Povera Casavecchia

Non so cosa dire. Solo Dio lo sa. E ha lasciato la scena nel 1966.

What do La Befana, Santa Claus, & Bronco Bama all have in common?

The answer is that they were all named by children. La Befana derives from l'epifania which means The Epiphany in Italian. The story is Italian folklore, and tells of an old woman who was visited by the Three Wise Men on their way to Bethlehem. She declined to go along when invited, but later changed her mind and now spends eternity seeking the Christ child. She is/was the traditional Italian Santa Claus, bringing gifts to good children on the evening of January 5th, the night before the Feast Of The Epiphany. Here is her story in a little video I made to accompany the vinyl LP I knew as a child:

There has been some hand wringing that American-style Halloween has co-opted La Befana's image:

La Befana was obsessed with sweeping, which explains the broomstick. Now I'm wondering where/how the Halloween witch/broomstick came into popular American culture. Anybody?

Santa Claus needs no introduction -- his name derived from Dutch as Sinterklaas which itself came from Saint Nikolaas. Dutch children believe that Sinterklaas brings gifts on December 5th, the night before St. Nicholas Day. If you say Saint Nicholas very quickly as a child might do, you get to Santa Claus. Curiously, the traditional Saint Nick was a rather slender individual and wore blue rather than red. Did Coca-Cola intentionally rebrand him as an obese flyover state type? Recall that red used to be the Democrat (Deep South) color.

"Bronco Bama" of course was coined by a six-year old during the 2012 Presidential election; I draw no intentional similarities between Barack Obama, La Befana, and Santa Claus.

Don't Get Cocky!

Stub for Woodstock in Europe, September 21, 1979, Turin, Italy

No matter who wins, this is the dawning of the Age of Austerity

Indian Summer

Then God commanded November to brighten the sky and to mitigate the air for the entire duration of Martin's travel. And since God does not rescind his orders, the first days of November are always cheered by a warm sun. We call this season Indian Summer. Link

If one is not inclined to the sacred, there is always the profane redeemed:

According to Robby Krieger, "Indian Summer" was the very first song The Doors ever recorded, in 1966. The version everyone knows was released in 1970 on Morrison Hotel.

Madonna's Woes and Tramping Abroad

Madonna got into a bit of trouble overseas in France. link  I'm mostly bored with the details and won't go into them. The crowd's reaction reminded me of a Patti Smith concert I saw in Florence, Italy, back in 1979.  Smith really riled the crowd and retired from performing afterwards.

My mother salvaged an old diary I kept on that trip and returned it to me last month. Here's what I said about that concert then.

Martedì 10 settembre [1979]
Rome, Villa Borghese 

Wow what a night last night. I went to the Patti Smith concert at the stadium in Florence. The stadium looked like a huge bathtub. I couldn't believe it when I arrived. It was as if Led Zeppelin were playing. There were people all over 5 hours before the concert began. We waited away from the noisy mob collecting near the gates. I caught some sleep. Then there was a shout--the gates were opening. We made for the nearest gate.
After waiting in the hot noisy crowd (like so many grains of sand all trying to get through the neck of an hourglass) we broke through to the inside and picked ourselves some good seats.
Below it was like pigs to a feeding trough, pushing shoving, shouting, etc. I remember laughing as we watched people scaling the fence around the field track. At the top there was 3 wires of barbwire and some people would get their shirts or pants caught.
Well after some length of time the music began. First it was tapes. Lynyrd Skynyrd "Street Survivors" and then Dire Straits--"Down By The Waterfront."
When the equipment was tested, I thought at first it was just the roadies tuning up stuff, but then they played songs, rock like "You Really Got Me" and then quit--the tapes continued. But when the real band began I realized it was the same musicians.
Patti Smith had a hard time with the audience. First of all she barely knew a word of Italian, only "ti capisc" which she pronounced like "ti capeach."  Secondly the audience couldn't understand a word of English.
She had a problem with people climbing up on the stage--the crowd was absolutely unruly.
"Hey man, you wanna climb the stage, get your own stage, man."
The last song they played was "My Generation."  Before this though the guitarist played the first few notes of the Star Spangled Banner (like Hendrix at Woodstock) and a big American flag came up behind them. Then all the Italians gave it the finger. Then the Who song--then a finale and then chaos; people surged up onto the stage like the pressure of being pushed forward reached a breaking point.
Then "Hey man, get the fuck off the stage" but there was nothing that could be done.
Patti tried to talk with them. "Hey you know" she said to one, "you light up my life." She tried to get him to sit down at the piano "fucking sit down, asshole....how do you say sit down in Italian" she said through 80,000 pairs of ears--but to no avail.
The chaos ended when the road crew swept the undesirables off the stage and then, like a giant bathtub, the moment came when the plug was pulled and it started to drain, not without leaving a residue of paper, cans, and bottles though. So went the concert in Italy.

My own recollection of the same concert, written a year and a half ago from memory is here.
It's interesting for me to compare the two accounts--one fresh and the other filtered by 30 years of  experience and memory.

Breaking Away

My mother found and saved an old diary I kept when I went to Italy in 1979 to meet an Italian exchange student I had known in high school. It's mostly the sort of stuff people write when they're 19, but I found two interesting entries. The first is the very first entry--written when I flew alone to Europe via on Icelandic Air to Luxembourg. I caught a train south to Milan and then another to Turin. Despite all my random punctuation and thoughts, I captured the moment when I first set off on my own. This was also my first time on a jet airliner.

21 luglio
Chicago O'Hare 

I'm looking at the jet, which turn- excuse, I had to get on it.*
I'm sitting in a window seat, just abreast of the starboard wing. I'm very excited. The seating is very comfortable. I'm alone in my seat--I've got 3 seats to myself and the armrests come up out of the way so that could actually stretch my legs out sideways or sit indian style.
We'll be served dinner in an hour. They just stepped on the gas and we're moving forward--I'm writing so fast I want to look out the window--Oh, I never thought this dream would come true. We're taxiing now, picking up speed now, there's no getting off now. Step on it! roller coaster! thunder rumble! bouncing on the ground then a firmness under me. I can see Chicago out there, a city of lights as far as I can see, lines and triangles of light, squares like luminous patchwork quilts, lots of red, orange, green. The pilot just banked the jet away from the city and we're off to Iceland.
Just had dinner--pretty good considering where I am. They served chicken breast in rice, a salad, a stuffed tuna tomato, and after dinner coffee and cognac. It's about 10:50 CST and I think I'll shut my light out. I'm really fortunate to have these seats to myself. 

An hour later, I noted the date change. Pretentious me also thought it cool to mark the calendar dates in Italian:

22 luglio 

It's about 12:54 CST and I still can't sleep I'm so excited. The sun no sooner vanished to the west when it rose in the east. It's getting light out now and looking out the window I can see a foamy sea of clouds, a bluish white blanket covering what must be the sea beneath. I tell you, from this point of view the earth verges on unreality.
The plane ride feels much in the way of a bus ride, except for the view out the window--the light of the sun is now on the plane.
I just set my watch ahead 5 hours; we're descending to Iceland for a stay of 45 minutes. We're going to drop through the thick of these clouds now--it's like fog--I can't see past the tip of the wing; my ears are popping like crazy it's getting rough now--the world below, the sea, just came into view. I can see Iceland, a lighthouse, the land looks barren, very rocky no trees, steam is rising from a point in the distance.

After a brief stopover at the Reykjavik Airport, the flight continued on to Luxembourg:

I believe I'm flying above the Scottish countryside. The clouds are dense but scattered. It's a patchwork of green and gold fields. I can see also winding rivers.
Upon taking off from Iceland (that wretched, barren wasteland), I was joined by a middle aged French couple who speak no English. Had lunch. I ate every calorie--I don't know when I'll eat next. 

The next entry is fragmentary but describes the landing:

like plunging into a gaseous sea and then the land reappearing. 

__________________
* "which turn- excuse, I had to get on it" makes no grammatical sense. I can't tell if a word is missing or  if I just meant to be cryptic. I was aware at the time of the inevitability, but I don't recall exactly what I was thinking 33 years ago. I had left behind a serious girlfriend who was upset that I was leaving for a month (which turned into 8 weeks).  I had no regrets at the time.

La Dolce Salsa

Cross-posted at Trooper York, a speakeasy blog (invitation only) I frequent:

It is sarsa time in Madison. The hot August sun has ripened the tomatoes, and Monona Bay that skirts 'Little Italy' seems congealed in silver silence. It is the season before the gnat invasion.
All along lower Regent Street, in adjoining backyards and open spaces off Milton Street, Italian housewives are vigilantly guarding the sarsa boards from the threat of rain. Within the homes the kettles are boiling—big kettles filled with sliced red tomatoes. When after an hour the cooking has turned the bubbling pulp into a thin red sauce, the contents are strained. Then the squishy mass is poured on clean white sarsa boards and placed in the sun to evaporate. Every hour, or oftener, the thickening nucleus is spread and respread until it takes on a richer shade and becomes a heavy relish. As it is packed away in jars, olive oil is poured on top—enough to form an air-proof covering. The finished product is then ready for use—all fall, all winter, all spring—until another crop of red tomatoes can be harvested.

~from Old World Wisconsin by Fred L. Holmes, published in 1944. Other nationalities are at the "Old World Wisconsin" tag.

"Sarsa" is Sicilian dialect for salsa.

Here's a link to a photo of a woman preparing "sarsa" in Madison. link

I especially like the simple trick of pouring oil over the sarsa to keep out air. That's exactly how commercial sodium and potassium metals (both air and moisture sensitive) are sold--submerged in oil to protect them.

La Mirella Mia

While on the topic of cobalt, I remembered my early fascination for another thing cobalt: the Campagnolo Gruppo Cobalto. If you don't know, Campagnolo SPA is the the name of an Italian high end bicycle component manufacturer. Campagnolo (Campy) parts dominated the high-end bike component markets for years until the Japanese moved in on them, offering more for less. But Campagnolo still led in form plus function.  Here is a photo of the Cobalto brake set I coveted but never owned.

In 1979, I bought a 10 speed bicycle called a Mirella. Here's a link showing what one used to look like.  Mine was gold and not blue. Same chrome lugs. Mafac brakes. I rode that bike 15 miles a day, weather permitting, commuting back and forth to campus. I also rode it around Dane County and around the lakes on weekends.

I crashed the bike once on University Avenue going over some railroad tracks. The front wheel came loose and I planted the fork in the asphalt. I cracked my forearm in the fall but managed to carry the bike back to State St. where I worked before seeking medical attention for myself (the bike was more important to me). The guys at the old Yellow Jersey Coop on State St. were able to straighten the fork for me and a month or so later I was at it again, biking all over Dane County.

Years later I had the original paint stripped and added braze-on fittings for the front derailleur, water bottle cages, and brake line guides across the top tube. I had it painted a bright Italian red. I also upgraded the components with Campy Super Record brakes and a gorgeous Campy Chorus aluminum crank (I still have the original three-pin Campy crank made of chrome-plated steel. I tried to sell it once on eBay but no takers). I also added front and rear Chorus derailliers. And a Cinelli stem. The only thing original (besides the frame) left on it are the high flange Campy hubs and the drop-outs which are part of the frame and thus non-negotiable.

Somebody vandalized my Mirella in Denver. They took the Campy Record quick release skewers, the Super Record brakes, and they were working on taking the seat post. Bastards. I suspected someone in the apartment building because the bike was in a security locked basement at the time.

Here's photo of it now, stowed up in the rafters in the garage. It still works fine:

THIS BIKE IS NOT FOR SALE

Real 10 speeds are so 70's.

The Pursuit of the Woman with the Feathered Hat

Music that will forever remind me of the Florence, Italy train station.

Le Quattro Stagioni: L'Estate

I friend sent me this video clip. I'm putting it here to keep track of it and also to say thanks.

Those Horny Italians!

My parents had a vinyl LP as old as me (1960) called Louis Prima Digs Keely Smith.  One of the songs, Zooma Zooma Baccala, amused me and my brother to no end growing up, but we had no clue what the song was really about. It's really the same song in the wedding scene from The Godfather:



The original lyrics aren't even in Italian; they're in a Sicilian (or Neopolitan) dialect. The wonders of the Internets led me to track down the meaning of the words to the Louis Prima song one night. I was very amused by what I found. I converted my inherited vinyl to digital and translated the lyrics in the first link.

The mezzogiorno polka song tells about a young woman choosing a man to be her husband. She is confused and asks her mother to decide. Her mother describes each man and his "job," giving her the same comical answer for each one, indicating for instance, that if you marry a butcher, he will "sausage" you; if you marry a carpenter, he will "hammer" you; if you marry a farmer, he will "plough" you. Obviously, the song is one big double entendre. Here's the best translation that I found: link

In many ways, the 1960's and earlier times were not more innocent times--people just had better imaginations.

Ladri di Vote?

An interesting old trick taught in undergraduate chemistry was called the titration thief. Now a titration is something one does to measure the titer of an unknown solution. It's usually an acid-base or some other strength-of-this vs. strength-of-that determination.

The gist of a titration is that one slowly drips a solution of a known strength into a solution of an unknown strength (but of opposite polarity) until some indicator indicates neutrality. The exact point of neutrality is called the endpoint. It used to take me quite a bit of practice to reach but not exceed that delicate endpoint without overshooting.

A titration thief was a trick whereby one removed a tiny bit of the unknown solution beforehand in case the endpoint was overshot. In the event of an overshoot, the small amount of unknown was added back in and the endpoint was then re-titrated with greater care.

Return to Florence

My Patti Smith Group concert ticket from their last performance in 1979

My best musical memory of 1979 was seeing the original Patti Smith Group play what turned out to be their last concert ever. Of course nobody knew that at the time. I didn't know for years after that it was their last concert. But after that show Smith went into semi-retirement, married Fred Smith and moved to Detroit to raise a family. And I was fortunately there that night.

The concert was in Florence and was just part of a glorious 1979 trip to Italy that summer. I could and should blog that whole summer experience because it was so defining and yet eye-opening for me. So much discovery. I came back and felt a little like il Marco Pollo, telling my Midwestern friends and family about good Italian coffee (which you could only get in fine restaurants in Madison then) and the food--OMG the food!  I even learned to love black olives.

The concert was, as the Italians might say, un disastro. The band's actual play list is recorded here and sounds vaguely familiar. There's a cache of photos here. Of course I look for myself in them. From my vantage point, a bit off to the right (stage left) and elevated in the stands just a bit, things look just as I remember them except that they're colored by my memories.

It's the chaos that happened at the end that I remember best. The crowd had been allowed right up to the stage's edge, which apparently was a mistake. But her real "mistake" was to raise an American flag during a penultimate song. The crowd went pazzo and took the stage. Patti Smith corroborates here. Unruly men surrounded her and cut her off from the other band members. Frightened and fearless, Smith improvised. She tried to humor them, playing them a piano rendition of You Light Up My Life. It became a real stand off and fortunately no real violence ensued. I felt helpless--as both a fan and as an American. She was surrounded by ostensibly adoring fans and yet she looked and acted like a hostage. That little concert stage scene foreshadowed the world stage because two months later Iranian students stormed our embassy in Tehran. It's all a bit surreal in retrospect.

I'll add another piece of material to the mix besides my concert ticket stub (above): a photo of a concert poster before the show:

Had people known what they had seen then they would have been tearing those posters off the walls after the show as souvenirs. I used to have a poster from the event--not the flimsy plaster-posters like in that photo but a gorgeous lithographed one, done on nice card stock with blue ink. A shopkeeper gave it to me before the show that day and I carried it to the show. When I search the photos from that historic concert, I'm always looking for my 19-year old self carrying that rolled-up poster. Sadly, I lost that poster somewhere along the long, long pathway from there to here but at least I still have the memories and thank God for that.

[Added: I augmented my memories with what I actually wrote at the time here]

The Fire Worshipers

Giotto's Adorazione dei Magi (early 14th c.)

The following story appears in Beginning Readings In Italian and originates with Marco Polo, who lived and traveled in 13th and 14th century Asia and Asia Minor. Polo was Venetian by birth and died there in 1324. The Fire Worshipers tells the story of three kings (Magi) who traveled to Bethlehem to see the infant Jesus. The story was first told to Polo in Persia after he visited the tombs of the three kings. link

The story is fascinating in that it gives a different perspective on a well known story. I have appended the mention of the kings according to the Gospel Matthew. Particularly interesting is the account of the origin of the gifts--gold, frankincense, and myrrh--and also the symbolism of the stone as it later appeared in the person of Peter and in the founding of the Church.

The Fire Worshipers

Three kings of that country [Persia] went to worship a new-born prophet and brought with them three offerings--gold, frankincense and myrrh--in order to know if the prophet was a god, or an earthly king, or a healer. They reasoned that if he took the gold, he was an earthly king; if he took the frankincense, he was a god; if he took the myrrh, he was a healer. 

Now when they came to the place where the child was born, the youngest of the three kings went in alone to see him: what he found looked like himself: a child of his age and appearance. The young king came out full of wonder. The second king (of middle age) entered after him, and to him the child also seemed a likeness in appearance and in age. The second king came out dumbfounded. Then the third king, the oldest, went in and the same thing happened as with the other two. And he came out very upset. When the three kings found themselves together, they told each other what they had seen. They were very much amazed and decided to all go in together. They went in together to look and found a child who looked the expected age of only thirteen days.* Then they worshipped him and offered him gold, frankincense and myrrh. The child took all three offerings and gave them a sealed box. And the three kings left to return to their country.

After riding for a few days, they decided to see what the child had given them. They opened the box and found a stone inside. They were surprised and uncertain. Because the three kings had seen that the child had taken all three offerings, they had concluded that he was god, a king and a healer. And the child, knowing well the faith born in the three kings, gave them a stone to signify that they had to be firm and steadfast in their belief. But the three kings took the stone and threw it down a well: they did not know why it was given to them. And just as the stone was thrown into the well, a burning fire descended from the heavens and came straight to the well in which they had thrown the stone.

Seeing the great miracle, the three kings were all amazed and regretted having thrown away the stone; they clearly saw that this was a symbol, both great and good. Taking of that fire immediately, they took it back to their country and put it in their church, a very beautiful and rich building. They keep the fire perpetually burning and worship it as a god. And every sacrifice and burnt offering which they make is made with this fire. If it ever happens that the fire goes out, they go round to others who hold the same faith and who also worship  fire and are given some of the fire that burns in their church. This they bring back to rekindle their own fire. They never rekindle it except with this fire of which I have spoken. To procure this fire, they often make a journey of ten days.

These are the reasons why the inhabitants of that country worship the fire.

The following is an except from the Gospel according to Matthew and is the only one of the four Gospels to mention the wise men from the East:

Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea in the days of Herod the king, behold, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, saying, 'Where is he who has been born king of the Jews? For we have seen his star in the East, and have come to worship him.' When Herod the king heard this, he was troubled, and all Jerusalem with him; and assembling the chief priests and scribes of the people, he inquired of them where the Christ was to be born. They told him, 'In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it is written by the prophet: 'And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for from you shall come a ruler who is to shepherd my people Israel.' Then Herod summoned the wise men secretly and ascertained from them what time the star appeared; and he sent them to Bethlehem, saying, 'Go and search diligently for the child; and when you have found him, bring me word so that I too may come and worship him.' When they had heard the king, they went their way; and lo, the star that they had seen in the East went before them, till it came to rest over the place where the child was. When they saw that star, they rejoiced exceedingly with great joy; and going into the house they saw the child with Mary his mother; and they fell down and worshiped him. Then, opening their treasures, they offered him gifts, gold, frankincense, and myrrh. And being warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed for their own country by another way.

Matthew 2:1-12 (RSV)

_________________________

*The visit of the Magi is commemorated by the observance of Epiphany on January 6th.

This is how the original text which I translated appears in Beginning Readings In Italian:

Gli Adoratori Del Fuoco

Tre re di quella contrada vanno ad adororare un profeta nato da poco e portano con loro tre offerte--oro, incense e mirra--per conoscere se quel profeta è dio o re terreno o medico. Poiché pensano: se prende oro, è re terreno; se prende incenso, è dio; se prende mirra è medico. Venuti al luogo dov’ è nato il bambino, il più giovane di questi re va da solo a vederlo: e lo trova che somiglia a lui stesso, chè pare della sua età e della sua figura. Esce fuori pertanto molto meravigliato. Dopo di lui entra il re ch’è d’età mezzana: ed il bambino gli pare come all’altro, della sua figura e della sua età. Esce fuori anche lui tutto stupefatto. Ci va quindi il terzo, il più anziano, e gli succede il medesimo che agli altri due. Ed esce fuori anche lui molto turbato. Quando si ritrovano tutti e tre insieme, i tre re si raccontano quello che hanno visto. Ne fanno le più grandi meraviglie e decidono di andarci tutti e tre insieme. Si recano quindi tutti insieme a vedere il bambino, e lo trovano dell’aspetto e dell’ età che ha: chè ha soltanto tredici giorni. Allora lo adorano e gli offrono l’oro, l’incenso e la mirra. Il bambino prende tutte e tre le offerte. Poi dà loro un bossolo chiuso. Ed i tre re partono per ritornare nella loro contrada.

Dopo aver cavalcato per alcuni giorni, decidono di vedere ciò che il bambino ha dato loro. Aprono il bossolo e vi trovano dentro una pietra. Restano meravigliati ed incerti. Il bambino l’aveva data loro per significare che dovevano essere fermi come pietra nella fede incominciata. Poiché i tre re, vedendo che il bambino aveva preso tutte e tre le offerte, ne avevano conchiuso ch’egli era dio, re terreno e medico; e il bambino, ben sapendo che nei tre re era nata quella fede, aveva dato loro pietra per significare che dovevano essere fermi e costanti nella loro credenza. I tre re prendono la pietra a la gettano in un pozzo: chè non sanno perchè è stata loro donate. Ed appena la pietra è gettata nel pozzo, scende dal cielo una fiamma e viene diritto al pozzo dove hanno gettato la pietra.

Veduta quella gran meraviglia i tre re ne rimangono tutti stupiti, e si pentono di aver buttata la pietra, ben comprendendo allora che quello è un simbolo grande e buono. Prendono subito di quell fuoco, lo portano nel loro paese, e lo mettono in una loro chiesa, molto bella ricca. Non cessano mai di farlo ardere e lo adorano come un dio. Cuociono con quell fuoco tutti i loro sacrifizi e olocausti. Se per caso quell fuoco viene a spegnersi, ricorrono agli altri che hanno la medesima fede e sono pure adoratori del fuoco, si fan dare del fuoco che arde nella loro chiesa e tornano a riaccendere il loro; nè mai lo riaccendono con fuoco diverso da quello di cui v’ho parlato. E molte volte devono fare, per trovar di quell fuoco, dieci giornate di marcia.

Sono questi i motive per cui gli abitanti di quela contrada adorano il fuoco.

Newlands' Law of Octaves



John Newlands was a 19th century chemist, inglese italianato, and an avid musician. He was among the first to see underlying rhyme and reason in the matter of the elements—even before Mendeleev did. But he mistook his insight as a fundamental harmony like the one between musical notes and for this he was rebuffed by his peers at the time.

Newlands arranged the then known elements in order of increasing atomic weight. He noticed that the eighth element (fluorine) resembled the first one (hydrogen), and that the ninth element (Na) resembled the second one (Li), and so forth. His observation that every eighth element had similar properties led him to compare his "chemical octaves" with musical octaves, and he called it his law of octaves. The first two octaves of elements behaved:

Do    Re    Mi    Fa    So    La    Ti     Do 
H      Li     Be     B      C      N      O     F
F      Na    Mg   Al     Si     P       S     Cl

One obvious problem with Newlands' octaves is that he left no room for the noble gases (which hadn't been discovered yet). So what Newlands described was not a law of octaves but rather a law of "nonaves":

Another problem with Newlands' scheme was that he tried to fit elements beyond chlorine into his scheme, including some known transition metals and he made some real errors. But give the man some credit.  Like Theo Boehm tweeted to me:

Well, Newland was on to *something* Just that musical analogy didn't quite make it. Tricky to work music into other areas! link

San Francesco e il Lebbroso

This is a continuation-in-part of this earlier post.  The story, entitled "St. Francis and the Leper" is from Chapter XXV of The Little Flowers of St. Francis and dates from the 13th century; the story is one of supreme compassion and humility, traits which the Franciscans strive to keep alive even today. You can read something of its historical importance here.

In this story, St. Francis of Assisi reaches out to a leper; lepers at that time were considered the dregs of humanity.  In St. Francis's view he was no less a human being. Characteristically, after witnessing a miracle by his own hand, St. Francis fled the scene to avoid the vainglory in the original sense of the term.

San Francesco e il Lebbroso

In un ospedale presso a quello dove dimore San Francesco, i frati servono i lebbrosi ed infermi; nel quale è un lebbroso si impaziente e perverso, che ognuno lo crede invasato dal demonio, e nessuno lo può o lo vuole servire.

San Francesco viene a questo lebbroso perverso e lo saluta dicendo: «Iddio ti pace, fratello mio carissimo.»
Risponde il lebbroso rimbrottando:  «E che pace posso io avere da Dio che mi ha fatto tutto marcio?»
E San Francesco dice: «Figliuolo, abbi pazienza,  poichè le infermità dei corpi ci sono date da Dio in questo mondo per salute dell’anima, ed esse sono di grande merito, quando sono portate pazientemente.»
Risponde l'infermo: «E come posso io portare pazientemente la pena continua che mi tormenta il dì e la notte?  E non solamente io sono tormentato dall’infermità mia ma peggio mi fanno i frati che non mi servono come debbono.»

Allora San Francesco, conoscendo per rivelazione che questo lebbroso è posseduto dal maligno spirito, va e prega Iddio devotamente per lui.  Ritorna a lui e dice così: «Figliuolo, io ti volgio servire io, poichè tu non ti contenti degli altri.»
E l'infermo dice: «Mi piace, ma che puoi tu fare più che gli altri?»
Risponde San Francesco: «Ciò che tu vorrai io farò.»
Dice il lebbroso: «Io voglio che tu mi lavi tutto quanto, poichè io puzzo sì fortemente, ch’io medesimo non mi posso patire.»

Allora San Francesco fa subito scaldare l’acqua con molte erbe odorifere, poi spoglia il lebbroso e comincia a lavarlo co le sue mani; e per divino miracolo, dove San Francesco tocca con le sue sante mani, sparisce la lebbra e rimane la carne perfettamente sanata.  E come si comincia a sanare la carne, così comincia a sanare l’anima; onde il lebbroso vedendosi cominciare a guarire, comincia ad avere grande compunzione e pentimento dei suoi peccati e a piangere amarissimamente; così,  mentre il corpo si sana di fuori della lebbra, l’anima si sana dentro del peccato per contrizione e per le lagrime.  Ed essendo compiutamente sanato, il lebbroso si riconosce in colpa e dice piangendo ad alta voce: «Guai a me, ch’io sono degno dell’inferno, per le villanie e ingiurie ch’io ho fatte e dette ai frati, e per l’impazienza e bestemmie ch’io ho avute contro a Dio.» Onde per quindici di persevera in amaro pianto dei suoi peccati, e in chiedere misericordia a Dio. E San Francesco, vedendo così manifesto miracolo, che Iddio ha operato per le sue mani, ringrazia Iddio e parte di là, andando in paesi assai lontani, poichè per umilità vuole fuggire ogni gloria mondana, e in tutte le sue operazioni solo cerca la gloria di Dio e non la propria.

A laude do Cristo benedetto.
Amen

St. Francis And The Leper

At a hospital near where St. Francis dwelled, the friars served the lepers and the sick, among whom is a leper so crazy and so perverse that everyone believes he is possessed by the devil, and no one can or wants to care for him.

St. Francis comes to this leper and greets him saying:  "God give you peace, my dearest brother."
Reproached, the leper answers: "What peace can I have from God who made me so rotten?"

And St. Francis says: "My son, be patient, as the infirmities of the body are given by God in this world for the salvation of the soul; they are of great merit, when taken patiently."

The patient responds: "How can I be patient when continuous pain torments me day and night? And not only my pain, the friars make it worse for me because they do not serve me as friars ought to do."

Then St. Francis, knowing by divine revelation that the leper is possessed by an evil spirit, goes to pray devoutly to God for him. He returns to him and says: "My son, I want to serve you myself, because you are not happy with the others."

And the leper says: "I like that, that but what can you do more than the others do?"

St. Francis answered: "I will do what you wish."

The leper says: "I want you to wash me all over, because I stink so badly that I cannot bear it."

So St. Francis immediately goes to heat water, using many aromatic herbs.  Then he undresses the leper and begins to wash him with his own hands, and by divine miracle, wherever St. Francis touches him with his holy hands, the leprosy disappears and the flesh is perfectly healed. And as the flesh begins to heal, so his soul begins to heal.  And the leper seeing this, begins to have great contrition and repentance for his sins and to weep bitterly, so while his body outwardly cleanses itself of leprosy, inside the soul cleanses itself of sin via contrition and tears. And being fully cured, the leper recognizes his own guilt and says, crying aloud: "Woe unto me, for I am worthy of hell for insults and injuries which I have done and said to the friars, and for the impatience and blasphemies that I've had against God."  For a fortnight he perseveres in bitter tears for his sins, asking mercy of God.

St. Francis, seeing so manifest a miracle that God had worked through his hands, thanks God and departs from there, journeying to far away countries; because of humility he wants to escape all worldly glory, and for all his works seeks only the glory of God and not his own.

Christ be praised. Amen

If You're Going To San Francesco...

St. Francis of Assisi (1182-1226), founder of the Fransiscan order, is considered the first Italian poet by literary critics, antedating Dante by a generation. Francis of Assisi, along with Catherine of Siena, are patron saints of Italy. St. Francis is also the the patron saint of animals as well as of the environment.

The following selection was written about Francis of Assisi rather than by him. I Fioretti di San Francesco (The Little Flowers of St. Francis) was originally recorded in Latin by friar Ugolino da Montegrigio a few years after the death of St. Francis.  An Italian version first appeared in the second half of the 14th Century. The exact version here is from my trusty reader Beginning Readings in Italian and though highly abridged, the simple beauty of the language still comes through after nearly eight centuries.

I Fioretti di San Francesco was made into a film by Roberto Rossellini.  I haven't seen it yet but have it queued on Netflix. Portions of it are posted on YouTube here. That particular clip contains the Lord's Prayer in Italian which made we want to go find the written version. My first impression of the film is sort of like seeing a black and white movie version of Robin Hood. Sometimes the 13th century is best left to the writers and artists of that time:

Giotto (1266-1336) St Francis Preaching To The Birds

La Predica Agli Ucclelli

Allora San Francesco si leva con grandissimo fervore e dice: «Andiamo, al nome di Dio»: e prende per compagni frate Masseo e frate Agnolo, uomini santi. E andano con fervore di spirito arrivano a un castello che si chiama Carmano e San Francesco comincia a predicare. Predica con tanto fervore che tutti gli uomini e le donne di quell castello per devozione gli vogliono andar dietro e abbandonare il castello. E passando oltre Carmano e Bevagno, alza gli occhi e vede degli alberi, sui quali è quasi infinita moltitudine di uccelli; di che San Francesco si meraviglia e dice ai compagni: «Voi mi aspettate qui nella via e io vado a predicare alle mie sirocchie uccelli. »  E entra nel campo e comincia a predicare agli uccelli che sono in terra; e subito quelli che sono sugli alberi vengono a lui, e tutti insieme stanno ferme, mentre San Francesco finisce di predicare.

La sostanza della predica di San Francesco è questa: «Sirocchie mie uccelli, voi siete molto tenute a Dio vostro creatore poichè vi ha dato libertà di volare e vi ha dato il vestimento duplicato e triplicato; egli ha anche serbato il vostro seme nell’Arca di Noè. Voi non seminate e non mietete, e Dio vi nutre e vi  dà i fiumi e le fonti per vostro bene, e vi dà monti e le valli per vostro rifugio, e gli alberi alti per fare il vostro nido; e poichè voi non sapete filare nè cucire, Dio vi veste, voi e i vostri figlioli. Il vostro Creatore vi ama molto poichè egli vi dà tante benefici, e però guardatevi, sirocchie mie, dal peccato della ingratitudine, ma sempre lodate Dio.» Dicendo San Francesco queste parole, tutti quegli uccelli cominciano ad aprire i becchi, distendere i colli, aprire le ali e riverentemente inchinare i capi fino a terra, e con atti e con canti dimostrare che le parole del padre santo danno loro grandissimo diletto. E San Francesco insieme con loro si rallegra e si diletta, e si meraviglia molto di tanta moltitudine di uccelli e della loro bellissima varietà e della loro attenzione e familiarità. Finita la predica. San Francesco fa loro il segno della Croce a dà loro licenza di partire e allora tutti quegli uccelli si levano in aria con meravigliosi canti; e poi, secondo la Croce che aveva fatta loro San Francesco, si dividono in quattro parti: e l’una parte vola verso l’oriente, e l’altra verso l’occidente, e l’altra verso il mezzogiorno, la quarta verso il steetrione, e ciascuna schiera va cantando meravigliosi canti.
A laude di Cristo. Amen.

The Sermon To The Birds

St. Francis arises with great fervor, saying, "Let us go in the name of God"; and taking with him Brother Masseo and Brother Angelo, both holy men, they go forth guided by the Spirit of God. They come to a village called Carmiano and St. Francis begins to preach. He preaches so fervently that all the men and women of the village want to leave and follow after him out of devotion. Passing a place between Carmiano and Bevagna, St. Francis looks up and sees on the trees an almost infinite variety of birds, and being much surprised he says to his companions: "You wait for me here by the way, while I go and preach to my sisters the birds." And entering the field, he begins to preach to the birds that are on the ground, and suddenly those on the trees also come to him, and all are still until St. Francis finishes preaching. The substance of the sermon of St. Francis is this:

"My sister birds, you owe much to God, and you must always and in everyplace give praise to Him; for He has given you freedom to wing through the sky and He has clothed you two-fold and three-fold and He has preserved your species in Noah's Ark. Though you neither sow nor reap, God feeds you and gives you rivers and fountains for your thirst, and mountains and valleys for shelter, and tall trees for your nests. And although you neither know how to spin or weave, God dresses you and your children, for the Creator loves you greatly and He blesses you abundantly. Therefore, beware my sister birds of the sin of ingratitude, but always seek to praise God."

As St. Francis says these words, all the birds begin to open their beaks, to stretch their necks, open their wings and reverently bow heads to the ground, and act with songs that prove that the words of the Holy Father gives them great pleasure. And St. Francis is pleased with them and is delighted, and amazed at such a multitude of beautiful birds and their variety and their attention and familiarity. After the sermon, St. Francis makes the sign of the cross to give them permission to leave and then all the birds rise into the air with wonderful songs and then, making the sign of the cross that St. Francis had made, the flock divides into four parts: one part flies to the east, the other towards the west, and the other south, the fourth to the north, and each flock singing wonderful songs.

To the praise of Christ. Amen.

Cinque Favole, Numero Cinque: La Camicia Dell'Uomo Contento

[continued in part from here]

The fifth and last story in this little series is called La Camicia Dell'Uomo Contento or The Shirt of The Contented Man.  The story, according to Italo Calvino, is said to have originated with Alexander The Great (356-323 BC). Because of the story's length, I'm putting my translation first, and the original Italian afterwards.

The Shirt Of The Contented Man

A king has an only child and loves him like the apple of his eye. But the prince is always unhappy. He spends entire days on the balcony, looking off into the distance.
"What do you miss?" asks the king, "What is it?"
"I do not know, father." the prince replies: "I do not know."
"Are you in love? If you want some girl, let me know and I'll let you marry her, even if she be the daughter of the most powerful king on earth or even the poorest peasant!" declares the king.
"No father, I'm not in love" says the prince.
The king tries all different ways to distract and entertain the prince: theatre, dance, music, songs, but nothing works, and even the rosy color in his cheeks slowly begins to fade day by day.

The king puts out an edict, and people from all parts of the world convene--educated people: philosophers, doctors and professors. He shows them the prince and demands their advice. They withdraw to think, and then return to the king. "Your Majesty, we have thought, we have read the stars, and here is what you should do. Look for a man who is happy and content in every way, and exchange his shirt for the prince's."

That very same day, the king sends ambassadors throughout the world to find a happy and contented man. They bring a priest back before him:
"Are you happy?" asks the king.
"I am, your Majesty!" the priest says.
"Good. Would you like to be my bishop?" the King says.
Oh, perhaps, your Majesty! the priest replies.
Go away! get out of here! the King scolds: "I seek a happy man, content with his status, not one who wishes to feel better than he is."

The king goes away to wait for another. The ambassadors return, telling him about a neighboring king, who they say is really is happy and content: he has a good and beautiful wife and a lot of children; he has won against all enemies in war, and his country is at peace.  Immediately the first king, full of hope, sends his ambassadors to ask the second king about a shirt:

The neighboring king receives the first king's ambassadors, and says:
"Yes, yes, I am content and lack nothing; it's just too bad, that when one has so many things, that one should die and have to leave behind everything! I suffer so much from this thought that I do not sleep at night!." The ambassadors correctly think to return directly.

To vent his despair, the king goes hunting. He shoots at a rabbit and thinks he has it, but the rabbit, limping, runs away. The king keeps after it, following it for a great distance from his entourage. In the midst of the fields, he hears a man's voice singing. The king stops: "One who sings so can not be but happy," and following the song, he slips into a vineyard, and between rows he sees a young man singing while pruning the vines.*
"Good morning, your Majesty!" says the youth. "So early in the countryside?"
"Bless your heart" says the king: "How would you like that I bring you to the capital? You will be my friend."
"Oh, oh, your majesty, no thank you, but I wouldn't even think of it" says the young man. "I wouldn't change places even with the Pope."
"But why, you're such a beautiful young ..." says the king.
"No, I tell you. I'm content, that's all" says the young man.
"At last a happy man!" thinks the king- "Young man, listen: you can do me a favor."
If I can I will, with all my heart, your Majesty" replies the young man.
"Wait one minute" says the king, beside himself with joy, and he runs to find his entourage.
"Come! Come! My son is safe!" cries the king and he brings them the young man.
Bless you, young man- says the king-"I'll give you anything for it, anything you want! But give it to me, give it to me! he implores.
"What sire?" says the youth.
"My son is dying! Only you can save him. Come here, wait!" cries the king.  Grabbing the youth, he begins to unbutton the youth's jacket. Suddenly he stops, and then collapses into his arms: the contented man has no shirt!

___________________
*What is it about royals and their fascination with the youthful commoners?

Here's a modern day retelling of the same story: link and another link. Obviously, this story has been around the block. There are a couple obvious morals here:

Lesson 1: Never listen to overpaid sage advisors

Lesson 2: Never believe that true happiness lies outside oneself. True happiness comes from within.

Lesson 3: Beware external trappings of happiness, including clothing and by extention, dwellings.

Are there other lessons?

Here is the original Italian version:

La Camicia Dell’Uomo Contento

Un Re ha un figlio unico e gli vuole bene come alla luce dei suoi occhi.  Ma questo Principe è sempre scontento. Passa giornate interne affacciato al balcone, a guardare lontano.

– Ma cosa ti manca? – gli chiede il Re. – Che cos’hai?

– Non lo so, padre mio, non lo so neanch’io.

– Sei innammorato? Se vuoi una qualche ragazza, dimmelo, e te la farò sposare, fosse la figlia del Re più potente della terra o la più povera contedina!

– No padre, non sono innamorato.

E il Re prova tutti i modi per distrarlo! Teatri, balli, musiche, canti; ma nulla serve, e dal viso del Principe di giorno in giorno scompare il color di rosa.

Il Re mette fuore un editto, e da tutte le parti del mondo viene la gente più istruita: filosofi, dottori e professori. Mostra loro il Principe e domanda consiglio. Quelli si ritirano a pensare, poi tornano dal Re.

– Maestà, abbiamo pensato, abbiamo letto le stele; ecco cosa dovete fare. Cercate un uomo che sia contento, ma contento in tutto e per tutto, e cambiate la camicia di vostro figlio con la sua.

Quel giorno stesso, il Re manda gli ambasciatori per tutto il mondo a cercare l’uomo contento.

 Gli conducono un prete: –Sei contento? –gli domanda il Re. 

– Io sì, Maestà!

– Bene. Ci avresti piacere a diventare il mio vescovo?

– Oh, magari, Maestà!

– Va’ via! Fuori di qua! Cerco un uomo felice e contento del suo stato; non uno che voglia star meglio di com’è. 

E il Re prende ad aspettare un altro. È un altro Re suo vicino, gli dicono, che è proprio felice e contento: ha una moglie bella e buona, un mucchio di figli, ha vinto tutti i nemici in guerra, e il paese sta in pace. Subito, il Re pieno di speranza manda gli ambasciatori, e:

– Sì, sì, non mi manca nulla, peccato però, che quando si hanno tante cose, poi si debba morire e lasciare tutto! Con questo pensiero, soffro tanto che non dormo alla notte! – E gli abasciatori pensano bene di tornare indietro. 

Per sfogare la sua disperazione, il Re va a caccia.  Tira a una lepere e crede d’averla presa, ma la lepre, zoppicando, scappa via. Il Re le tiene dietro, e s’allontana dal seguito.  In mezzo ai campi, sente una voce d’uomo che canta. Il Re si ferma: «Chi canta così non può che essere contento!» e seguendo il canto, s’infila in una vigna, e tra i filari vede un giovane che canto potando le viti. 

– Buon dì, Maestà!, – dice quell giovane. – Così di buon’ora già in campagna?

– Benedetto te, vuoi che ti porti con me alla capitale? Sarai mio amico.

– Ahi, ahi, Maestà, no non ci penso nemmeno, grazie. Non mi cambierei neanche col Papa.

– Ma perchè, tu, un così bel giovane…

– Ma no, vi dico.  Sono contento così e basta. 

   «Finalmente un uomo felice!» pensa il Re. –Giovane, senti: devi farmi piacere.

– Se posso, con tutto il cuore, Maestà.

– Aspetta un momento, – e il Re, che non sta più nella pelle dalla contentezza, corre a cercare il suo seguito:

– Venite! Venite! Mio figlio è salvo.  –E li porta da quell giovane.

– Benedetto giovane, – dice, – ti darò tutto quell che vuoi!  Ma dammi, dammi…

– Che cosa Maestà?

– Mio figlio sta per morire! Solo tu lo puoi salvare. Vieni qua, aspetta! –e lo afferra, comincia a sbottonargli la giacca.

– Tutt’a un tratto si ferma, gli cascano le braccia.

– L’uomo contento non ha camicia. 

Cinque Favole, Numero Quattro: Il Sorcetto

The fourth story is called Il Sorcetto (The Little Mouse) and speaks to the human condition of insatiable appetites.  The story is structured like a Russian Matryoshka doll: the scope of each paragraph envelops the next as we move from large to small. One moral of the story is that the grass always appears greener for everyone except for those at the very bottom. I think this is a subtle and vastly overlooked moral nowadays

One reason I'm posting these is because I'm reviewing Italian that I once knew and am in danger of losing. That language, more than any other romance language, is endlessly fascinating for me. I can move slowly across one simple sentence or paragraph, hovering over individual words and finding deep little pockets of Latinate troves. Others have the same fascination with French, but for me it's Italian, the very first foreign language I attempted to learn. I once heard that the Romans gave up on expanding their subway system because every time they started to dig, they had to call in the archaeologists, and it just took forever. Might as well dig with spoons and brushes like they do at Pompeii. I love using that analogy when picking my way through Italian text.

Years ago while living in Switzerland and travelling in France, I was in a tiny delicatessen outside of Versailles. It was lunchtime and very busy. I had taken the time to teach myself enough French to get along, being aware of how English never cuts it with the French. Others in front of me had struggled to order in English, and the woman behind the counter obliged, but with the rolling eyes thing. Right after I had ordered (in French), an older woman began ordering her grocery list in Italian.  The younger woman dutifully obliged without expression and spoke not one word in return. Now perhaps the older woman was a local and the younger one knew her; perhaps the younger woman was Italian herself- I never did find that out.  What I came away thinking with a smile was that the older woman had just laid some linguistic superiority of her own onto the younger one: I'm speaking the language closer to the mother tongue so you just hush and take it. That's what I wanted to believe anyways.

Il Sorcetto

Un re, molto ambizioso, non è mai soddisfatto delle sue nuove conquiste. Un giorno, mentre è in viaggio, vede una vasta provincia benedetta dal sorriso del cielo, baciata dal mare azzurro. Il re sospira da mattina a sera: "Oh! come sarei felice se potessi avere quella provincia!"

Nella provincia c’è una bella villa con un parco magnifico e un palazzo con le scale di marmo e i saloni pieni di mobili preziosi, di tappeti, di specchi.  Passa un milionario e sospira: "Oh! come sarei felice se avessi quella villa!"

Nella villa c’è una signora bella come una fata, la quale guarda dal balconi un vispo piccino coi capelli biondi e sospira continuamente: "Oh! come sarei felice se avessi quel bimbo!"

Sul tetto del palazzo va a scaldarsi al sole un bel micio bianco e nero; il bambino biondo lo guarda da mattina a sera e sospira: "Oh! come sarei felice se avessi quel micio!"

Il micio, dal suo posto di osservazione, vede un sorcio che entra e esce dalla soffitta e sospira: "Oh! come sarei felice se avessi quel sorcio!"

Il sorcio nelle sue gite cerca di arrivare a una forma di formaggio parmigiano sospesa a una trave e sospira: "Oh! come sarei felice se avessi quel formaggio!"

Una buona fata, la quale ode tutti quei desideri, pensa che, con la sua potenza sovrannaturale, può rendere felici sei creature, e ordine che i loro sogni si avverino.
Così finalmente il sorcio riesce a mettere i suoi dentini nel formaggio, il gatto può avere fra le sue zampe il sorcio, il bambino biondo può impadronirsi del gatto, la bella signora può adottare come figlio il bambino biondo, il milionario compera la villa della signora ed il re riesce a conquistare la vasta provincia.
     Ma ben presto la fata si accorge che si è ingannata. Il sorcio mangia il cacio, il gatto mangia il sorcio, il bimbo prende il gatto, la signora adotta il bimbo, il milionario compera la villa, il re conquista la provincia,…ma tutti quanti riprendono a sospirare per altri cose.  Uno soltanto, il povero socio divoratto dal gatto, non può avere nuovi desideri, ma tutti gli altri sono più scontenti di prima.

E cosi la fata si convince che su questa terra gli uomini, con la loro incontentabilità, si rendono infelice l’esistenza.

Here's my rendering of Il Sorcetto:

A very ambitious king, never satisfied with his new conquests, is travelling one day. He sees a vast province blessed by the smile of the sky and kissed by the blue sea. The king sighs from dawn till dusk: “Oh! How happy I would be if only I could have that province!”

In the province there is a beautiful estate with a magnificent grounds and a palace with marble steps and rooms full of costly furniture, tapestries, and mirrors. A millionaire passes and sighs: “Oh! How happy I would be if I had that house!”

In the house there is a beautiful woman. She looks down from a balcony and sees a lovely little boy with blond hair. She sighs continuously: “Oh! How happy I would be if I had that boy!”

On the roof of the building is a nice black and white cat sunning itself. The blond child watches him from morning to night and sighs: "Oh! How happy I would be if I had that cat!

The cat, from his observation post, sees a mouse that comes out of the attic and sighs:  "Oh! How happy I would be if I had that mouse!

The mouse, scurrying about, attempts to reach a piece of parmesan cheese suspended on a beam and sighs: "Oh! How happy I would be if had that cheese!"

A good fairy, who hears all those wishes thinks, with her supernatural power, that she can make six creatures happy, and orders that their dreams come true.

Thus at last the mouse manages to sink his teeth into the cheese, the cat has the mouse between its paws, the blond child gets hold of the cat, the beautiful lady takes the blond baby as a child, the millionaire buys the villa of the woman and the king conquers the vast province.

But soon the fairy realizes that she has deceived herself. The mouse eats the cheese, the cat eats the mouse, the child gets the cat, the woman adopts the child, the millionaire buys the house, the king gets the province, but soon everyone resumes their sighing for other things. Only one, the poor mouse eaten by the cat, cannot have new desires; all the others are more dissatisfied than ever before.

And so the fairy is convinced that on this earth, humans, with their discontent, make their own existence unhappy.

Cinque Favole-Numero Tre: L'Estate Di San Martino

The third story from Beginning Readings In Italian is an early description of Martin of Tours, a 4th century Roman soldier who became St. Martin, patron saint of France and of soldiers.  This version of the story tells how he met two beggars on the road. In other versions, Martin meets only one beggar who is revealed in a dream to be Jesus who says to the angels: "Here is Martin, the Roman soldier who is not baptized; he has clad me."

According to the Wiki:

During the Middle Ages, the relic of St. Martin’s cloak, (cappa Sancti Martini), conserved at the Marmoutier Abbey, near to Tours, one of the most sacred relics of the Frankish kings, would be carried everywhere the king went, even into battle, as a holy relic upon which oaths were sworn. The cloak is first attested in the royal treasury in 679, when it was conserved at the palatium of Luzarches, a royal villa that was later ceded to the monks of Saint-Denis by Charlemagne, in 798/99.  The priest who cared for the cloak in its reliquary was called a cappellanu, and ultimately all priests who served the military were called cappellani. The French translation is chapelains, from which the English word chaplain is derived. 

Here is the story (in italics ) with my translation following:

L'Estate Di San Martino* 

Nei primi giorni di novembre, San Martino è in viaggio per paesi molto freddi.
Il Santo passa sul suo cavallo coperto dal suo mantello.
      Due poveri mendicanti, mal coperti nei loro poveri cenci estivi, domandano al forte e bel cavaliere la carità.
      Egli sen'altro si leva il mantello, lo taglia con la spada in due parti e ne porge una al mendicante più vicino.
      --E a me?--domanda l’altro mendicante--non date nulla signore?"
      Martino allora, con la spada, taglia la metà rimasta del mantello e porge al mendicante la quarta parte del mantello intero.
      Il primo mendicante ha metà del mantello, il Santo e l’altro mendicante un quarto del mantello ciascuno e così il sacrificio del Santo è inutile perchè, col freddo che fa, nessuno è ben riparto e tutti soffrono.
      Allora il buon Dio comanda a Novembre di rasserenare il cielo e di mitigare l’aria per tutta la durate del viaggio di Martino.
      E siccome Dio non ritira piu il suo ordine, i primi giorni di novembre sono sempre rallegrati da un tepido sole. Noi chiamiamo quest’epoca l’estate di San Martino.

____________________________

*The title, L'Estate di San Martino, translates directly into English as Indian Summer.

In early November, Saint Martin travels to countries that are very cold.
The Saint is on horseback covered by a cloak.
Two poor beggars, ill-clothed in poor summer rags, beg (lit. ask for charity) from the strong and handsome rider.
Without hesitation he takes off his cloak, and with his sword he cuts the cloak into two parts and gives half to the nearest beggar.
And the other beggar asks-"And to me sir--you give me nothing?
Then Martin, again with his sword, cuts the remaining half of the cloak and gives the second beggar a quarter of the whole mantle.
The first beggar has half of the mantle; the second beggar and the saint each have the other quarter of the mantle and so the Saint's sacrifice is useless because, with the cold, no one is well-suited and everyone suffers.
Then God commanded November to brighten the sky and to mitigate the air for the entire duration of Martin's travel.
And since God does not rescind his orders, the first days of November are always cheered by a warm sun. We call this season Indian Summer.*