Village Justice: Community, Family, and Popular Culture in Early Modem Italy.

Village Justice: Community, Family, and Popular Culture in Early Modem Italy. By Tommaso Astarita (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1999. xxiv plus 305pp. $45.00 hardcover).

More than ten months after receiving initial reports of cold-blooded maritucide, the feudal court of the Universita of Pentidattilo, situated at the southernmost tip of the Kingdom of Naples, today convicted one of three conspirators accused in the murder of Antonino Cuzzucli, sentencing Anna de Amico to fifteen years in the women's prison at the Great Court palace of the Vicaria in Naples. No parole is possible, but if she survives the horrid conditions there, hardly likely, she is to be molested no further. Although only an accomplice, Anna is a notorious abortionist and an outsider to these parts, so she got what she deserved in the eyes of the village notables who gathered to witness the verdict and express their approbation. She provided the bedroom where the two other accused, Domenica Orlando and Pietro Crea, met to carry out their lovers' trysts, and then she brought their evil plans to fruition by supplying the rat poison administered by Domenica not once, but twice, before it finally killed off her unwanted husband.

After a swift inquiry last March developed enough facts to make plain to everyone what had happened, all pointing to the truthfulness of Domenica's confession implicating the other two as well, the court had been dragging its feet on the case. First, Anna and Pietro pleaded indigency, so a public defender had to be found for them. Second and more perplexing, since Anna and Pietro each denied any involvement in what amounts to a classic "he-said-she-said" case, only torture could bring out the truth, and officials may have doubted its efficacy in a domestic dispute like this one. Hanging for an hour is dreadfully painful, but the law requires that the accused not be reduced to the point of death, whereas an admission of guilt would have carried the risk of capital punishment or a potentially fatal jail sentence. Firm denials by the two accomplices left Domenica's confession as the only evidence against them. And one person's word, even if affirmed under torture, is not legally sufficient to convict. Yes, Anna was found guilty anyway, but only as a consequence of her unsavory reputation.

Then Domenica escaped from the local prison, probably quite recently, although it could have been over six months ago given how slowly news gets around, and now no one seems to be interested in finding her. She is guilty for sure, but at least she confessed voluntarily, and then under torture she adhered to her earlier incrimination of her two accomplices. What can you expect from a married woman, however unhappily situated, who admits that she was smitten by a few sweet words said by her unexpected new visitor, so at the sight of him removing his clothes, she also undressed and they jumped into bed and knew each other? That was the first time. Over the following months, perhaps fearful that her husband's kinsmen might catch her in the act (although there was no danger from him personally since he usually stayed with his relatives in a neighboring town and seldom bothered to come home at all) Domenica and Pietro did their sporting at Anna's adjacent house, and there it was that he promised to marry her once A ntonino was out of the way, or so she said. Villagers, all seven hundred of them, seem content to be rid of her, certainly the men who count, and possibly their wives as well for other obvious reasons. Justice has been served and she shall not be heard from again, except maybe by those who frequent brothels.

As to Pietro, well, job-related extenuating circumstances deserve consideration; he is Pentidattilo's forest guardian, an experience that apparently turned him into a creature of instinct, dangerously removed from the civilizing routines and rituals which keep other locals from casually trying to possess their neighbors' wives and daughters. Also to the point, he comes from one of the town's most respected, influential, hard-working families. Everyone accepts his contention that he is no idle gossiper, instead minding his own business, talking infrequently to anyone, and keeping the surrounding woods free of strangers. How he happened to knock on Domenica's door, utter a few amorous nothings and then drop his pants, is not entirely clear but neither the judge nor the town-folk seem to need endless documentation about the whys of such male exploits. Under torture, limited for Pietro to half the time suffered by abortionist Anna de Amico as she continuously denied everything and invoked Saint Catherine of Alexa ndria, even as ropes dug into her flesh, he too refused to admit to either adultery or murder, calling the charges "tales of ruffians." But whereas Anna received severe punishment for her obstinacy, Pietro's denial under torture favorably impressed the judge, who ordered him to be "released from prison, freed, and not further molested" (205), much to everyone's satisfaction.

While these salacious happenings may seem more appropriate for an ephemeral tabloid than for a high-quality scholarly publication like the Journal of Social History, the splendid indepth analysis by our on-the-scene reporter, Professor Tommaso Astarita, absolutely justifies our coverage. His first major byline came with The Continuity of Feudal Power (Cambridge, 1992), an expose on the fortunes of the Caracciolo di Brienza family, a leading Neapolitan clan whose members put impeccable taste and decorum ahead of love and lucre. In the present piece, instead, he panhandles the residues of daily life among unwashed villagers, going beyond sensational trial records to slog through dreary tax surveys. Who among us wouldn't give anything--except, of course, tenure itself--to stumble upon such a rich archival trove, at least the stuff about sex and poisoning, if not the complex details of land cadasters?

That earlier byline endeavor already brought Astarita south of Eboli where, Carlo Levi reminds us, even Christ did not go; to describe Pentidattilo, the locale of his latest investigation, as godforsaken is no exaggeration. Curiously, however, Astarita's portrait radiates vibrant color, not the dark hues of personal degradation featured in influential village studies conducted by an earlier generation of scholars: Edward Banfield, Anton Blok, Charlotte G. Chapman, James C. Davis, John Davis, Felix Gross, Jane Hilowitz, Filippo Sabetti, Jane and Peter Schneider, Sydel Silverman, Caroline White, even Pino Arlacchi. Some of them he cites, others not, but none seems to influence his thinking significantly. Maybe there are good reasons for the distancing: his centuries are the seventeenth and eighteenth, his subjects are dead, he is especially simpatico with their ways, his methodology is somewhat different. Still, in the 1960s and 1970s, timelessness was what we all thought we saw in rural Italy, sex is still sex , as are hatred, revenge, and murder. So, is the state-of-the-question now sufficiently advanced to warrant an attempt at a new synthesis?