The Witch Of The Arno

“Il spirito usci dal fiume a un tratto,
E venne come Dio l’aveva fatto,
E presentando come un cortegiano
Alla donna gentil la destra mano,
‘Scusate,’ disse si io vengo avanti
E se vi do la mano sensa guanti.”—_Paranti_.

The following, as a French book of fables says, is “a poem, or rather prose rhymed:”

“Two pretty maids one morning sat by the rushing stream. It murmured
glittering in the sun; it seemed to sing as on it run, enchanting
while a wantoning, as in a merry dream.

“Said one unto the other: ‘I wish, and all in truth, that the glorious dancing river were as fine and brave a youth. Its voice is
like an angel’s, its drops of light like eyes so bright are beautiful I wis. Oh, ne’er before, on sea or shore, did I love aught like
this.’

“A voice came from the river: ‘For a love thou hast chosen me;
henceforward, sweet, for ever thine own love I will be. Wherever
there is water, of Florence the fairest daughter, by night or day or
far away, thou’lt find me close by thee.’

“She saw bright eyes a shining in dewdrops on her path—she returned
unto the palace, she entered in a bath. ‘How the water doth caress
me; ’tis embracing me, I vow! _M’abbracia_, _mi baccia_—my lover has
me now. Since fate has really willed it, then to my fate I bow.’

“Seven years have come and vanished, seven years of perfect bliss.
Whenever she washed in water, she felt her lover’s kiss. She washed
full oft, I ween; ’twas plain to be seen there was no maid in Florence who kept herself so clean.

“Little by little, as summer makes frogs croak in a ditch, there spread about a rumour that the damsel was a witch. They showed her scanty mercies; with cruelty extreme, with blows and bitter curses,
they cast her in the stream. ‘If she be innocent, she’ll sink, so
hurl her from the Arno’s brink; if guilty, she will swim!’

“Up rose from the sparkling river a youth who was fair to see. ‘I
have loved thee, and for ever thine own I’ll truly be.’ He took her
in his arms; she felt no more alarms. ‘Farewell to you all!’ sang she; ‘a fish cannot drown in the water; now I am a fish, you know—the Arno’s loving daughter. _Per sempre addio_!’”

The foregoing is not literal, nor do I know that it is strictly “traditional;” it is a mere short tale or anecdote which I met with, and put into irregular metre to suit the sound of a rushing stream. I take the liberty of adding to it another water-poem of my own, which has become, if not “popular,” at least a halfpenny broadside sold at divers street-stands by old women, the history whereof is as follows:—I had written several ballads in Italian in imitation of the simplest old-fashioned lyrics, and was anxious to know if I had really succeeded in coming down to the level of the people, for this is a very difficult thing to do in any language. When I showed them to Marietta Pery, she expressed it as her candid opinion that they were really very nice indeed, and that I ought for once in my life to come before the public as a poet. And as I, fired by literary ambition, at last consented to appear in this _rôle_, Marietta took a ballad, and going to E. Ducci, 32 Via Pilastri, who is the Catnach of Florence (I advise collectors of the really curious to buy his _soldo_ publications), made an arrangement whereby my song should appear as a broadside, the lady strictly conditioning that from among his blocks Signore Ducci should find a ship and a flying bird to grace the head and the end of the lyric. But as he had no bird, she took great credit to herself that for five francs she not only got a hundred copies, but also had specially engraved for the work and inserted an object which appears as flying to the right hand of the ship. The song was as follows:


LA BELLA STREGA. _Nuova Canzonetta di_ CHARLES GODFREY LELAND.


A pretty witch was bathing
In the sea one summer day;
There came a ship with pirates,
Who carried her away.

The ship due course was keeping
On the waves as they rose and broke;
The lovely lady, weeping,
Thus to the captain spoke:

“O Signor Capitano!
O captain of the sea!
I’ll give you a hundred ducats
If you will set me free.”

“I will not take a hundred,
You’re worth much more, you know;
I will sell you to the Sultan
For a hundred gold sequins;
You set yourself far too low.”

“You will not take a hundred—
Oh well! then let them be,
But I have a faithful lover,
Who, as you may discover,
Will never abandon me.”

Upon the windlass sitting,
The lady began to sing:
“Oh, come to me, my lover!”
From afar a breeze just rising
In the rigging began to ring.

Louder and ever louder
The wind began to blow:
Said the captain, “I think your lover
Is the squall which is coming over,
Or the devil who has us in tow.”

Stronger and ever stronger
The tempest roared and rang,
“There are rocks ahead and the wind dead aft,
Thank you, my love,” the lady laughed;
And loud to the wind she sang.

“Oh, go with your cursèd lover,
To the devil to sing for me!”
Thus cried the angry rover,
And threw the lady over
Into the raging sea.

But changing to a seagull,
Over the waves she flew:
“Oh captain, captain mine,” sung she,
“You will not swing on the gallows-tree,
For you shall drown in the foaming sea—
Oh captain, for ever adieu!”

I must in honesty admit that this my _début_ as an Italian poet was not noticed in any of the reviews—possibly because I did not send it to them—and there were no indications that anybody considered that a new Dante had arisen in the land. It is true, as Marietta told me with much delight, that the printer, or his foreman, had declared it was a very good song indeed; but then he was an interested party. And Marietta also kindly praised it to the skies (after she had corrected it); but then Marietta was herself a far better poet than I can ever hope to be, and could afford to be generous.