Six months passed, and one night at twelve o’clock, on awaking, he saw before him Geronio, who no longer seemed to suffer as before, though there was still in his eyes something terrible.
“How is it with thee?” asked Adelone.
“Far better. Come with me.”
Then Adelone found himself in a great castle, which seemed like a free prison, which was grim and without comfort. Many souls were in it, but they were walking about together, or resting and conversing, apparently in no suffering. It was a joyless place, but not one of torture, nor was it filthy. [57]
“We do not suffer so much here,” said Geronio. “We have still much remorse, but at least we have the consolation of being able to converse one with another, and enjoy sympathy in sorrow.”
“What do you talk about?” asked Adelone.
“Chiefly about the people whom we hope will set us free. I talk of thee, because all my hope is in thee. I think of nothing else by day or night.”
Then Adelone returned to his home. After six months he beheld Geronio again. Again he found himself in a castle, but the spirits were conversing happily, many were singing hymns, they had guitars and mandolins, and here and there were vases of flowers which gave forth delightful perfume.
Geronio said to him:
“Here we are happier still, and, believe me, friend, if thou canst in this life make others as good as thou art, to love their relations and friends, and cease to be selfish, thereby everyone can save another soul, and win great reward for himself.”
Adelone replied:
“I truly will do all I can to content thee.”
From that day he did all that he could, not only to do good himself, but to cause others to act like him. Six months after this Geronio came to him and said:
“Now that I know that thou art truly good, learn that I am at peace. And as thou hast been the means of giving it to others, know that in future all good spirits will aid thee!”
It is not enough not to be a sinner. He who does not take care and pains and labour earnestly to make others happy will be punished as an evil-doer. He who does not love (us) is an enemy.
It is to be remarked in this, as in all the other tales from the same sources, when a moral end or plot is to be worked out, it is done without benefit of clergy or aid of priest, or the Church. For these are legends of the witches and wizards, who have ever been the foes, and consequently the hated and afflicted, of the orthodox. It is a curious reflection that as it has been said that the last savage in America will die with the last Indian, so the strega, or witch, will remain to the end a heathen. And I find curious emotion in the thought that what I have gathered, or am gathering, with such care, is the last remainder of antique heathenism in Europe. Superstitions there are everywhere, but in this kind Italy is alone.
I have a vase in which I daily throw
All scraps and useless rubbish—oh that I
Had one wherein to cast away all thoughts,
Imaginations, dreams and memories
Which haunt and vex the soul, to disappear
For ever, lost in fast forgetfulness!
That were a vase indeed, and worth far more
Than that which forms the subject of this tale.
Many centuries ago there was in Naples a young man named Dorione, who studied magic, and his master was a great sorcerer named Virgil. One evening Dorione found himself in company with friends, and there was present another wizard named Belsevo. [58] Now, there was not bread enough in the house for supper for all.
“Never mind,” remarked Belsevo. “He who hath art will find his bread in any part. Observe me.”
Taking a large vase, he turned it upside down and said:
Then he removed the vase, and there were on the table eight small loaves.
Then Belsevo said to Dorione:
“Canst thou not give us wine for the bread, O scholar of the grand master Virgil?”
But Dorione, being only a beginner in magic, could not effect such a miracle, and was much ashamed because all laughed at him.
The next morning Dorione told what had happened to Virgil.
“Well didst thou deserve,” replied the master, “to be thus scoffed at and jeered, for a young magician should never play tricks at a table like a juggler to amuse fools. But thou hast been sufficiently punished, and to please thee I will give thee a fine present. And if thou canst not make bread come, thou shalt at least have the power to make it and other things disappear. I will give thee this vase of bronze. It is but small, as thou seest, but tell any object, however large, to disappear in it, then the vase will swallow it. Thou shalt keep for thyself in secret a house somewhere, and whatever the vase may swallow thou wilt find it in the house, however distant thou mayst be from it. Only say, ‘Go into the vase!’ and by the vase it will be swallowed up. But thou shalt never use it to steal, or for any dishonest purpose. So long as thou art honest it will serve, and none shall rob thee of it. And if that should come to pass, call to it and it will return to thee.”
Then Dorione took the vase, and thanked the grand master Virgil. After a time the scholar went on a long journey. Dorione possessed a small castle in a remote place in the mountains of Tuscany, and in it was a secret vault. “There,” he said, “I will send all that the vase may swallow. Many a thing may be come by honestly, if one knew how to send it away and where to put it.
“‘He who hath a cage, I’ve heard,
In time will surely get a bird.’”
It came to pass that he became the secretary of a certain lord, who, like many of the brave gentry of his time, was ever at war with somebody, plundering or being plundered, every one in his turn, as fortune favoured.
“Up on the top of the hill to-day,
Down in the dale to-morrow;
Oft in the morning happy and gay,
After a night of sorrow;
For some must fall that others may rise,
And the swallow goes chirping as she flies.”
One evening his master heard a trumpet afar, and, looking forth, seemed suddenly startled, like a man in great alarm. Pointing to a splendid suit of armour, he said:
“Seest thou that armour, Dorione? It is worth ten thousand crowns, and I would give ten thousand it were this instant in hell. I took it in a raid from the Grand Duke, and he will be here in ten minutes with all his men. If he finds the armour I shall lose my head. And there, too, is an iron chest full of gold and jewels—all plunder, and all in evidence against me.”
“If you will give it to me,” answered Dorione, “I will make it all vanish in an instant.”
“Yea, I give it with all my heart; but be quick about it, for the Grand Duke and his soldiers are at the gate, and I feel the rope round my neck!”
Then Dorione brought his vase in a minute, and uttered the conjuration:
“Vattene via! Vattene via!
Roba bella, cosa mia!
Vai nell’ istante al mio castello!
Apri la bocca, vaso bello!”“Hasten away! Begone! begone!
All ye fine things which are now mine own,
Fly to my castle—never pause;
Beautiful vase, now open thy jaws.”
And in an instant the armour and chest went flying into the vase and disappeared.
Just as they vanished the Duke and his men entered, but though they sought in every cranny they found nothing; and so, having come for a bargain of wool, went away shorn, [60] as the proverb says.
“Thou hast saved my life,” said the Signore. “God only knows how you ran away with the things, but you are welcome to them. Truly I was glad to get them, but a thousand times better pleased to see them go.”
One day the Signore and Dorione found themselves in a battle together, sore beset and separated from all their troop. They were in extremest danger of being killed. [61] When all at once there came an idea to Dorione, who had his vase slung to his side like a canteen. He pronounced the spell, ordering all the arms in the hands of the enemy to fly through the vase to his castle. In an instant swords and spears, daggers and battle-axes, had left their owners, who stood unarmed and amazed. So the two were saved.
The Signore took a great deal of booty, and rewarded Dorione very liberally, the more so because he was greatly delighted to see the gifts disappear in the vase—no matter what, all was fish to that net, and all the sheep black—and Dorione liked to please his kind master, especially in this way. Yes, to amuse him he would often wish away a gold-hilted and jewelled sword or helm from an enemy, and was pleased to hear the brave old knight laugh to see the things fly.
The generosity of the lord stopped, however, at a certain point. He had a beautiful daughter whom Dorione loved, alla follia, to distraction, but the father would not consent to bestow her on him. But it came to pass that one day the castle was besieged by a vast force, which spared neither man, woman nor child, and it seemed plain that the besieged must yield. The lord bade Dorione to cause the arms of the enemy to vanish.
“This time,” replied his secretary, “I cannot do it. The fame of my vase or of my power has spread far and wide, and the enemy have had their arms enchanted by a mighty sorcerer, so that I cannot take them.”
They fought on until of all the garrison only Dorione, with the lord and his daughter, were left alive. They were in extremity.
“And now,” thought Dorione, “something must be done, for there is many a wolf at the door. Let me see whether I cannot make the young lady go into my vase, and then her father.” So, bringing them together, he said:
“Signora bella, signora mia!
La più bella che su questa terra sia!
Ti prego—subito, subito,
Di qua vattene via!
Vai nell istante al mio castello,
Vi troverai un vaso bello,
Che la sua bocca aprira,
E li dentro ti salvera!”“Lovely lady, lady mine own,
The fairest whom earth has ever known;
Fly in a hurry, oh, fly away!
Leave the castle—flit while you may,
And off to my distant shelter flee!
The beautiful vase is ready for thee,
Who will open her mouth to take you in.
Safe you will be when once within!”
In a second, ere the eye could follow, the young lady was whirled away mysteriously, and, the conjuration being repeated, then her father. After which Dorione prayed to the spirit of the vase, who was no other than Saint Virgil himself, [62a] to save him also. And in an instant he felt himself swallowed up like a bean in the mouth of a horse. And as soon he found himself in the vault of the castle with the lady and her father. And they were amazed, in looking about, to see what wealth was there gathered up, for Dorione had been very industrious in many a battle in sending arms and booty to his home.
Then all three, joining hands, danced and sang for joy to find themselves safe, Dorione and the lady doing the most rejoicing, because the lord had promptly said:
“After this you may get married.” And they had the wedding that night.
The good lord, as a proof of affection and esteem for Dorione, pronounced an oration of regret as a penance on himself for not having sooner consented to the nuptials, ending with these words: “And now let everyone here present drink a cask of wine, and get as drunk as a tile, or four fiddlers.” [62b]
“And truly at that time it came to pass
That Virgil, by the power of sorcery,
Made a fair lady, who did shine like glass
Or diamonds with wondrous brilliancy,
Whom to the Emperor he did present,
And who therewith, I trow, was well content.”Virgilo il Mago (MS.).
It happened on a time that the Emperor, coming from Rome to Florence, was guest in the Duke’s palace, and treated so magnificently and in a manner so much after his own heart, that he was indeed well content.
Now, in those days there was in Florence no Signore who, when he gave an entertainment, did not invite Virgil, not only because he was the greatest poet in Italy, but because he always played some admirable trick or jest, which made men merry and was always new.
So at the first great feast the Emperor was greatly delighted at the endless jokes, as well as by the genius of the distinguished guest.
Therefore, when the Emperor, before his departure, gave in turn a great entertainment to all the nobles of Florence, as well as of Rome, who were in the city, he sent the first invitation to Virgil, requesting him at the same time to invent for the occasion a jest of the first magnitude.
So unto this for such occasion the magician gave all his mind. And that the Emperor should really “catch the fly,” he resolved that the jest should be one at the Imperial expense—e lo scherzo voleva farlo a lui medesimo.
After long meditation he exclaimed, “Ecco, l’ ho trovato! I’ve got it! I will give him a girl made of water!”
Forthwith he wrote to the Emperor that he would not fail to be at the festival, but also begged permission to bring with him a beautiful young lady—his cousin.
The Emperor, who was very devoted to the fair sex, inferred from this directly that the jest was to be of a kind which would please all free gallants—that is to say, the being introduced to some easy and beautiful conquest—either wedded or a maid. And, delighted at the thought that the trick would take this turn, he replied to Virgil that he had carta biancha, or full permission to bring with him whomever he pleased.
Then the magician made a woman of ice and light and water, clear as the light of day he made her, and touched her thrice with his wand, and lo! she became beautiful—but such a beauty, indeed, that you would not find the like in going round the world; the sun or moon ne’er shone upon her like, for she was made of star-rays and ice and dewdrops, so that she looked like all the stars swimming in a burnished golden sky, and shining like the sun, so resplendent in her beauty that she dazzled the eyes.
When Virgilio arrived at the palace, all the guests were there before him, and they were so overwhelmed with blank amazement at the sight of the sorcerer with such a beauty, that they, in silence and awed, drew apart on either side, leaving open space through which Virgilio passed to the Emperor. And the latter was himself for a minute stupefied at the sight of such brilliancy and beauty, when, recovering himself, he gave his arm to the fair cousin, and asked her name. To which she replied: “La Donna di Diaccio” (ice).
“Donna di Fuoco! (Our Lady of Fire), [64] rather,” cried the Emperor, “since all hearts are inflamed at thy beauty. Truly, I had no idea that the great poet had such a lovely cousin!”
The dance began, and the Emperor would have no other partner than this lady, who outshone the rest as the moon the stars, and yet surpassed them even more by her exquisite grace in every movement, and by her skill as a dancer, so that one seemed to see a thousand exquisite statues or studied forms of grace succeeding to one another as she moved. Nor was she less fascinating in her language than in her beauty, and no wonder, for Virgilio had called into the form one of the wittiest and most gifted of all the fairies to aid the jest.
So the dance swept on, and the Emperor, utterly enchanted, forgot Virgilio and his promised jest, and the time, and the court, and all things save the beauty beside him. Finally he withdrew with her to a side-room, where, sending for refreshment, he sat pouring forth wine into himself and love into the ears of the lady by turns.
Virgil, indeed, wishing the Emperor to have a fine time of it for awhile, did nothing to disturb the splendid pair. But as daybreak would soon appear, he spoke to one and another, saying that he had promised the Emperor a merry jest to make them all laugh. Whereupon there was a general cry for the diversion, and by one consent the gay company invaded the room where the fond couple sat.
Then Virgil, with the greatest politeness and a laughing air, said:
“Excuse me, your Highness, but it seems that my fair cousin here has so engrossed you that you have forgotten that you laid an absolute command on me that I should prepare and play some rare jest, the like of which you had never seen, and I fear, should I forget it, you may ne’er forgive me.”
Then the Emperor, good-natured and grateful to the poet for his fair cousin’s sake, excused the intrusion, and begged for the jest, expressing a hope that it would be a thoroughly good one.
Then Virgil said to the Emperor:
“Take my cousin upon thy lap, and let her arms be round thy neck!”
“Per Bacco!” cried the Emperor, “the jest begins well!”
“And now embrace her firmly!” exclaimed Virgil.
“Better and better!” quoth the Emperor.
Then Virgil spoke solemnly to the lady, and said:
“What is thy name?”
“Donna di Diaccia,” was her reply.
“Then, Lady of Ice,” replied the wondrous man, “in the name of my magic power, I summon you to return to the ice from which you sprung, and to the water from which you were born!”
Then little by little, as she sat in the Emperor’s lap, the beautiful girl became a brilliant block of ice, and truly the great man, as his fingers and all his person began to freeze, was fain to place the image on the sofa, where they saw it presently thaw—features and feet and all dispersing, and running away in a stream, till every trace had flown, and the Emperor and the company understood that they had been admiring a Woman of Water.
There was a pause of utter bewilderment, as of awe, at this strange ending, and then a roar of laughter, in which the Emperor himself finally joined, crying: “Viva Virgilio! Long may he flourish with his magic art!” And so the feast ended with the clattering of cups, laughter, and merry cheers.
[So the Donna di Diaccio was a spirit? Certainly—the Spirit of Ice-water. If there is spirit in vermouth, why should there not be one in the iced water which you mix with it?]
This story may remind the reader of “Our Lady of the Snow,” or Byron’s “Witch of the Alps,” or Shelley’s “They all seem to be Sisters,” or else suggest “Frozen Champagne,” and “Philadelphia Frozen Oysters.”
“Maint autres grand clercs ont estè
Au monde de grand poesié
Qui aprisrent tote lor vie,
Des sept ars et le astronomie,
Dont aucuns i ot qui a leur tens,
Firent merveille par lor sens;
Mais cil qui plus s’en entremist,
Fu Virgile qui mainte enfist.
Pour ce si vous en conterons
Aucune dont oi avons.”L’Image du Monde (1245).
Virgilio was as great a magician as he was a distinguished post. And of the great works which he did when alive many are yet remembered here in Florence, and among other things his skill was such that by means of it he made statues sing and dance.
Ecco come avenne—behold how it came to pass! It chanced one day that when walking alone in the environs of Florence, he found himself in a place where there were four very beautiful Venuses. [67] And looking at them with great admiration, and observing their forms, he said:
“Truly they all please me well; and if they could converse I hardly know which I would choose for a companion. Ebbene! I will make them all talk and walk, live and move, and can then see if anyone of them will show any gratitude for the gift of life.”
Then he took human fat, and anointed with it all the statues, and then of the blood of a wild boar, and rubbed it very thoroughly over them, and when this was done he waved his magic wand, and said:
“In the name of my magic art and power I order you to speak and move and live!”
And with this they all awoke, as it were, from a long dream, and stepping down from their pedestals, they walked about, seeming far more beautiful than before. And they gathered round Virgil, for truly they were enchanted with him as well as by him, in more ways than one, and embraced and kissed him with a thousand caresses and endearments, and each and all wished him to select her as his mate.
Then Virgilio, laughing, said:
“I know not which to choose among the four;
I cannot make all four into a wife;
But to determine who shall be the first,
Do ye go forth and seek each one a gift,
And come to-morrow evening to my house,
And she who brings the gift which I prefer
Shall be the fair one first preferred by me.”
And on the following eve the first who came was the Venus Agamene; thus was she called who brought the first gift, and this was a splendid diamond. Virgilio received it with admiration, but said that he must wait to see what the others would bring before he could decide.
Then the second was announced, whose name was Enrichetta, and she presented a marvellous garment, richly embroidered and adorned. And this too was admired; but to her also Virgilio said he would await what was to come.
The third, whose name was Veronica, brought such a wonderful bouquet of flowers that the magician was more pleased with it than he had been by the diamond or the robe.
Then there came the fourth, called Diomira, and she brought a splendid crown of —. [68] And Virgil preferred this to all, and gave the prize to Diomira. So he bade them all come the next evening to a grand festival. And when they came, it was indeed a wonderful assembly, for there were present, and in life, all the statues from all the palaces. They came down from their pedestals and danced in the house of Virgilio—nor did they return until the early dawn; and so it came to pass that on that night all the statues spoke and danced.
“They danced so merrily all the night,
Till the sun came in with a rosy light,
And touched the statues fair,
When in an instant every one
Was changed again to marble stone.
Per Bacco! I was there!”
It is not remarkable that there should be so many tales in Italy of statues speaking or coming to life. They abounded among the Romans, and are to be found in later literature. Bonifacius, in his “Ludicra,” as I have said, collects instances of men who have loved statues, and Zaghi, whom I shall quote again directly, does the same. But the idea of images speaking is so natural that we need not have recourse to tradition to account for its existence.
Among the archaic and very curious traditions in this tale we are told that Virgil rubbed the statues with human fat and the blood of a wild boar. Both of these occur not only in witchcraft, but also in the wild science of the earlier time, as potent to give or take life. For the blood of a boar that of a bull is equivalent. In the recipes for preparing the celebrated poison of the Borgias one or the other is presented. That of the boar still exists in the poisoning common in Germany caused by eating Blutwurst. In the “Selva di Curiosità,” by Gabriel Zaghi, 1674, there is a chapter (xx.) devoted to showing that bull’s blood—sangue di toro—is a deadly poison; to prove this he cites Plutarch, Pliny, Dioscorides, and others, from which it appears that the idea is ancient. That it gives life to statues in the tale is quite in keeping with the strange and rude homœopathy which is found in Paracelsus, and all the writers on mystical medicine of his time, from which Hahnemann drew his system, i.e., that what will kill can also cure, or revive.
It is very remarkable that in this tale Agamene brings a diamond. According to Hyginius (“Astronom.,” II., 13, vide Friedrich, “Symbolich der Natur.,” p. 658), Aega (or Aegamene) nursed the youthful Jupiter. In another legend (No. 1) Virgil is the son of Jove. “Aega was a daughter of the Sun, and of such brilliancy that the Titans, dazzled by her splendour, begged their mother Gäa, or Gea, to hide her in the earth.” This clearly indicates a diamond. Jupiter transformed her into a star.
It is simply possible, and only a conjecture of mine, that in Diomira we find the name of Diomedea, the Diomedea necessitas of Plato (“De Repub,” lib. 6), who carried all before her. Diomira conquers all her rivals in this legend. She is the Venus Victrix.
I cannot help believing when we find such curious instances of tradition as that of Aega, or Agamene, surviving in these tales, that there is a possibility that the whole story may, more or less, be of classic or very ancient origin. We are not as yet able to prove it, and so there are none who attach much value to these fragments. But a day will come when scholars will think more of them. That there still survives a great deal of Græco-Latin lore which was not recorded by classic writers has become to us a certainty. Therefore it is possible, though not now to be proved, that these statues of Virgil had a common origin with the image of Selostre, or Testimonium luminis, described by Pausanius, which spoke when the sun rose or at the Aurora.
If it be possible, and it certainly is conjectural, that Diomira is the same with Diadumena, we have beyond question a very remarkable illustration of old tradition surviving in a popular tale; for Diadumena, or “She who binds her forehead with a fillet,” or band, was the name of one of the most beautiful statues of Polycletus. According to Winkelmann (“Ist. dell Acte,” lib. 6, cap. 2), this statue was very frequently copied and familiarly known. A statue in the Villa Farnese is believed to be an imitation of it. Were this conjecture true, the gift brought by Diomira would be the fillet which Virgil wears by tradition, as typical of a poet. An ornament, fillet, or tiara is, effectively, a crown. Therefore, the meaning of the myth is that a true poet is such by necessity; he cannot help it—poeta nascitur, non fit.
“Now the golden chair wherein Juno was compelled to sit, by the artifice of Vulcan, means that the earth is the mother of riches, and with it that part of the air which cannot leave the earth, Juno being air.”—Natalis Comitis: Mythologia, lib. ii., 79 (1616).
“Thou wolt algates wete how we be shape!
Thou shalt hereafterward, my brother dere,
Come wher thee needeth not of me to lere,
For thou shalt by thine own experience
Conne in a chaiere rede of this sentence
Better than Virgile while he was on live
Or Dante also.”Chaucer: The Frere’s Tale.
There once lived in Rome a very great, rich, and beautiful Princess, but she was as bad at heart as could be, and her life was of the wickedest. However, she kept up a good appearance, and was really at last in love with a fine young man, who returned her affections.
But Virgil, knowing all, and pitying the youth, said to him that the woman would certainly be the cause of his ruin, as she had been of many others, and told him so many terrible things of her, that he ceased to visit the Princess.
And she, first suspecting and then learning what Virgil had done, fell into bitter hatred, and swore that she would be revenged on him.
So one evening she invited the Emperor and many nobles, among them Virgil, to a splendid supper.
And being petty and spiteful by nature, the Princess had devised a mean trick to annoy Virgil. For she had prepared with great craft a chair, the seat of which was of paper, but which seemed to be of solid wood. It appeared to be a handsome seat of great honour.
But when the great man sat on it, there was a great crash, and he went down, indeed, but with his legs high in the air. So there was a peal of laughter, in which he joined so heartily and said so many droll things over it, that one would have thought he had contrived the jest himself, at which the lady was more angry than ever, since she had hoped to see him angry and ashamed. And Virgil, taking all the blame of the accident on himself, promised to send her in return a chair to pay for it. And he requested leave to take the proper measure for it, so that she might be fitly taken in.
Which she was. For, having returned to his home, Virgil went to work and had a splendid chair made—con molto artifizio. With great art he made it, with much gold inlaid with pearls, studded with gems. It was all artificial. [72]
And having finished it, Virgil begged the Emperor to send it to the Princess as a gift.
The Emperor did so at the proper time, but there was in it a more cunning trick than in the one which she had devised. For there were concealed therein several fine nets, or snares, so that whoever sat in it could not rise.
Then the Princess, overjoyed at this magnificent gift, at once sent an invitation to her friends to come to a supper where she could display it; nor did she suspect any trick, having no idea that she had any enemy.
And all came to pass as Virgil planned. For the lady, having seated herself in great state, found herself caught, and could not rise.
Then there was great laughter, and it was proposed that everyone present should kiss her. And as one beginning leads to strange ending, the end thereof was that they treated her senza vergogna, saying that when a bird is once caught in a snare, everybody who pleases may pluck a feather.
The classical scholar will find in this tale a probable reminiscence of the chair made by Vulcan wherein to entrap Juno, in which he succeeded, so that she was made to appear ridiculous to all the gods. It is worth noting in this connection that such chairs are made even to the present day, and that without invisible nets or any magic. One is mentioned in a book entitled “The Life of Dr. Jennings the Poisoner” (Philadelphia, T. B. Peterson, Bros.). If any person sat in it, he or she fell back, and certain clasps closed over the victim, holding him or her down perfectly helpless, rendering robbery or violence easy. Since writing the foregoing, I have in a recent French novel read a description of such a chair, with the additional information that such seats were originally invented for and used by physicians to confine lunatic patients. A friend of mine told me that he had seen one in a house of ill-fame in New York.
The legend of the Lady and the Chair suggests a very curious subject of investigation. It is very probably known to the reader that, to make a mesmerized or hypnotized subject remain seated, whether he or she will or not, is one of the common experiments of the modern magicians. It is thus described by M. Debay in his work “Les Mystères du Sommeil et Magnetisme.”
The operator asks the subject, “Are you asleep?”
“No.”
“Rise from your chair.” (He rises.) “Tell all present that you are not asleep.”
“No. I am wide awake.”
The operator takes the subject by the hand, leads him to different persons present with whom he is acquainted, and asks him if he knows them. He replies:
“Certainly I know them.”
“Name them.”
He does so.
“All right. Now sit down.” (The subject obeys.) “And now I forbid you to rise. It is for you impossible—you cannot move!”
The subject makes ineffectual efforts to rise, but remains attached to the chair as if held fast by an invisible power.
The operator then says:
“Now you may rise. I permit you to do so. Rise—I order it!”
The subject rises from the chair without an effort.
I have frequently had occasion to observe that, in all of these legends which I have received from witches, the story, unlike the common fairy tale or novella of any kind, is only, as it were, a painted casket in which is enclosed the jewel of some secret in sorcery, generally with an incantation. Was not this the case with many of the old myths? Do they not all, in fact, really set forth, so far as their makers understood them, the mysteries of Nature, and possibly in some cases those of the wonder-works or miracles of the priests and magicians? There was a German—I forget his name—who wrote a book to prove that Jupiter, Juno, and all the rest, were the elements as known to us now, and all the wonders told of all the gods, with the “Metamorphoses” of Ovid, only a marvellous poetic allegory of chemical combinations and changes. That hypnotism was known to Egyptians of old is perfectly established—at least to his own satisfaction—by Louis Figuier in his “Histoire du Merveilleux dans les Temps Modernes,” Paris, 1861; and it is extremely possible. Therefore it may be that Juno in the chair is but the prototype of a Mademoiselle Adèle, or Angelique Cottin, or Marie Raynard, or some other of the “little Foxes,” who, by the way, are alluded to in the Old Testament.
“Images, though made by men, are the bodies of gods, rendered perceptible to the sight and touch. In the images are certain spirits brought by invitation, after which they have the power of doing whatever they please; either to hurt, or to a certain extent to fulfil the desires of those persons by whom divine honours and duteous worship are rendered unto them. . . . Do you not see, O Asclepias, that statues are animated by sense, and actually capable of doing such actions?”—Hermes Trismegistus, ap. Augustine, C. D., viii. 23.
“And there withall Diana gan appere
With bowe in hand, right as an hunteresse,
And saydé, ‘Daughter—stint thin heavinesse. . . .’
And forth she went and made a vanishing.”Chaucer: The Knighte’s Tale.
There was in the oldest times in Florence a noble family, but one so impoverished that their giorni di festa, or feast-days, were few and far between. However, they dwelt in their old palace, which was in the street now called the Via Citadella, which was a fine old building, and so they lived in style before the world, when many a day they hardly had anything to eat.
Round this palace was a large garden in which stood an ancient marble statue of a beautiful woman, running very rapidly, with a dog by her side. She held in her hand a bow, and on her forehead was a small moon; it seemed as if, instead of being in a garden, she was in a forest hunting wild game. And it was said that by night, when all was still and no one present, and the moon shone, the statue became like life, and very beautiful, and then she fled away and did not return till the moon set, or the sun rose.
The father of the family had two children, a boy and a girl, of nine or ten years of age, and they were as good as they were intelligent, and like most clever children, very fond of curious stories.
One day they came home with a large bunch of flowers which had been given to them. And while playing in the garden the little girl said:
“The beautiful lady with the bow ought to have her share of the flowers.”
“Certainly,” answered her brother, “because I believe that she is as good as she is beautiful.”
Saying this, they laid flowers before the statue, and made a wreath, which the boy placed on her head.
Just then the great poet and magician Virgil, who knew everything about the gods and folletti, whom people used to worship, entered the garden, and said, smiling:
“You have made the offering of flowers to the goddess quite correctly, as they did in old times; all that remains is to make the prayer properly, and it is this. Listen, and learn it.” So he sang:
“Bella dea dell arco!
Bella dea delle freccie!
Delia caccia e dei cani!
Tu vegli colle stelle
Quando il sole va dormir,
Tu colla Luna in fronte,
Cacci la notte meglio del di
Colle tue Ninfe al suono
Di trombe—sei la regina
Dei cacciatori,
Regina della notte!
Tu che siei la cacciatrice
Più potente di ogni
Cacciator—ti prego
Pensa un poco a noi!”“Lovely Goddess of the bow!
Lovely Goddess of the arrows!
Of all hounds and of all hunting;
Thou who wakest in starry heaven
When the sun has gone to sleep;
Thou with moon upon thy forehead
Who the chase by night preferrest
Unto hunting by the day,
With thy nymphs unto the sound
Of the horn—thou Queen of Hunters!
Queen of night, thyself the huntress,
And most powerful, I pray thee,
Think, although but for an instant,
Upon us who pray unto thee!”
Then Virgil taught them the Scongiurazione, or spell to the goddess Diana:
“Bella dea dell’ arco del cielo,
Delle stelle e della Luna.
La regina più potente
Dei cacciatori e della notte;
A te riccoriamo,
E chiedamo il tuo aiuto
Che tu possa darci
Sempre la buona fortuna!”“Fair goddess of the rainbow!
Of the stars and of the moon!
The queen all-powerful
Of hunters and the night,
We beg of thee thy aid
To give good fortune to us!”
Then he added the conclusion:
“Se la nostra scongiurazione,
Ascolterai,
E buona fortuna ci darei,
Un segnale a noi lo darei!”
“If thou heedest our evocation,
And wilt give good fortune to us,
Then give us in proof a token.”
And having taught them this, Virgilio departed.
Then the children ran to tell their parents all that had happened, and the latter impressed it on them to keep it all a secret, nor breathe a word or hint of it to anyone. But what was their amazement, when they found early the next morning before the statue a deer freshly killed, which gave them good dinners for many a day—nor did they want thereafter at any time game of all kinds.
There was a neighbour of theirs, a priest, who held in hate all the idolatry of the olden time, and all which did not belong to his religion, [77] and he, passing the garden one day, beheld the statue crowned with roses and (other) flowers. And in a rage, seeing in the street a decaying cabbage, he rolled it in the mud, and threw it, all dripping, at the face of the statue, saying:
“Ecco male bestia d’idolo, questo e l’omaggio che io ti do, gia che il diavolo ti aiuta!”—(Behold, thou vile beast of an idol, this is the homage which I render thee, and may the devil help thee!)
Then the priest heard a voice in the gloom where the trees were thick, which said:
All that night the priest suffered from horrible fancies and fears, and when at last, just before three, he fell asleep, he soon awoke from a nightmare, in which it seemed as if something heavy rested on his chest. And something indeed fell from him and rolled on the ground. And when he rose and picked it up, and looked at it by the light of the moon, he saw that it was a human head, half decayed. [78a]
Another priest who, hearing the cry which he had uttered, entered his room, said:
“I know that head. It is of a man whom I confessed, and who was beheaded three months ago at Siena.”
And three days after this the priest who had insulted the goddess died.