At Day's Close

by A. Roger Ekirch

  Along with the normal run of gossip, there were jokes at the expense of local officials, especially religious leaders. Seethed a critic of the Spinnstuben in German villages, “Nothing else happens but exposing people and destroying their honour.” Popular were tales of magic. As a youth in the Swiss town of Hittnau, the writer Jakob Stutz listened by the hearth to the folk wisdom of a “spinner” named Barbara Ott, who claimed she had once been able to fly. As voices softened, storytelling often afforded the night’s principal entertainment—legends, fables, and tales of evil spirits—eternal stories recounted again and again by seasoned narrators with well-trained memories. “So pass the tales of old, along my soul, by night,” declared the Scottish poet James Macpherson. So attentively did Irish audiences in Dungiven listen to ancient poems that errors in narration were queried on the spot. “The dispute,” remarked an observer, “is then referred to a vote of the meeting.”58

  For preindustrial peoples, obscurity suited storytelling. In both Western and non-Western cultures, the recitation of myths and folktales long enjoyed the aura of a sacred ritual, traditionally reserved for night’s depths. Darkness insulated hearts and minds from the profane demands of ordinary life. Any “sacred function,” averred Daniello Bartoli in La Recreazione del Savio, “requires darkness and silence.” Within early modern households, ill-lit rooms gave added force to the resonant talents of storytellers. These men in much of Ireland bore the title of seanchaidhthe, and in Wales, cyfarwydd. The spoken word, in the absence of competing distractions, acquired unique clarity at night. Darkness encouraged listening as well as flights of fancy. Words, not gestures, shaped the mind’s dominant images. What’s more, sound tends to unify any disparate body of listeners. Not only is sound difficult to ignore, but it promotes cohesion by drawing persons closer together, literally as well as metaphorically. Coupled with the dim light of a lamp or hearth, the act of storytelling created an unusually intimate milieu.59 And, too, nighttime lent a dramatic backdrop to local tales, many of which dwelled on fears of the supernatural. Of childhood stories in Lancashire, Moses Heap recalled, “No wonder the awful tales told in the wide-open firegrate on a cold winter’s night with the wind from the moors howling round the house had its affect on the young ones.” There and elsewhere, witches, spirits, and apparitions were standard fare, as were perilous encounters with robbers and thieves. “Nothing is commoner in country places,” observed Henry Bourne in 1725, “than for a whole family in a winter’s evening, to sit round the fire, and tell stories of apparitions and ghosts.”60

  Violence, poverty, and natural disasters were persistent motifs. But there were also proverbs, moral precepts, and clever tricks one could master—useful lessons for confronting life’s dangers, including magical beliefs and practices. In My Father’s Life, Restif described hearing instructive tales on long winter evenings that contained “the loftiest maxims of the ancients.” Probably more typical was a laborer’s story recounting a “nighted traveller’s” encounter with a will-o’-the-wisp. Drawn to its light, the traveler narrowly escapes drowning “by knowing well the brook that wimpered down the vale.” While everyday events could be, at best, capricious, there were inspirational stories to “gild the horrors of the winter night,” as a Scottish pastor remarked. If, in some legends, rich and powerful men fell from glory, so in others the poor triumphed over adversity. During evening gatherings at his home, the French laborer Robin Chevet drew from a trove of tales, designed both to educate and amuse. As related in the Propos Rustiques de Maistre Léon Ladulfi (1548) by Noël du Fail:

  Jean Jacques de Boisseau, Evening in the Village, 1800.

  Goodman Robin, after imposing silence, would begin a fine story about the time when the animals talked (it was just two hours before); of how Renard the fox stole a fish from the fishmongers; of how he got the washer-women to beat the wolf when he was learning how to fish; of how the dog and the cat went on a voyage; about Asnette’s hide; about fairies and how he often spoke with them familiarly, even at vespers as he passed through the hedgerows and saw them dancing near the Cormier fountain to the sound of a red leather bagpipe.61

  Many stories, rooted in generations of past strife, recounted the familiar deeds of heroic warriors. Everywhere, it seems, listeners took epic legends to heart, from Icelandic sagas to bylini in Russia. Noted Howitt of knitting-nights in Yorkshire, “Here all the old stories and traditions of the dale come up.” Amid the darkness, superior storytellers spirited suggestible minds to realms of wonder, far removed from daily hardships. In Brittany, according to Pierre-Jakez Hélias, his grandfather, a sabot-maker, was well known for his ability to “transform a gathering of peasants in a farmhouse into so many knights and ladies.” Only then, reflected Hélias, might rural folk have stopped worrying about “the price of suckling pigs, or daily bread, or Sunday meat soup.” Such a story is recounted in The Old Wive’s Tale (1595), a comedy by George Peele. Urged one winter evening to share a fireside tale, Madge, the blacksmith’s wife, begins:

  Once upon a time there was a King or a Lord, or a Duke that had a faire daughter, the fairest that ever was; as white as snowe, and as redd as bloud; and once uppon a time his daughter was stollen away, and hee sent all his men to seeke out his daughter. . . . There was a conjurer, and this conjurer could doo anything, and hee turned himselfe into a great dragon, and carried the King’s daughter away in his mouth to a castle that hee made of stone. . . . 62

  It was not uncommon in some regions for small clusters of women to assemble, bringing their spinning wheels or distaffs to a neighbor’s home. In parts of France, makeshift huts called écreignes (little shelters) were constructed each winter for this purpose. Some, such as those in Burgundy described by Etienne Tabourot during the sixteenth century, were little more than tents. Too poor to afford their daughters fires by which to spin, winemakers used poles to construct outdoor enclosures overlaid with manure and dirt, “so well mixed that it was impenetrable.” By contrast, écreignes in Champagne, according to a later observer, were “houses dug out below ground-level,” though these too were covered with dung. A lamp, supplied by one of the women, hung in the middle. “Each one arrives, carrying her distaff, with the spindle in the distaff, with her two hands on her sewing-kit, and her apron over her hands, enters hurriedly and takes her seat.”63

  These occasions offered women an opportunity to work and socialize apart from the presence of men. During the day, such encounters were limited—women’s paths might cross at markets and wells, or at communal events like births and wakes. Spinning bees gave rise to prolonged, often intense conversations. Amid animated banter, the jests and ballads, women gave and gathered news. “The winter’s night is for the gossips cup,” opined Nicholas Breton. According to another contemporary, “One talked intimately of one’s babies, of a cousin, of a neighbour, of flax, spinning; of geese, ducks, chickens, and eggs; of making cheese and butter, and probably had a word about blue milk, a dried up cow, caused by a wicked neighbour.” Gossip shaped local perceptions of people and events. Through the spoken word, ordinary women exercised extensive influence within their communities, independent of the institutionalized power of males. “Words are women, deeds are men,” stated an Italian proverb.64

  Often, too, women drew emotional support from workmates whose empathy provided a welcome counterweight to the patriarchal household. “Many a stone,” we are told, “which lay heavy and long on the heart, would be lifted” as a result of the “experience, interpretation, explanation, and expertise of the many women present.” Where inspiring stories recounted the deeds of biblical heroines like Judith and Esther, more mundane information included magical charms for domestic happiness. Among the revelations contained in Les Évangiles des Quenouilles, drawn from the fifteenth century, was a spell to soften the temperaments of abusive husbands. Wives bent on vengeance, on the other hand, could resort to another formula in the collection: “When a woman gets up in the night to piss before the cock h
as crowed for the third time, and she straddles her husband, be it known that, if any of his limbs are stiff, they will never relax if she does not return to her place by way of the same place.” In addition, women learned ways to deter demons and to encourage conception—at night, should one wish to have a baby girl (in the morning for a boy).65

  These seedbeds of subversion made men uneasy. In the sixteenth century, an Italian moralist railed against women for “telling dirty stories all evening,” and a German writer noted “the jealousy of the men when their faithful partners leave the four walls.” Worse, spinning sessions by their very nature kindled fears of witches’ sabbaths. Some communities, in vain, tried to forbid such “scandalous” gatherings. Still, male intruders risked being sternly reproached or even assaulted. In 1759, upon visiting a Spinnstuben, the journeyman Conrad Hügel suffered a severe beating at the hands of women armed with distaffs. For three weeks, he lay close to death. Claiming the punishment was their “good right” because of Hügel’s indecent flirtations, the women later declared that “they should have injured him even more.”66

  Night saved the day. As neighborhood forums, work parties gave vent to a day’s most pressing events. News and gossip were brooded over and discussed before becoming disseminated on public streets. To a large degree, veillées and like gatherings not only reflected the communal consciousness, they also shaped and refined it, apart from the opinions and tastes of social elites. More broadly, these occasions provided a vital conduit for age-old traditions, preserving and protecting the oral legacy of preindustrial communities. “Round every fire-side, the entertainment of the evening was rehearsing tales of former times,” observed a Highlands minister. Most obviously, winter gatherings helped to soften the rigors of nocturnal tasks, permitting neighbors to share past glories and present privations. “Labor ceased to be a toil,” wrote a visitor to Ireland. As fires burned low, lucky listeners might be transported by a storyteller’s wizardry to some distant time or place. For a few precious hours, in a dim and drafty cottage, peasants too might become rich, or even lords and ladies. Of the common sort, remarked a contemporary, “Popular tales, the stories heard during the veillées, make a greater impression on them than the lessons of their pastors.”67

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE COMMON BENEFACTRESS:

  SOCIABILITY, SEX,

  AND SOLITUDE

  I

  Night is the common benefactress of every thing that breathes; it is during her reign the greatest share of happiness is spread over the earth.

  LOUIS-SÉBASTIEN MERCIER, 17881

  NOT EVERY EVENING, of course, fell prey to work, even for the toiling classes. Along with more affluent families, ordinary folk embraced idle hours as a time to do as they pleased. ’Twas a worker’s reward, declared a sixteenth-century ballad, “to spend at the night, in joy and delight, now after his labours all day.” The better part of many evenings, especially for males, was devoted to recreation and leisure. “The gods have established a respite from heavy labor,” affirmed a Dutch writer.2

  If our modern concept of leisure had yet to evolve in the preindustrial age, traditional notions of “ease,” “pleasure,” and “play” were common among all social ranks. In his diary, the Suffolk farmer William Coe routinely recorded nights spent at “play.” “Set up ’till midnight att play,” he entered on four different occasions in January 1694. While, in the course of a day, urban and rural workers suspended their tasks for meals and rest, these respites were generally brief, particularly for laborers who answered to a master or employer. Along with Sundays and holidays, nighttime, by contrast, afforded a prolonged period of relaxation for personal enjoyment. Hence the gleeful refrain in a seventeenth-century masque staged by the Grocers’ Company of London, “We labour all day, but we frollick at night / With smoaking and joking, and tricks of delight.”3

  Of course, some laborers must have collapsed after returning home, barely able from numbing fatigue to consume an evening meal, especially in rural regions during the summer when fieldwork grew most strenuous. In southern Wiltshire, complained John Aubrey, workers, “being weary after hard labour” lacked “leisure to read and contemplate of religion, but goe to bed to their rest.” A doctor in the Haute-Loire in 1777 described peasants “returning home in the evening, harassed by weariness and misery.”4 Still, for most persons, nighttime represented more than a dormant interlude between working hours. In spite of myriad perils, it was night, not morning, not afternoon, that was valued most.

  Popular among middle-class families were cards, dice, and other games of chance. In Sussex, Thomas Turner and his wife favored whist, brag, and cribbage, whereas Parson Woodforde frequently played backgammon. Of winning two shillings at quadrille, he vouched, “We were very merry tonight & kept it up late.” Drink was common. “Not one of us went to bed sober,” Turner remarked after a night’s frolic with friends. Of another evening, he observed, “We continued drinking like horses (as the vulgar phrase is) and singing till many of us was very drunk, and then we went to dancing and pulling off wigs, caps, and hats. And there we continued in this frantic manner (behaving more like mad people than they that profess the name of Christians).” In early New England, where local officials took particular offense at such behavior, court records are strewn with prosecutions for tippling at “unseasonable times of night.”5

  The detailed diary of the Dutch teacher David Beck throws light upon middle-class sociability in The Hague during the early seventeenth century. To judge from his observations, urban families and friends frequently visited one another on moonlit evenings. Recently widowed, Beck may have been unusually peripatetic, but he was far from unique among his married acquaintances. The web of his nocturnal relationships was extensive. In addition to his brother Hendrick, an uncle, and both his mother and mother-in-law, Beck socialized with numerous friends, including a swordmaker who invited him one January evening to “a festive dinner on the occasion of slaughtering time.” In spite of the occasional street stabbing or fire, nights brimmed with late meals, humorous tales, music, and fireside conversations “about a thousand things.” Wine and beer flowed freely. “Talking and warming ourselves together,” he wrote of a November evening filled with “good cheer” at his brother’s home. A few nights later, Beck joined a small company at his tailor’s, “singing, dancing, playing the lute, and jumping like the unruly children in The Hague.” Not until 2:00 A.M. did he leave, “very drunk.”6

  Comparable in many respects was the social world of Samuel Pepys in Restoration London. Intimates were more genteel, and Pepys was more cosmopolitan than Beck in his tastes. Otherwise, many of their pastimes were similar. When not working late in the Naval Office or engaging in a tryst, Pepys devoted nights to cardplay, drinking, meals, and music, both at home and abroad. “Sat playing at cards after supper, till 12 at night; and so by moonshine home and to bed,” he wrote in January 1662. Another evening found him in his garden with Sir William Penn, the Navy Commissioner, both indifferent to the night air. “There we stayed talking and singing and drinking of great draughts of clarret and eating botargo and bread and butter till 12 at night, it being moonshine. And so to bed—very near fuddled.”7

  Scores of preindustrial folk flocked to alehouses. In communities large and small, they represented important hubs of social activity for men. Patrons gathered in the evening to tell jokes, play games, and swap news, most seeking a warm sanctuary from work, family, and everyday cares. Unlike inns, which supplied tired travelers overnight accommodation with food and wine, alehouses offered men a meeting place with material comforts often superior to those at home. Continental drinking houses included the French cabaret, the Wirthaus in Germany, and the Spanish venta. Although spare, alehouse furnishings included chairs and tables along with an oversized hearth. Some interiors contained wood partitions for a measure of privacy. In England, during the decades following the Reformation, the popularity of drinking houses grew as
traditional sources of popular entertainment declined, both sporting contests and religious festivals. “I have never seen more taverns and ale-houses in my whole life than in London,” marveled Thomas Platter. Writing of the late sixteenth century, Richard Rawlidge remarked in 1628:

  When what the people generally were forbidden their old and ancient familiar meetings and sportings, what then followed? Why, sure ale-house haunting: . . . so that the people would have meetings, either publicely with pastimes abroad, or else privately in drunken alehouses. . . . The preachers did then reprove dailliance, and dancings of maides and young men together; but now they have more cause to reprove drunkennesse and whoring, that is done privately in ale-houses.8

  For the most part, alehouses catered to the lower orders, whereas inns and taverns attracted a wealthier clientele. Merchants, yeomen, and substantial craftsmen graced alehouse doors, but most patrons hailed from the ranks of husbandmen, journeymen, servants, and other members of the laboring poor. Customers were single as well as married, both young and middle-aged. According to detailed studies of drinking houses in London, Paris, and Augsburg, evenings drew the largest numbers. And where visits during the day, between one’s working hours, were usually brief, those at night could last several hours or more. A French visitor to London noted during the early 1660s, “A taylor and a shoemaker, let his business be never so urgent, will leave his work, and go to drink in the evening,” “oftentimes” coming “home late.” In the London Chronicle, a correspondent condemned the “stupid amusement of guzzling at an alehouse three or four hours in an evening.” Immediate gratification came from imbibing ale and hopped beer, or wine across much of continental Europe. Declared a seventeenth-century Polish poet: “Our lords are a great woe to us, / They fleece us almost like sheep. / You can never sit in peace, / unless you forget the bad things / over a mug of beer.” Important, too, for peasants was the nutritional value of these beverages, “without which they cannot well subsist, their food being for the most part of such things as afford little or bad nourishment,” claimed a writer. Safer to drink than either water or milk, beer and ale were also a source of warmth—“the warmest lining of a naked man’s coat,” professed John Taylor the Water-Poet.9