As a mere story this legend were as well left out, but it is one of a hundred as regards curious relics of mythologic and other lore. Firstly, be it observed that a secret doctrine, or esoteric as opposed to exoteric teaching, was taught in all the mysteries of the gods. Diana, who is identical with Vesta, Avesta, or Hestia, as a goddess of light by night and also of chastity, had her lovers in secret. What further identifies the two is that in this tale girls who have got into trouble through love, pray to Vesta, even as Roman maids did under similar circumstances specially to Diana.
There is no historical proof whatever that the Baptistery was ever a temple of Vesta, but there is very remarkable circumstantial evidence to that effect which I have indicated in detail in an article in the Architectural Review. Both Vesta and Saint John were each in her or his religion the special deities or incarnations of Light or Fire, and Purity or Chastity. The temples of Vesta were like those of Mars, and Mars alone, either round, hexagonal, or square, to indicate the form attributed with variations to the world. The early tradition of all writers on Florence speaks of the Baptistery of Saint John as having been a temple of Mars, which legend the priests naturally endeavoured to deny, thinking it more devout and “genteel” to attribute its erection to a Christian Empress.
The binding and rendering impotent by means of a padlock, and forty other devices, to render married folk miserable, or lovers languid, was so common two centuries ago, that there is almost a literature, occult, theological, and legal, on the subject. The Rabbis say it was invented by Ham, the son of Noah. The superstition was generally spread in Greece and Rome. It is still very commonly believed in and practised by witches all over Europe, and especially by gipsies and the Italian strege.
What is above all to be remarked in this tale is that it recognises a double nature in Vesta—one as a chaste goddess of fire, the other of a voluptuous or generative deity, signified by extinguishing the lights. And this is precisely what the oldest writers declared, though it was quite forgotten in later times. As Natalis Comes declares, “There were two Vestas, one by the first wife of Saturn, another by the younger one, meaning the earth, the other fire,” as Ovid witnesses, “Fastorum,” lib. 6. In fact, there was a double or second to every one of the Greek or Etruscan gods. And this belief which was forgotten by the higher classes remained among the people. And it may be specially noted that the second Vesta was called the mother of the gods, as Strabo declares, and she was in fact the Venus of the primitive or Saturnian mythology.
“Virgille plus fu sapïens
Plus clerc, plus sage et plus scïens.
Que nul a son temps vesquist,
Et plus de grans merveilles fist
Pour voir il fist de grans merveilles;
Homs naturels ne fist pareilles.”Renars Contrefais, A.D. 1319.
In the old times, when things were so different from what they are now—the blue bluer, the red redder, when the grains of maize were as big as grapes, and grapes as big as pomegranates, and pomegranates as big as melons, and the Arno was always full of water, and the water so full of fine large fish that everybody had as many as he wanted for nothing, and the sun and moon gave twice as much light—there was, not far from Via Reggio, a castle, and the signore who owned it was a great bandit, who robbed all the country round, as all the gentlemen did in those times when they could, for it is true that with all the blessings of those days they had some curses!
One day there passed by a poor fisherman with an ass, and on it was a very large, wonderfully fine fish, a tunny, which was a load for the beast, and which was intended for the good monks of an abbey hard by, to whom the man hoped to sell it, partly for money and partly for blessings. When lo! he was met by Il Bandito, as the signore was called, and, as you may suppose, the gentleman was not slow to seize the prey, which fell as it were like a roasted lark from heaven into his mouth. And to mock the poor fellow, the signore gave him a small bottle of wine to repay him.
Then the fisherman in his despair cursed the Bandito to his face, saying:
“May God forget and the devil remember thee, and as thou hast mocked my poverty, mayest thou pass centuries in worse suffering than ever was known to the poorest man on earth.
“Thou shalt live in groans and lamentations, thou accursed of God and despised by the devil; thou shalt never have peace by day or night!
“Thou shalt be in utter wretchedness till thou shalt see someone eat this fish.
“‘In pietra cambiato
E in pietra sarai confinata.’”“Thyself a stone, as thou shalt find,
And in a stone thou’lt be confined,
And the fish likewise a stone shall be
Till someone shall eat it and set thee free!”
And as the poor man prophesied, it came to pass: the fish was changed into a stone, and the signore into a statue. And the latter stood in a corner of the dining-hall, and every day the fish was placed at dinner on the table, but no one could eat it.
So three hundred years passed away, and the lord who had inherited the castle had a beautiful daughter, who was beloved by a young signore named Luigi, who was in every way deserving of her, but whom the father disliked on account of his family. So when he asked the father for her hand, the latter replied that he might have it when he should have eaten the stone fish, and not till then. So the young man went away in grief.
One day, when this young gentleman was returning from the chase bearing two fine hares, he met Virgilio, who asked him to sell him one. Whereupon the young man replied: “Oh, take your pick of them, and welcome; but say nothing about payment. Perhaps some day you may do as much for me.”
“Perhaps,” replied Virgilio, “that day may be nearer than you think. I never make my creditors wait, nor let my debts run into arrears. What is there on earth which you most desire?”
“Truly it is something, signore, which I trow that neither you nor any man can render possible, for it is to eat the stone fish in the castle up there.”
“I think that it can be managed,” replied Virgil, with a smile. “Take this silver box full of salt, and when the fish is before you, sprinkle the salt on it, and it will grow tender and taste well, and you can eat it. But first say unto it:
Then Luigi went to the castle, and was with much laughter placed before the fish, and the signore asked him if he would have a hammer to carve it with.
“Nay, I will eat it after my own fashion,” he replied. “I do but beg permission to use my own salt, and say my own grace.”
Then he sprinkled the salt and murmured the incantation, when the fish became soft and savoury, as if well cooked, and Luigi ate of it, till the signore of the castle was satisfied, and admitted that he had fulfilled the conditions—when lo! the fish became whole as before, and a stone again.
Then an old statue which was in the hall, in a corner of the wall, spoke and said:
“Now I am at peace, since the fish has been eaten.
“‘Dacche il pesce ha stato mangiato,
Io non sono più confinato.’”
And saying this, there went forth from the image a spirit-form, which vanished.
Then Luigi wedded the young lady of the castle, and Virgilio, who was present, promised the pair a happy life. And he said:
“Thou wilt be, O Luigi, the beginner of a family or race which, like the Holy Church, will have been founded on a stone, and while the Church lasts thy name shall endure.”
The concluding paragraph refers to pietra, a stone, and to the text, well known to the most ignorant Catholic, “Petrus es et super hanc petram edificabo ecclesiam meam,” whence it has been said that the Roman Church was founded on a pun, to which the reply might be, “And what if it was?” since there was no suspicion in early times that the pun, as a poetical form, might not be seriously employed in illustration. Dr. Johnson made the silly assertion that a pun upon a proper name is the lowest kind of wit, in which saying there is—as in many of his axioms—more sound than sense; nor is it altogether reverent or respectful, when we reflect that both Christ and Cicero used the despised figure of speech. In one of the tales in this collection the Emperor of Rome speaks of a wheat-bran (tisane) which had been ordered as “pigs’ broth,” which was exactly the term by which Cicero alluded to the Verrine law, which also bears that meaning. As his adversary was a Jew, and the query was, “What has a Hebrew to do with pig-broth, or pork-soup?”—i.e., the law of Verres—the joke, with all due deference to the law-giver Samuel, may be fairly called a very good one. [106]
“The horse of brass.”—Milton.
“But evermore their moste wonder was
About this horsé, since it was of brass.
It was of faerie as the peple seemed,
Diversè folk diversely han deemed.”Chaucer: The Squiere’s Tale.
One day Virgilio went to visit the Emperor, and not finding him in his usual good temper, asked what was the matter, adding that he hoped it would be in his power to do something to relieve him.
Then the Emperor complained that what troubled him was that all his horses seemed to be ill or bewitched, behaving like wild beasts, or as if evil spirits were in them, and that which grieved him most was that his favourite white horse was most afflicted of all.
“Do not vex yourself for such a thing,” replied Virgil. “I will cure your horses and all the others in the city.”
Then he caused to be made a beautiful horse of bronze, and it was so well made that no one, unless by the will of Virgil (senza il volere di Virgilio), could have made the like. And whenever a horse which suffered in any way beheld it, the animal was at once cured.
All the smiths and horse-doctors in Rome were greatly angered at this, because after Virgil made the bronze horse they had nothing to do. So they planned to revenge themselves on him. And they all assembled in a vile place frequented by thieves and assassins, and there agreed to kill Virgil. Going to his house by night, they sought for him, but he escaped; so they, finding the bronze horse, broke it to pieces, and then fled.
When Virgil returned and found the horse in fragments he was greatly grieved, and said:
“The smiths have done this. However, I will yet do some good with the metal, for I will make from it a bell; and when the smiths hear it ring, I will give them a peal to remember me by.”
So the bell was made and given to the Church of San Martino. And the first time it was tolled it sang:
“Io ero un cavallo di bronzo.
Dai nemici son’ stato spezzato.
Ma un amico che mi ama,
In campana, mi ha cambiato
E la prima volta che faro
Dindo, dindo! dichiarero
Chi e becco a caprone.”“I was a horse of bronze, and tall.
My enemies broke me to pieces small.
But a friend who loves me well
Had me made into a bell.
Now here on high I proudly ring,
And as I dindo! dindo sing,
I tell aloud, as I toll and wave,
Who is a wittol and a knave.”
And all the smiths who had broken the horse when they heard the bell became as deaf as posts. Then great remorse came over them and shame, and they threw themselves down on the ground before Virgil and begged his pardon.
Virgil replied:
“I pardon you; but for a penance you must have six other bells made to add to this, to make a peal, and put them all in the same church.”
This they did, and then regained their hearing.
This same story is told of Virgil in Comparetti’s collection; but the present tale in the original has about it a smack or tone of the people which is wanting in the older version. Thus, the song of the bell is a peculiarly quaint conception, and probably an adaptation of some popular jest to the effect that bells proclaim the name and shame of certain persons. I have found that, with rare exception, the legends which I have given, as preserved by a class to whom tradition has a special value, are more complete in every respect than the variants drawn from other sources.
“Ima subit, resilit. Ventosi prælia vento,
Exagitant juvenes: pellunt dextra atque repellunt,
Corruit ille iterùm; levisque aere truditur aer;
Ictibus impatiens obmurmurat; altaque rursus
Nubila metitur cursu; si forte globosa
Excipiant miserata globum patiturque repulsam.”P. Car. de Luca, 1. 19, Ex. J. B. Gandutio: Harpastum Florentinum; or, On the Florentine Game of Ball (1603).
“Jamque calent lusorum animi; color ardet in ore
In vultu sanguis rubet, omnesque occupat artus;
Præcipites hinc, inde ruunt, cursuque sequaci
Atque oculis sphæræ volucri vigilantibus justant.”Pilæ Ludus: The Game of Ball. Auctor Incertus. XVIth Century.
“Now the playing at ball is allowed to Christians, because, like chess, draughts, billiards, bowls, trucca, and the like, it is a game of skill and not of chance, which latter makes illicit the most innocent play.”—Trattato di Giochi, etc., Rome, 1708.
There was once upon a time a grand signore in Florence who had a clever servant, a young man, who, whether he had a fairy god-mother or a witch grandmother is not told; but it is certain that he had such luck at playing ball as to always win and never lose. And his master so arranged it with him as to bet and win immense sums.
One day Virgilio, being present at a match in which this young man played, observed that there sat upon his ball a tiny invisible goblin, who directed its course as he pleased.
“Beautiful indeed is thy play,” said Virgilio to the youth, “and thy ball—ha tutta la finezza dell’ arte—hath all the refinement of its art; but ’tis a pity that it is not an honest ball.”
“Thou art mistaken,” replied the young man; but he reddened as he spoke.
“Ah, well,” answered Virgil, “I will show thee anon whether I have made a mistake or told the truth. A carne di lupo dente di cane—A dog’s teeth to a wolf’s hide. My young friend and his old master need a bite or two to cure them of their evil ways.”
There was in Florence the next day a great fair, or festa, and Virgil, passing where young people were diverting themselves, saw a very beautiful, bold-faced girl, who looked like a gipsy, or as if she belonged to some show, playing ball. Then Virgil, calling a goblin not bigger than a babe’s finger, [109] bade it go and sit on the girl’s ball, and inhabit and inspire it to win. It did so, and the girl won every time. Then Virgilio said to her:
“Come with me, and I will show you how to win one hundred crowns. There is a young man who carries all before him at playing; thou must drive him before thee; e render la pariglia—pay him back in his own money. Then shalt thou have one hundred crowns.”
So they went together to the castle, and Virgilio said to the old signore:
“I have found a young girl who plays ball so well, that I am anxious to try her game against that of your young man.”
“What will you bet on her?” asked the old signore.
“A thousand crowns,” replied Virgilio.
“Done!” was the response.
But when they met on the ground the youth and the girl fell in love at first sight to the last degree, and not being much troubled with modesty, told one another so—schiettamente e senza preamboli—plainly, without prelude, preamble, or preface, as is the way and wont of professionals or show-people, wherein they showed their common sense of the value of time, which is to them as money.
Then they began to play, and it was in the old fashion, with two balls at once, each player tossing one to the other with the drum. [110a] And it came to pass that in the instant that the two goblins beheld one another from afar they also fell in love. And as fairies and folletti do everything, when they will, a thousand times more rapidly than human beings, and as neither could or would conquer in the game, they both cried:
“Let us be for ever united in love.”
So the two balls met with a bump half-way in their course and fell to the ground as one, while the fays embraced; and at the same instant the youth and the girl, unable to suppress their feelings, rushed into one another’s arms and began to kiss, and Virgilio and the old signore roared with laughter, the latter having a second attack of merriment when Virgilio explained to him the entire trick and plot.
Then, as it was a drawn game, the thousand crowns were by common consent bestowed on the young couple, who were married to their hearts’ content, having one festa after another, at which all the guests went from bottle to bottle, even as the ass of a dealer in pottery goeth from door to door, or as the pig of Saint Antonio went from house to house. Amen!
Singularly enough, though this story comes from a witch source, there is in it no incantation addressed to a ball to make it always win for its owner; and, oddly enough, I recall one for that purpose, taken from an American burlesque of “Der Freyschütz,” [110b] in which the demon-hunter calls on Zamiel the fiend to give him a magic ninepin or skittle-ball.
“Sammy-hell, a boon I beg!
By thy well and wooden leg!
We ask for that ’ere bowling ball
Wot’ll knock down one and all.
Give us all the queer ingredients,
And we’ll remain your most obedients!”
The idea of enchanted dice which always throw sixes and the like, forms the subject of stories possibly wherever dice are thrown or cards played, inasmuch as all gamblers who live or lose by chance are naturally led to believe that fortune can be invoked or propitiated. Hence the majority of them carry charms, fetishes, or amulets.
“Braire comme des Asnes en plain marché.”
Cf. Leroux de Luicy: Facetieux Réveille-matin, pp. 103, 171. XVII. Siècle.
“Ha, Sire Ane, ohé!
Belle bouche, rechignez!
Vous aurez du foin assez
Et de l’avoine à-plantez!”Chanson, XII. Siècle.
There were once assembled at the table of the Emperor many friends of Virgilio, who praised him highly. But there was also one who abused him bitterly, and called him an ass; and the word went forth to all the city, and much was said of it, and there was a great scandal over it.
When Virgil heard of it he smiled, and said that he thought he would ere long be even with the gentleman who had jackassed him; and those who knew him were of the same opinion, for certainly the means of retaliation were not wanting to him.
Now, the Emperor had given to Virgilio an ass to ride, and the poet said to his patron that, if he would order that the animal might go or come wherever he pleased, he would show him some time a merry jest. To which the Emperor right willingly assented.
So one day there were many lords seated at the imperial table, and among them were Virgilio and his enemy. But what was the amazement of all save the magician when the servants, flying in, said that the ass of the Signore Virgilio had entered the door, and insisted on coming into the banqueting-hall.
“Admit him instantly,” said the Emperor.
The ass came in as politely as an ass could. He bowed down before the Emperor and kissed his hand.
“He has come to visit his dear brother,” remarked the enemy of Virgil.
“That is true,” replied the ass; and walking up to the gentleman, he stared him in the face, and said: “Good brother, good-day!”
The signore, bursting into a rage, tried to utter something, but only brayed—and such a bray, the King of the Asses himself could not have equalled it. There was a roar of laughter long and loud, revived again with each succeeding roar. At last, when there was silence, Virgil said:
“But tell me, Ciuchino, donkey mine, which of us three is the real ass? For thy brother there says that I am one, and thou callest him brother, and yet from thy appearance I should say that thou art truly ‘the one.’”
And the ass replied:
“Trust not to looks in this world, for in outward seeming there is great deceit. By their voice shall ye know them; by their song, which is the same in all lands. For many are the languages of mankind, but there is only one among asses, for we all bray and pray in the same tongue.”
“Truly,” replied Virgilio, “thou almost deservest to become a Christian, and I will help thee to it.” Saying this, he touched the donkey’s nose with his wand, and his face became as the face of the gentleman, on whom there now appeared a donkey’s head.
“Now we are indeed beginning to look more like ourselves,” quoth the ass.
“Aun-ky—aunky—aunky—ooooh!” brayed the gentleman.
“That, my lords,” explained the donkey, “when translated into volgare from our holy tongue, is my brother’s confession of faith, wherein he declares that he is the very Ass of Asses—the summa summarum, and the somaro dei somari.”
“That will do,” exclaimed Virgilio; and touching the ass and the signore, he restored to each his natural form and language. And the signore rushed out in a blind rage, but the ass went with proper dignity, first saluting the company, and then bowing low before the Emperor ere he departed.
“Per Bacco!” exclaimed the Emperor; “the ass, it seems to me, hath better manners and a finer intellect than his brother.”
“’Tis sometimes the case in this world, your Imperial Highness, that asses appear to advantage—even at court.”
“And they had fixed the wedding day,
The morning that must wed them both,
For Stephen to another maid
Had sworn another oath;
And with this other maid to church
Unthinking Stephen went—
Poor Martha, on that woeful day,
A pang of pitiless dismay
Into her soul was sent.”Wordsworth: Poems of the Imagination: The Thorn.
There was once in Florence a wealthy widow lady of noble family, who had a son who was all that a parent could have wished, had he not been somewhat reckless and dissipated, and selfish withal, which he showed by winning the love of girls and then leaving them; which thing became such a scandal that it caused great grief to the mother, who was a truly good woman. And so the youth, who was really a devoted son, seeing this, reformed his ways for a long time.
But as the proverb says, he who has once drunk at this fountain will ever remember the taste, and probably drink again. So it came to pass that in time the young gentleman fell again into temptation, and then began to tempt, albeit with greater care and caution—’tis so that all timid sinners go, resolving the next step shall be the last—till finally, under solemn promise of marriage, he led astray into the very forest of despair a very poor and friendless maid, who was, however, of exquisite beauty, and known as “the girl of golden locks,” from her hair. It might be that the young man might have kept his word, but at an evil time he was tempted by the charms of a young lady of great wealth and greater family, who met him more than half-way, giving him to understand that her hand was to be had for asking; whereupon he, who never lost a chance or left a fruit unplucked, asked at once and was accepted, the wedding-day being at once determined on.
Then the girl with the golden hair, finding herself abandoned, became well-nigh desperate. Ere long, too, she gave birth to a child, which was a boy. And it was some months after this, indeed, ere the wedding of the youth to the heiress was to take place, when one day, as the young unmarried mother was passing along the Arno, she met the great poet and sorcerer Virgil, who saw in her face the signs of such deep suffering, and of such a refined and noble nature, that he paused and asked her if she had any cause of affliction. So with little trouble he induced her to confide in him, saying that she had no hope, because her betrayer would soon be wedded to another.
“Perhaps not,” replied Virgil. “Many a tree destined to be felled has escaped the axe and lived till God blew it down. On the day appointed we three will all go to the wedding.”
And truly when the time came all Florence was much amazed to see the great Virgil going into the Church of Santa Maria with the beautiful girl with the golden hair and bearing her babe in his arms. So the building was speedily filled with people waiting eagerly to witness some strange sight.
And they were not disappointed. For when the bride in all her beauty and the bridegroom in all his glory came to the altar and paused, ere the priest spoke Virgil stepped forward, and presenting the girl with golden locks, said:
“This is she whom thou art to wed, having sworn to make her thy wife, and this is thy child.”
Then the infant, who had never before in his life uttered a word, exclaimed, in loud, sweet tones:
“Thou’rt my father, I’m thy son;
Other father I have none.”
Then there was a great scene, the bride being as one mad, and all the people crying, “Evviva, Virgilio! If the Signore Cosino [114] does not wed the girl with golden hair, he shall not escape us!” Which he did indeed, and that not so unwillingly, for the sight of the girl and the authority of Virgil, the cries of the people, his own conscience, and the marvellous occurrence of the babe’s speaking, all reconciled him to it.
So the wedding was carried out forthwith, and every soul in Florence who could make music went with his instrument that night and serenaded the newly-married pair.
And the mother was not a little astonished when she saw her son, who had gone forth with one bride, return with another. However, she was soon persuaded by Virgil that it was all for the best, and found in time that she had a perfect daughter-in-law.
I had rejected this story as not worth translating, since it presents so few traditional features, when it occurred to me that it indeed very clearly and rather curiously sets forth Virgil as a benevolent man and a sympathizer with suffering without regard to rank or class. This Christian kindness was associated with his name all through the Middle Ages in literature, and it is wonderful how the form of it has been preserved unto these our times among the people.
There is a tale told by one Surius, “In Vita S. Anselmi,” cited by Kornmann in his work “De Miraculis Vivorum” in 1614, which bears on this which I have told. A certain dame in Rome not only had a child, ex incestu, but magnified her sin by swearing the child on the Pope, Sergius. The question being referred to Saint Anselm, he asked the babe, which had never spoken, whether his papa was the Pope. To which the infant answered, “Certainly not,” adding that Sergius “nihil cum Venere commercium habere”—Anselmus, as is evident, being resolved to make a clean sweep of the whole affair and whitewash the Holy Father to the utmost while he was about it. Salverté would, like a sinner, have said that Anselm was perhaps a ventriloquist—es kann sein!
But let us not discuss it, and pass on, just mentioning that since I wrote the above I found another legend of an Abbot Daniel, of whom Gregory of Tours and Sophronius relate that he, having prayed that a certain lady might become a mother, and the request being complied with, some of Daniel’s enemies suggested that other means as well as prayer, and much more efficacious, had been resorted to by the saint to obtain the desired result. But Daniel, inquiring of the babe when it was twenty-five days of age, was, coram omnibus, fully acquitted, the bambino pointing to his true father, and saying, with a nod, “Verbis et mitibus”—That’s the man! And the same happened to a Bishop Britius. But Saint Augustine beats the record by declaring that, “It hath sometimes happened that infants as yet unborn have cried out ex utero matris—which is indeed a marvellous thing!” (“De Civitate Dei,” III., c. 31).
And yet it seems to me that Justinus, Procopius, and several others, have done as well, if not better; for it is related by them that a number of orthodox believers who had their tongues cut out by Socinians, or Unitarians (whom the zealous Dean Hole declares are all so many little ungodly antichrists, or words to that effect), went on praying and preaching more volubly than ever. The same is told by Evagrius of some pious women, but I do not offer this as a miracle, there being in it nothing improbable or remarkable.
That the Arians, or Unitarians, or Socinians have set tongues to wagging—especially the tongues of flame which play round the pyres of martyrdom—is matter of history—and breviary. But that they have been the cause of making dead and tongueless Trinitarians talk, seems doubtful. However, as the Canadian said of the ox: “There is no knowing what the subtlest form of Antichrist may do.” Passons!
“Optuma tornæ
Forma bovis, cui turpe caput, cui plurima cervix,
Et crurum tenus a mento palearia pendent;
Tum longo nullus lateri modus; omnia magna,
Pes etiam, et camuris hirtæ sub cornibus aures.
Nec mihi displiceat maculis insignis, et albo,
Aut juga detrectans, interdumque aspera cornu,
Et faciem taurs propior, quæque ardua tota,
Et gradiens ima verrit vestigia cauda.”Virgilius: Georgics, lib. iii.
“Annescis, pinguem carnibus esse bovem?”
Epigrams by Fried. Hofmann (1633).
“Pallium non facit philosophum nec
Cucullus monachum—”“Dress if you will
A knave in silk, he will be shabby still.”
This legend, with several others, was gathered in or near Arezzo.
In the old times people suffered in many things far more than they now do, firstly from the signori, who treated them worse than brutes, and as if this were not enough, they were tormented by witches and wizards and wicked people who went to the devil or his angels to revenge them on their enemies. However, there were good and wise men who had the power to conquer these evil ones, and who did all they could to untie their knots and turn back their spells and curses on themselves, and the greatest of these was named Virgilio, who passed all his life in doing good.
Now, it is an old custom in Arezzo that when men take cattle to a fair, be it oxen or cows or calves, the animals are tricked out or ornamented as much as possible, and there is great competition as to this among the peasants, for it is a great triumph for a contadino when all the people say that his beasts made the finest show of any in the place; so that it is said a man of Arezzo will spend more to bedeck his cattle for a fair than he will to dress his daughters for a dance.
Now, there was a very worthy, honest man named Gianni, who was the head or manager under the proprietor of a very fine estate near Arezzo, and one day he went to the fair to buy a yoke of oxen. And what he cared for was to get the best, for his master was rich and generous, and did not much heed the price so that he really got his money’s worth.
But good as Gianni was, he had to suffer the affliction which none can escape of being envied and hated. For wicked and spiteful souls find something to hate in people who have not done them any wrong, and whom they have not the least motive to harm—nessunissimo motive.
So the good Gianni found at the fair a pair of oxen which, so far as ornament was concerned, were a sight to behold. For they were covered with nets, and adorned with many bands of red woollen stuff all embroidered with gold, and bearing in gold the name of their owner, having many cords and tassels and scarfs of all colours on their heads. And these cords were elaborately braided, while there hung a mirror on the forehead of each animal, so that the elegance of their decoration was the admiration of all who were at the fair.
Then Gianni, seeing the oxen, drew near, but before making an offer, complimented the owner on their beautiful appearance. And this done, he said:
“All very fine, but in doing business for my patron I set aside all personal friendship. Your cattle are finely dressed up, but how are the beasts themselves? That is all that I care to know, and I don’t wish to have them turn out as it happened to a man who married a wife because he admired her clothes, and found, when she was undressed, that she was a mere scrap, and looked like a dried cod-fish.”
So they talked till the dealer took off the coverings, when Gianni found, in fact, that the oxen had many faults.
“I am sorry to say, my friend,” quoth Gianni, “that I cannot buy them. I have done you more than one good turn before now, as you well know, but business is business, and I am buying for my master, so good-day.”
Then the owner was in a great rage, and grated his teeth, and swore revenge, for there were many round about who laughed at him, and he resolved to do evil to Gianni, who, however, thought no more of it, but went about the fair till he found a pair of excellent oxen which were the best for sale, and drove them home.
But as soon as they were in the stable they fell on the ground (dead). Gianni was in despair, but the master, who had seen the cattle and found them fine and in good condition when they arrived, did not blame him.
So the next day Gianni went to another fair, and bought another yoke of oxen. But when in the evening they were in the stable, they fell dead at once, as the others had done. Still the master had such faith in him, that although he was greatly vexed at the loss, he bade the man go once more to a fair and try his luck. So he went, and indeed returned with a magnificent pair, which were carefully examined; but there was the same result, for they also fell dead as soon as they were stabled.
Then the master resolved to go and buy cattle for himself, and did so. But there was the same result: these fell dead like the others. And the master, in despair and rage, said to Gianni:
“Here I give thee some money, and now begone, for I believe that thou bringest evil to me. I have lost four yoke of oxen, and will lose no more.”
So Gianni went forth with his wife and children, in great suffering. And the master took in his place Dorione. This was the very man who had owned the oxen which Gianni would not buy, and he was one who was versed in all the sorcery of cattle, as such people in the mountains always are, and by his witchcraft he had brought all this to pass.
But under his care all the cattle flourished wonderfully, and the master was much pleased with him. But Gianni was in extreme misery, and could see nothing but beggary before him, because it was reported everywhere that he brought bad luck, and he could get no employment.
One day, when matters were at their worst with him and there was not even a piece of bread in his poor home, he met on the road a troop of cavaliers, at the head of whom were two magnificently clad gentlemen, and these were the Emperor and Virgil.
The poor peasant had stepped aside to admire the procession as it passed, when all at once Virgil looked with a piercing glance at Gianni, and cried:
“Man, what aileth thee that thou seemest so wretched? For I read in thy face that thou sufferest unjustly, well-nigh to death.”
Then Gianni told his story, and Virgil answered:
“For all of this there is a remedy. Now, come with me to the house of thy late master, where there is work to be done.”
“But they will drive me out headlong,” replied Gianni; “I dare not go. And if I do not return to my family, who are all ill or starving to death, they will think that some disaster has befallen me.”
“For that too there is also a remedy,” said Virgil, with a smile. “Have no care. Now to thy master!”
“Why didst thou send away this honest man?” asked Virgil of the padrone.
To which the master replied by telling all about the oxen. “Therefore, because he brought ruin into my house did I dismiss him.”
“Well,” replied Virgil, “this time thou didst get rid of an honest man and keep the knave. Now let us go and see to thy dead oxen.”
So they went apace to the spot where the dead oxen had all been thrown, where the whole eight lay unchanged, for decay had not come upon them, they were as sound as ever.
Then Virgil exclaimed, as he waved his wand:
“If ye are charmed, retake your breath!
If you’re bewitched, then wake from death!
Speak with a voice, and tell us why,
And who it was that made ye die!”
Then all the oxen came to life, and sang in chorus with human voices:
“Dorione slew us for revenge,
Because Gianni would not buy his oxen,
Truly they were greatly ornamented,
Yet withal were wretched, sorry cattle.
So he swore to be revenged upon him,
So he was revenged by witching us.”
“You have heard the whole truth,” said Virgil to the Emperor. “It is for you to condemn the culprit.”
“I condemn him to be at once put to death,” replied the Emperor. “Hast thou anything to add?”
“Yes,” said Virgil; “I condemn him to immediately become a goat after death.”
Then Dorione was burnt alive for an evil wizard, and he leapt from the flame in the form of a black goat and vanished.
Gianni returned in favour to his master, and all went well with him evermore.
The very singular or unusual name of Dorione intimates a classical origin, and it is true that one of the Danaides, the bride of Cerceste, was called thus; but on this hook hangs no analogy. Dordione was the Roman god of blackguardism pur et simple, unto whom people made obscene offerings—which, according to sundry reviewers, might suggest the Dorian of a certain novel of the ultra Greek-æsthetic school, which had many admirers in certain circles, both in America and England. But it is very remarkable that wherever it occurs, be it in pagan antiquity or modern times, the name has always had a certain evil smell about it, a something fish-like and ancient, but not venerable. It is true that I have already given a legend of another Dorione, who was a protégé of Virgil; but even this latter example was sadly given to “rapacious appropriation.” The Dorians were all a bad lot from a moral point of view, according to history.
It is remarkable that Dorione, who is a mountain shepherd or herdsman, is noted as a sorcerer. Owing to their solitary lives and knowledge of secrets in the medical treatment and management of cattle, this class in many countries (but especially in France and Italy) is regarded as consisting entirely of sorcerers. This is specially the case with smiths, farriers, and all who exercise the veterinary art.
It may also strike the reader as singular that Dorione in the tale should be moved to such deadly vengeance, simply because Gianni would not buy his cattle, and preferred others. This is a very common and marked characteristic of Italians. If you examine a man’s wares, talk about, and especially if you touch them, you will often be expected to buy as a matter of course. I have been seriously cautioned in a fair, by one who was to the manner born, against examining anything unless I bought it, or something. A few years ago, in Florence, a flower-girl asked an Englishman to buy of her ware, which he declined to do, and then changing his mind, bought a bouquet from another girl close by. Whereupon the first floriste stabbed and slew the second—to the great astonishment of the tourist!
There is an unconscious fitness and propriety in making the author of the “Georgics” so familiar with cattle that he is able to raise them from the dead. The chorus of oxen, accusing the evil-doer, is an idea or motive which also occurs in the story of Cain, as given in my “Legends of Florence.”
The black goat is, and ever was in Italy, specially accursed as a type of evil. Witches are rarely described as riding brooms—their steed is the goat. Evil spirits, or souls of men accursed, haunt bridges in this form. The perverse and mischievous spirit of the animal, as well as his appearance, is sufficient to explain this.
“Thus playing sweetly on the flageolet,
He charmed them all; and playing yet again,
Led them away, won by the magic sound.”De Pueris Hamleënsibus, 1400.
There is in the Toscana Romagna a place known as La Valle della Fame, or Valley of Hunger, in which dwelt a family of peasants, or three brothers and two sisters. The elder brother had married a wife who was good and beautiful, and she had given birth to a daughter, but died when the babe was only one year old. Then, according to the advice of the sisters and brothers, he married again, that he might have someone to take care of his child. The second wife was a pretty young woman, but after she had been wedded a year she gave birth to a daughter, who was very ugly indeed and evil; but the mother seemed to love her all the more for this, and began to hate the elder, who was as good and beautiful as an angel. And as her hatred grew she beat and abused the poor little girl all day long.
One morning the latter went into the woods to hide herself from her stepmother till it should be evening, when she could return home and be safe with her father and aunts. And while sitting all alone beneath a tree, she heard a bird above her singing so sweetly that she felt enchanted. It was a marvellous sound, at times like the music of a flute played by a fairy, then like a human voice carolling in soft tones, and then like a horn echoing far away. The little girl said:
“Oh dear, sweet bird, I wish I could pipe and play like you!”
As she said this the bird fell from the tree, and when she picked it up she found that it was a zufolo, or shepherd’s flageolet, in the form of a bird. And when she blew on it, it gave forth such sweet sounds—suone belle da rimanere incantati—as would charm all who heard them. And as she practised, she found the art to play it seemed to come of itself, and every now and then she could hear a fairy voice in the sound speaking to her.
Now, this was a miracle which had been wrought by Virgil the magician, who did so many wonderful things in the olden time.
In the evening she returned home and played on the bird-pipe, and all were charmed except the stepmother, who alone heard in the music a voice which said:
“Though sweet thy smile, and smooth thy brow,
Evil and cold at heart art thou;
I never yet did harm to thee,
Yet thou hast beat me cruelly,
And given me curses fierce and wild
Because I’m fairer than thy child.
Unless thou lettest me alone
Henceforth, all ill shall be thine own,
With all the suffering I have known.”
But to the girl the pipe sang:
“Sing to thy father, gently say
That thou the morrow goest away,
And tell him thou hast borne too long
Great cruelty and cruel wrong;
For truly he was much to blame
That he so long allowed the same;
But now the evil spell is broken,
The time has come, the word is spoken!”
Then her father would fain have kept her, but the spell was on her, and she went out into the wide world playing on her pipe. And when she was in the woods, the birds and wild beasts came and listened to her and did as she bade; and when she was in towns, the people gathered round and were charmed to hear her play, and gave her money and often jewels, and no one dared to say an evil word to her, for a spell was on her, and a charm which kept away evil.
So years passed by, and she was blooming into maidenhood, when one day a young lord, passing with his mother, who was a woman as noble of soul and good as her son, paused to hear the girl play on her pipe and sing, for they thought the marvellous song of the zufolo was her voice.
Then the lady asked the girl if she would enter a monastery, where she would be educated and brought up to live in a noble family in return for her music. The girl replied that she had already a great deal of money and many jewels, but that she would be very glad to be better educated and advanced in life. So she entered the convent, where she was very happy, and the end thereof was that she became betrothed to the young signore, and great preparations were made for the wedding.
Now, the stepmother had but one idea in life, which was that her own daughter should make some great match, and for this purpose she was glad when the second went away, as she hoped, to become a mere vagabond, playing the flute for a living. But when she heard that the girl was very prosperous in a convent in Florence, and had not only been educated like a princess in the best society, but would ere long marry a nobleman, she became mad with rage; and going to a witch, she paid her a great sum to prepare a powder which, if strewed in the path of the bride, would cause her prompt and agonizing pain, and after a time death in the most dreadful suffering. And this was to be laid in the way of the wedding procession. But on that morning the pipe sang:
“Where’er on earth the wind doth blow,
All leaves and dust before it go.
Evil or good, they fly away
Before its breath, as if in play;
And so shall it for thee this day,
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
And death to the witch, for so it must
Ever happen as ’twas decreed,
For death is the pay for an evil deed!”
Now, the bridegroom and all friends had begged the bride to play the flute as she walked in the wedding procession, and she did so, and it seemed to her that it had never played so sweetly. The stepmother was looking on anxiously in the crowd, and when the bride was just coming to the powder in the way, the wicked woman cried:
“Play louder—louder!”
The bride, to oblige everyone, blew hard, and a wind came from the pipe which blew all the powder into the stepmother’s eyes and open mouth, and in an instant she gave a cry of agony, and then rolled on the ground, screaming:
“Il polvore! I have swallowed the powder!”
And the flute played:
“By thy mother I was slain;
A fairy gave me life again.
I was killed for jealousy,
And all as false as false could be.
Now thou art dead and I am free.”
And from that time the pipe played no more. But the young lady married the signore, and all went well with them.
And this was done by Virgil, who was ever benevolent.