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When Mastro Titta
Crossed The Bridge
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a passage from:
PICTURES OF ITALY
Charles Dickens
· 1846 ·


(...)
On one Saturday morning (the eighth of March), a man was beheaded here. Nine or ten months before, he had waylaid a Bavarian countess, travelling as a pilgrim to Rome - alone and on foot, of course - and performing, it is said, that act of piety for the fourth time. He saw her change a piece of gold at Viterbo, where he lived; followed her; bore her company on her journey for some forty miles or more, on the treacherous pretext of protecting her; attacked her, in the fulfilment of his unrelenting purpose, on the Campagna, within a very short distance of Rome, near to what is called (but what is not) the Tomb of Nero; robbed her; and beat her to death with her own pilgrim's staff. He was newly married, and gave some of her apparel to his wife: saying that he had bought it at a fair. She, however, who had seen the pilgrim-countess passing through their town, recognised some trifle as having belonged to her. Her husband then told her what he had done. She, in confession, told a priest; and the man was taken, within four days after the commission of the murder.

There are no fixed times for the administration of justice, or its execution, in this unaccountable country; and he had been in prison ever since. On the Friday, as he was dining with the other prisoners, they came and told him he was to be beheaded next morning, and took him away. It is very unusual to execute in Lent; but his crime being a very bad one, it was deemed advisable to make an example of him at that time, when great numbers of pilgrims were coming towards Rome, from all parts, for the Holy Week. I heard of this on the Friday evening, and saw the bills up at the churches, calling on the people to pray for the criminal's soul. So, I determined to go, and see him executed.

The beheading was appointed for fourteen and a-half o'clock, Roman time: or a quarter before nine in the forenoon. I had two friends with me; and as we did not know but that the crowd might be very great, we were on the spot by half-past seven. The place of execution was near the church of San Giovanni decollato (a doubtful compliment to Saint John the Baptist) in one of the impassable back streets without any footway, of which a great part of Rome is composed - a street of rotten houses, which do not seem to belong to anybody, and do not seem to have ever been inhabited, and certainly were never built on any plan, or for any particular purpose, and have no window-sashes, and are a little like deserted breweries, and might be warehouses but for having nothing in them. Opposite to one of these, a white house, the scaffold was built. An untidy, unpainted, uncouth, crazy-looking thing of course: some seven feet high, perhaps: with a tall, gallows-shaped frame rising above it, in which was the knife, charged with a ponderous mass of iron, all ready to descend, and glittering brightly in the morning sun, whenever it looked out, now and then, from behind a cloud.

There were not many people lingering about; and these were kept at a considerable distance from the scaffold, by parties of the Pope's dragoons. Two or three hundred foot-soldiers were under arms, standing at ease in clusters here and there; and the officers were walking up and down in twos and threes, chatting together, and smoking cigars.

At the end of the street, was an open space, where there would be a dust-heap, and piles of broken crockery, and mounds of vegetable refuse, but for such things being thrown anywhere and everywhere in Rome, and favouring no particular sort of locality. We got into a kind of wash-house, belonging to a dwelling-house on this spot; and standing there in an old cart, and on a heap of cartwheels piled against the wall, looked, through a large grated window, at the scaffold, and straight down the street beyond it until, in consequence of its turning off abruptly to the left, our perspective was brought to a sudden termination, and had a corpulent officer, in a cocked hat, for its crowning feature.

Nine o'clock struck, and ten o'clock struck, and nothing happened. All the bells of all the churches rang as usual. A little parliament of dogs assembled in the open space, and chased each other, in and out among the soldiers. Fierce-looking Romans of the lowest class, in blue cloaks, russet cloaks, and rags uncloaked, came and went, and talked together. Women and children fluttered, on the skirts of the scanty crowd. One large muddy spot was left quite bare, like a bald place on a man's head. A cigar-merchant, with an earthen pot of charcoal ashes in one hand, went up and down, crying his wares. A pastry-merchant divided his attention between the scaffold and his customers. Boys tried to climb up walls, and tumbled down again. Priests and monks elbowed a passage for themselves among the people, and stood on tiptoe for a sight of the knife: then went away. Artists, in inconceivable hats of the middle-ages, and beards (thank Heaven!) of no age at all, flashed picturesque scowls about them from their stations in the throng. One gentleman (connected with the fine arts, I presume) went up and down in a pair of Hessian-boots, with a red beard hanging down on his breast, and his long and bright red hair, plaited into two tails, one on either side of his head, which fell over his shoulders in front of him, very nearly to his waist, and were carefully entwined and braided!

Eleven o'clock struck and still nothing happened. A rumour got about, among the crowd, that the criminal would not confess; in which case, the priests would keep him until the Ave Maria (sunset); for it is their merciful custom never finally to turn the crucifix away from a man at that pass, as one refusing to be shriven, and consequently a sinner abandoned of the Saviour, until then. People began to drop off. The officers shrugged their shoulders and looked doubtful. The dragoons, who came riding up below our window, every now and then, to order an unlucky hackney- coach or cart away, as soon as it had comfortably established itself, and was covered with exulting people (but never before), became imperious, and quick-tempered. The bald place hadn't a straggling hair upon it; and the corpulent officer, crowning the perspective, took a world of snuff.

Suddenly, there was a noise of trumpets. 'Attention!' was among the foot-soldiers instantly. They were marched up to the scaffold and formed round it. The dragoons galloped to their nearer stations too. The guillotine became the centre of a wood of bristling bayonets and shining sabres. The people closed round nearer, on the flank of the soldiery. A long straggling stream of men and boys, who had accompanied the procession from the prison, came pouring into the open space. The bald spot was scarcely distinguishable from the rest. The cigar and pastry-merchants resigned all thoughts of business, for the moment, and abandoning themselves wholly to pleasure, got good situations in the crowd. The perspective ended, now, in a troop of dragoons. And the corpulent officer, sword in hand, looked hard at a church close to him, which he could see, but we, the crowd, could not.

After a short delay, some monks were seen approaching to the scaffold from this church; and above their heads, coming on slowly and gloomily, the effigy of Christ upon the cross, canopied with black. This was carried round the foot of the scaffold, to the front, and turned towards the criminal, that he might see it to the last. It was hardly in its place, when he appeared on the platform, bare-footed; his hands bound; and with the collar and neck of his shirt cut away, almost to the shoulder. A young man - six-and-twenty - vigorously made, and well-shaped. Face pale; small dark moustache; and dark brown hair.

He had refused to confess, it seemed, without first having his wife brought to see him; and they had sent an escort for her, which had occasioned the delay.

He immediately kneeled down, below the knife. His neck fitting into a hole, made for the purpose, in a cross plank, was shut down, by another plank above; exactly like the pillory. Immediately below him was a leathern bag. And into it his head rolled instantly.

The executioner was holding it by the hair, and walking with it round the scaffold, showing it to the people, before one quite knew that the knife had fallen heavily, and with a rattling sound.

When it had travelled round the four sides of the scaffold, it was set upon a pole in front - a little patch of black and white, for the long street to stare at, and the flies to settle on. The eyes were turned upward, as if he had avoided the sight of the leathern bag, and looked to the crucifix. Every tinge and hue of life had left it in that instant. It was dull, cold, livid, wax. The body also.

There was a great deal of blood. When we left the window, and went close up to the scaffold, it was very dirty; one of the two men who were throwing water over it, turning to help the other lift the body into a shell, picked his way as through mire. A strange appearance was the apparent annihilation of the neck. The head was taken off so close, that it seemed as if the knife had narrowly escaped crushing the jaw, or shaving off the ear; and the body looked as if there were nothing left above the shoulder.

Nobody cared, or was at all affected. There was no manifestation of disgust, or pity, or indignation, or sorrow. My empty pockets were tried, several times, in the crowd immediately below the scaffold, as the corpse was being put into its coffin. It was an ugly, filthy, careless, sickening spectacle; meaning nothing but butchery beyond the momentary interest, to the one wretched actor. Yes! Such a sight has one meaning and one warning. Let me not forget it. The speculators in the lottery, station themselves at favourable points for counting the gouts of blood that spirt out, here or there; and buy that number. It is pretty sure to have a run upon it.

The body was carted away in due time, the knife cleansed, the scaffold taken down, and all the hideous apparatus removed. The executioner: an outlaw EX OFFICIO (what a satire on the Punishment!) who dare not, for his life, cross the Bridge of St. Angelo but to do his work: retreated to his lair, and the show was over.

(...)




sonnets by
Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli

ER RICORDO

Er giorno che impiccorno Gammardella
Io m'ero propio allora accresimato.
Me pare mò ch'er zàntolo a mercato
Me pagò un zartapicchio e 'na ciammella.

Mi' padre pijò poi la carrettella
Ma prima vorze gode l'impiccato:
E me tieneva in arto inarberato
Dicenno: «Va' la forca quant'è bbella»!

Tutt'a un tempo ar paziente mastro Titta
J'appoggiò un carcio in culo, e ttata a mene
Un schiaffone a la guancia de mandritta.

« Pija », me disse, « e aricordete bene
Che sta fine medéma ce sta scritta
Pe mill'antri che ssò mejo de tene ».

29 settembre 1830
MEMORIES

The day Camardella [1] was hung
I had just received my confirmation [2] .
I recall as if it had happened today that my godfather
Bought me a top, and a doughnut.

My father then took out the chaise
But first he wanted to enjoy the hanging:
So he held me high above
Saying: « Look how nice, the scaffold »!

At the same time, mastro Titta [3]
Kicked the convict in the rump, and dad
Slapped me on the right cheek.

« Take this », he told me, « and remember well
That the same fate is to come
For a thousand others who are better than you ».

September 29th, 1830
[1] - Antonio Camardella, an executed convict.
Donato Morgigni, a member of the clergy, had got into
business with Camardella, but had later deceived him;
not being able to obtain justice through a tribunal,
Camardella killed him, and for this reason he was
sentenced to death by hanging, in 1749. Until the end,
he refused to repent for his crime.
In Rome, his fame was still alive almost one century
after the fact had taken place.
[2] - Christian religious rite.
[3] - The executioner; obviously, not "our" mastro Titta
(G.B.Bugatti), who in 1749 was not born yet!



LA GIUSTIZZIA AR POPOLO

Dice ch'er monno è bello perch'è vario.
Pe sta raggione io vorze una matina
Annammene a vedé la quajottina
Ch'è successa a la croce der Carvario.

Trovai già ppronto er boja cor vicario,
E sse stava pe dà la tajatina:
Quann'ecco un frate co' ttanta de schina
Che me viè a ripparà come un zipario.

« Padre », dico, « levateve d'avanti...»
Ma in quer frattempo, tzà, se sente un bòtto
Che ffa dà uno strilletto a ttutti quanti.

Me slongo, e vedo già ffinito er gioco.
Bravi! Ma un'antra vorta io me ne fotto
D'annamme a scommidà ppe ttanto poco.

8 dicembre 1834
THE EXECUTION AT POPOLO [1]

They say variety is the spice of life.
For this reason one morning I felt like
Going and see the guillotine,
Which replaced the Calvary's cross [2] .

I found the executioner ready with the vicar,
And the cut was on the point of being given:
When here comes a friar with a huge back
Blocking my view like a curtain.

« Father », I told him, « get out of the way...»
But in the meantime, chop! came a thud
Causing a stifled cry by everybody.

I stretched myself, and realized the show was over.
Well done! But next time I won't care a damn
To bother for such a trifle.

December 8th, 1834
[1] - Piazza del Popolo, one of Rome's widest squares.
[2] - Meaning "the capital punishment which the
ancient crucifiction technique was replaced with".



ER DILETTANTE DE PONTE

Viengheno: attenti: la funzione è lesta.
Ecco cor collo iggnudo e ttrittichente
Er prim'omo dell'opera, er pazziente,
L'asso a coppe, er ziggnore de la festa.

E ecco er professore che sse presta
A sservì da cirùsico a la gente
Pe ttre quadrini, e a ttutti gentirmente
Je cura er male der dolor de testa.

Ma no a man manca, no: l'antro a man dritta.
Quello ar ziconno posto è l'ajutante.
La procedenza aspetta a mastro Titta.

Volete inzeggnà a me chi ffa la capa?
Io qua nun manco mai: sò ffreguentante;
E er boja lo conosco com'er papa.

29 agosto 1835
PONTE'S ROOKIE [1]

Here they come: careful: the ceremony is quick.
With a bare and tottering neck
Here comes the main character, the patient,
The ace of spades, the guest of honour.

And here comes the professor who offers his service
Acting as a surgeon to the people
For three pence, and kindly
Cures everybody from their headache.

No, not on the left: the other one on the right.
The one coming in second place is the helper.
It's mastro Titta who takes the precedence.

Do you want to teach me who does the head? [2]
I never miss one: I'm a frequent caller;
And I can tell the executioner as much as I can tell the Pope.

August 29th, 1835
[1] - To the romans, the only Ponte ("bridge")
is S.Angelo's Bridge.
[2] - Who actually carries out the execution.




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