Once upon a time a beggar came to a modest village in the mountains of Portugal. It was a cold, raw, cloudy day late in the year. He was hungry. He had no food with him. He hadn’t eaten in a few days. He couldn’t remember when. Wandering the countryside was hungry work, but he hadn’t had much luck foraging.
The village was a collection of low stone… huts, really. Lichen covered granite blocks chinked with scraps of fieldstone piled together into scraggly walls topped by mossy clay roof-tiles running lean-to fashion from a high wall on their north sides down to an overhang to the south, sheltering a low doorway and a manger for the animals – in good years. Sagging chestnut beams carried these roofs out to smooth worn posts. Each post holding its beam in the open palm of an abbreviated crook.
These huts sheltered together, huddled in each others lee, sharing sidewalls or leaning in on each other. Each faced its own muddy little dooryard with a bedding of broom fronds beaten down into the mud, showing around their edges. Low stone walls reached around the open side of each enclosure, broken by a low gate of weathered timber.
He could hear the village dogs howling off in the distance and wondered how long until they found him and harried him on his way!
Picking his way across the dooryard of the first house he came to, knocking at the door, he asked a peasant woman, careworn and suspicious, if she had any food to spare.
She told him,
“No! We are poor! I barely have anything to give my family tonight! Go! Get on with you!”
He thanked her for her trouble, noting the fear behind her hard look. He went on to the next house, and then the next, always with the same result. Not only were they brusque with a lonesome stranger, they clearly felt the pinch of bad times. He noted in their looks they were afraid that soon they might not be any better off than this bedraggled beggar. The last thing they wanted was a reminder of their fate! They were preoccupied, closed off in their own misery, unwilling to open their hearths or hearts to a stranger.
He sat down in the little square pondering his situation. It would be getting dark soon. If he didn’t come up with something to eat, he’d pass another hungry and miserable night dodging dogs, desperate to keep warm.
An idea came to him.
He set himself to preparing.
“Why not!” He said aloud – to himself – as his eye’s lit on an abandoned fire-circle beyond the village tap. A rusty, worn cooking-pot peeped out at him from a refuse pile. He filled it with cold, clear water trickling from out of the heart of the mountain. He propped the pot besides the fire-ring. It stood precariously on its two remaining legs. He set a broken paver under its broken foot to hold it steady.
He strode back the way he’d come to collect dead sticks and scrub along the road-side. Returning, he laid a fire. Once the smoke settled down and the flames grew stronger he pulled a smooth, round, dark stone from his otherwise empty knapsack. He had spied it lying along the track as he had bent down to gather twigs.
“Ah! There! You’ll do!” He had said, as he slipped it into his bag unseen. He had done this surreptitiously. He’d noticed that ever since he had begun his preparations, village women were watching him from behind narrow panes or peeking from shadowed doorways.
He smiled to himself at this, as he settled down to watch the pot come to a boil.
Swirls of steam began to rise. He took a beat-up, worn-out wooden-spoon from his ragged coat pocket and stirred the hot water carefully.
He dipped his spoon in the simmering water. With conspicuous blowing and puffing to cool the liquid, he took a long, loud, smacking slurp.
He smiled broadly with satisfaction! As he sat back down, he realized he was no longer alone. The first woman he had encountered that day was soberly sidling up to him. Her curiosity plain on her face, she demanded,
“What are you doing?”
“I’m making soup!” He answered cheerfully.
“What’s in it?” She asked, suspicious. Yet intent on the swirling steam, she peered down into the pot’s mysterious recesses, waiting for an answer.
“It’s stone soup.” He replied, matter-of-factly, pretending to be busy, rummaging through his now empty knapsack for something only he knew was not there.
“Stone Soup?” She repeated, rushing on to say,
“I’ve never heard of such a thing! How can you make soup from a stone?”
“Well,” he said, slowly turning his attention to her.
“It’s a magic stone. It makes a wonderful soup! If you’re willing to wait a little bit, you can have some with me!”
He gave the pot another stir. They sat down together by the fire. She couldn’t take her eyes off the pot. She sniffed the air, trying to detect the aroma of the soup in the smoky, damp, cold atmosphere.
“This is a wonderful soup,” He began talking after a bit,
“but…,” He hesitated. Going on with conviction he added,
“You know! It would be so much better if we had a potato…” His voice trailed off wistfully.
The woman blurted out,
“I have a potato!”
Before he could react she ran off towards her house. She returned holding a knobbly little potato out before her as if it were a treasure. The beggar saw that they were no longer alone.
Three women had come out of their houses to see what they were up to. He turned his back on their dark forms, heavy, black wool shawls draped over layered tops and skirts that bulked out their forms, covering their thin and bony selves with layers of black wool that stiffened their movements. They stood perennially hunched over.
He ceremoniously dropped the potato in the water and went back to stirring the pot.
His new ally, so excited at the prospect of Stone Soup, proudly took to the task of telling the others of its wonders. In her zeal, she went far beyond the barest suggestions the beggar had hinted at as she put her heart into describing this soup as an amalgam of the best food she’d ever eaten. Contrasting it in her mind’s eye with this lean Fall’s meager rations.
The beggar smiled to himself, but said nothing, as he continued to stir the pot. His new visitors were deep in conversation. The boldest of the three pushed the others aside to confront him,
“Stone Soup! Well! We’d like some too!”
The beggar broke in,
“Of course! Where are my manners! You can all have some.” He proclaimed, waving his arm in an inclusive gesture of embrace.
“Everyone can have some, bring your families!” He said with a welcoming smile.
His smile froze. He drooped a little, and went on to say,
“You are all welcome, but it wouldn’t be fair to my friend here,” turning to his companion and prompting her for her name,
“Delfina!” She said,
“Delfina da Guerra Faria!” She proclaimed, proudly, looking about the growing group of her neighbors filling in around her and her new friend.
“Yes!” He went on,
“It wouldn’t be fair to Dona Delfina if I invited you all without asking her! After all, she contributed half the ingredients…”
Before he could finish, the second woman, burst in,
“Well! I’ve got something to add!” As she reached into her apron and pulled out half a cabbage.
Another woman shoved her aside and said,
“And I have these!” Thrusting out her gnarly hands to show three papery-skinned onions.
Another one burst in,
“Carrots!”
From the back of the group, a new comer , just then hearing the story from Dona Delfina pushed her way through the milling crowd and announced,
“Wait a minute! I’ve got a ham bone in my pantry! I’ll be right back!”
A cheer went up! The rest turned to rush to their homes to raid their meager larders to see what they could contribute.
Suddenly alone, the beggar found himself at the point of tears. He never imagined anything like this! He’d come hungry and destitute into a dreary demoralized village, desperate lonely people barricaded behind their fears, and now, here he was at the heart of a gathering feast!
[...] “Stone Soup is also literally about our relationship with Food.” [...]
[...] recent conversations, on-line, and happily in person! I’ve come to realize how the story of Stone Soup can illuminate our [...]
[...] the extremes of ease and want for a growing appreciation of enough. As the villagers discover in Stone Soup lack is not sufficient to guarantee poverty. It takes lack and isolation and ignorance to [...]
Tony,
Your parables are as inspirational as ever. (I still tell your Portuguese parable of throwing the fish over the wall, but that is another story- Literally)
Ah, but this is a great little lesson about the simple shift in stance (and cliche) from the oft-abused “personal responsibility” to the oft-maligned “It takes a village”.
Good read and a good thought in these times.
Jeff
Thank you Jeff.
I should write out that story as well! It has been a mainstay in my life too!
[...] “The Story of Stone Soup,” as Antonio Dias tells it, a wandering beggar comes upon a village. Hungry and tired, he goes to [...]
Nicely told story, thank you for sharing. Was especially touched by ‘the last thing they wanted was a reminder of their own fate’. The fear of losing the little that we have – if we hold it tightly we might not lose it. Also reminded me of Lewis Hyde’s The Gift (something tells me you might have read it) and the idea of the begging bowl. Reading this, realized that the Stone Soup story is another way of illuminating this idea.
Nancy,
Thank you for your response!
Yes, the fear of loss is strong. It requires a catalyst to take us past it. This could be the role of the beggar/artist.
Funny you should bring up Hyde’s The Gift. I’m reading it now, by Andrew’s suggestion!
I find it quite telling the way Hyde brings up something I hadn’t taken as significant before, the way the codification of folk-tales in the Nineteenth Century in Europe as distinctly “children’s stories” gutted them of so much of their power.
I found The Gift to be beautiful and challenging all at once. Curious how it is for you. And yes, Hyde makes great use of folk tales.
I like the idea of returning the power to those folk tales and myth, as children’s stories. Why not? It’s part of what attracted me to Philosophy for Children, although I wouldn’t have articulated it that way before our exchange.
I agree there is power in folk-tales as children’s stories, but what I think Hyde is referring to, what I was reacting to, is their Disneyfication.
For me it also relates to the problems I see that arise from the ghettoization of children’s’ lives where they are treated as the focus of sentimentality and at the same time marketed to ruthlessly as gullible vectors for exploitation.
I’ve just started looking into your project. I look forward to learning more!
Hi, I really like your telling of this story. I got it through the link on Andrew’s site, and wanted to comment on the questions he throws out at the end. It kept getting longer and turned into a post. Many thanks for the inspiration. http://preciousbeautiful.blogspot.com/2012/01/stony-world-and-precious.html
[...] In “The Story of Stone Soup,” as Antonio Dias tells it, a wandering beggar comes upon a village. Hungry and tired, he goes to each door and is met with the same answer again and again. There is, he is told, not enough to go around, and the door, half-opened, is soon closed upon him. Nearing despair, he notices a rusty old pot, an abandoned fire circle, and some kindling here and there, and decides to build a fire. He adds some water to the pot and a stone from his pocket. [...]
Thanks for clarifying. Yes, so many things are wrong with the Disneyfication of these stories. With turning stories, and play, into something you buy.
Glad you’re interested in P4C. FYI @PhaedrusTweets has a great public P4C list on twitter.
Oh and I have to ask – the stones in the background of your site are gorgeous. Where were the photos taken?
Thank you for the link to P4C.
I’ve just added a page to answer your question, “Where are those stones?”
The ‘where are those stones’ page is lovely. Lovely writing and ideas, also images. I thought the stones might be menhirs. Remember seeing similar stones, and being in awe of them, on a vacation in Brittany, FR years ago. Thank you for sharing.
[...] us does nothing, yet it changes everything. This is the catalytic moment we find in the story of Stone Soup writ [...]
[...] Taggart’s reflections on the founding story of Stone Soup attribute the success of the original beggar to personal charisma. Using the arts of magic, the [...]
Thought of you and this post today. Was in a client meeting and someone said ‘we’re using the stone soup model’. They described offering a vision and invitation, and creating a situation where community members voluntarily bring their own resources to share. Hope all is well.