tale is, however, far better told in every respect, the only
point in common being that a certain witch laid eggs by means of a
potion, which produced the same effect on a man. It is the well-managed
play of curiosity, gratitude, and character which make Furicchia so
entertaining, and there is nothing in the heavy German tale like the
“Song of the Hen,” or _Coccodé_, which is a masterpiece of a juvenile
lyric. The clucking and pecking at crusts of the old woman, as she
gradually passes into a hen, is well imagined, and also the finale of the
chickens turned to mice, who all run away. One could make of it a play
for the nursery or the stage.

The Mercato Vecchio, in which the egg-wife dwelt, was a place of common
resort in the olden time, “when there was giving and taking of talk on
topics temporal:”

“Where the good news fleetly flew,
And the bad news ever true,
Softly whispered, loudly told,
Scalding hot or freezing cold.” {14}

This place is recalled by a story which is indeed to be found in the
facetiæ of the Florentine Poggio, yet which holds its own to this day in
popular tale-telling. It is as follows:

“It happened once when Florence was at war with the Duke of Milan,
that a law was passed making it death for any one to speak in any way
of peace. Now there was a certain Bernardo Manetti, a man _di
ingegno vivacissimo_, or an extremely ready wit, who being one day in
the Mercato Vecchio to buy something or other (it being the custom of
the Florentines of those times to go in person to purchase their
daily food), was much annoyed by one of those begging friars who go
about the roads, _alla questua_, collecting alms, and who stand at
street-corners imploring charity. And this brazen beggar, accosting
Bernardo, said to him:

“‘_Pax vobiscum_! Peace be unto you!’

“‘_A chi parlasti di pace_?—How darest thou speak to me of _peace_,
thou traitor and enemy to Florence?’ cried Bernardo in well-assumed
anger. ‘Dost thou not know that by public decree thou may’st lose
thy shaven head for mentioning the word? And thou darest ask me for
alms here in the open market-place, thou traitor to thy country and
thy God! _Apage_, _Satanas_—avaunt!—begone! lest I be seen talking
to thee and taken for a conspirator myself! _Pax_ indeed—pack off
with you, ere I hand you over to the torturers!’

“And so he rid himself of that importunate beggar.”

Apropos of the egg-wife, if chickens are apropos to eggs, there is a
merry tale of a certain priest, which will, I think, amuse the reader.
Like all good folk, the Florentines make fun of their neighbours, among
whom are of course included the people of Arezzo, and tell of them this
story:

“Long long ago, a certain Bishop Angelico convoked a Synod at Arezzo,
summoning every priest in his diocese to be present; and knowing that
many had slipped into very slovenly habits as regarded the sacerdotal
uniform, made it a stern and strict order that every one should
appear in _cappa e cotta_,’ {15} or in cloak and robe.

“Now there was a priest who, though he kept a well-filled cellar, and
a pretty servant-maid, and a fine poultry-yard, had none of these
clerical vestments, and knew not where to borrow them for the
occasion; so he was in great distress and _stavasi molto afflitto in
casa sua_—sat in deep affliction in his home. And his maid, who was
a bright and clever girl, seeing him so cast down, asked him the
cause of his grief, to which he replied that the Bishop had summoned
him to appear at the Synod in _cappa e cotta_.

“‘Oh, nonsense!’ replied the good girl. ‘Is that all? My dear
master, you do not pronounce the words quite correctly, or else they
have been badly reported to you. It is not _cappa e cotta_ which the
Bishop requires, for assuredly he has plenty of such clothes, but
_capponi cotti_, ‘good roast capons,’ such as all bishops love, and
which he knows he can get better from the country priests than from
anybody. And _grazie a Dio_! there is nobody in all Tuscany has
better poultry than ours, and I will take good care that you give the
Bishop of the very best.’

“Now the priest being persuaded by the maid, really made his
appearance at the Council bearing in a dish well covered with a
napkin four of the finest roasted capons ever seen. And with these
he advanced _in pleno concilo_, in full assembly before the Bishop.
The great man looked severely at the priest, and said:

“‘Where are thy _cappa e cotta_?’

“‘Excellenza, behold them!’ said the good man, uncovering the dish.
‘And though I say it, no better _capponi cotte_ can be had in all our
country.’

“The Bishop and all round him gazed with breathless admiration on the
fowls, so plump, so delicious, so exquisitely roasted, with lemons
ranged round them. It was just the hungry time of day, and, in
short, the priest had made a blessed happy blunder, and one which was
greatly admired. There was general applause.

“‘_Figlio mio_!’ said the Bishop with a smile, ‘take my blessing!
Thou alone of all the ministers of our diocese didst rightly
understand the spirit and meaning of an episcopal edict.’”