Chapter I: Gatti DI San Lorenzo (2)

That which I have here given is truly a leaf-fringed legend, for it is bordered with the petals of roses and embalmed with their perfume, and one which in the hands of a great master might have been made into a really beautiful poem. It came near a very gay rhymer at least in the Duke Lorenzo de' Medici, whose songs, which were a little more than free, and rather more loose than easy, were the delight and disgrace of his time. And yet I cannot help rejoicing to meet this magnificent patron of art and letters at so late a day in a purely popular tale. There are _men_ of beauty who are also a joy for ever, as well as things, and Lorenzo was one of them.

It is worth noting that just as the fairy in this tale reveals to Lorenzo that Florence is threatened by enemies, just so it happened that unto Saint Zenobio, standing rapt in divine contemplation in his cavern, it was announced that the same city was about to be assailed by cruel barbarians, who, as Sigbert relates in his Chronicle of 407 A.D., were the two hundred thousand Goths led by Radagasio into Italy. But they were soon driven away by the Saint's prayers and penitence. It would be curious if one legend had here passed into another:

"So visions in a vision live again,
And dreams in dreams are wondrously transfused;
Gold turning into grey as clouds do change,
And shifting hues as they assume new forms."

Apropos of Saint Zenobio of Florence, I will here give something which should have been included with the legend of the Croce al Trebbio, but which I obtained too late for that purpose. It would appear from the _Iscrizioni e Memorie di Firenze_, by F. Bigazzi (1887), that the _pillar_ of the cross was really erected to commemorate a victory over heretics, but that the cross itself was added by the Saints Ambrosio and Zenobio, "on account of a great mystery"--which mystery is, I believe, fully explained by the legend which I have given. The inscription when complete was as follows:

SANCTUS AMBROSIUS CUM SANCTO ZENOBIO PROPTER GRANDE MISTERIUM
HUNC CRUCEM HIC LOCAVERUNT. ET IN MCCCXXXVIII NOVITER DIE
10 AUGUSTI RECONSECRATA EST P. D. M. FRANCISC. FLOR.
EPISCOPUM UNA CUM ALIIS EPISCOPIS M.

A slightly different reading is given by Brocchi (_Vite de' Santi fiorentini_, 1742).

"Of which saint, be it observed," writes Flaxius, "that there is in England a very large and widely extended family, or _stirps_, named Snobs, who may claim that by affinity of name to Zenobio they are lineally or collaterally his descendants, even as the Potts profess connection with Pozzo del Borgo. But as it is said of this family or _gens_ that they are famed for laying claim to every shadow of a shade of gentility, it may be that there is truly no Zenobility about them. Truly there are a great many more people in this world who are proud of their ancestors, than there ever were ancestors who would have been proud of them. The number of whom is as the sands of the sea, or as Heine says, 'more correctly speaking, as the mud on the shore.'

"'The which, more eath it were for mortall wight,
To sell the sands or count the starres on hye;
Or ought more hard, then thinke to reckon right . . .
Which--for my Muse herselfe now tyred has,
Unto another tale I'll overpas.'"

THE UNFORTUNATE PRIEST A LEGEND OF LA VIA DELLO SCHELETRO

"Fear and trembling Hope,
Silence and Foresight--Death the Skeleton,
And Time the Shadow."--WORDSWORTH.

"If God were half so cruel as His priests,
It would go hard, I ween, with all of us."

I have elsewhere remarked that there is--chiefly about the Duomo--a group of small streets bearing the dismal names of Death, Hell, Purgatory, Limbo, Crucifixion, Our Lady of Coughing (_delle Tosse_), The (last) Rest of Old Age, Gallows Lane (_Via della Forca_), The Tombs, The Way of the Discontented, {201} Dire Need, Small Rags, Fag-End or Stump, Bad Payers, and finally, the Via dello Scheletro, or Skeleton Street. To which there belongs, as is appropriate, a melancholy legend.

LA VIA DELLO SCHELETRO.

"There once dwelt in what is now called the Street of the Skeleton a priest attached to the Cathedral, who was in every respect all that a good man of his calling and a true Christian should be, as he was pious, kind-hearted, and charitable, passing his life in seeking out the poor and teaching their children, often bringing cases of need and suffering to the knowledge of wealthier friends--which thing, were it more frequently done by all, would do more to put an end to poverty than anything else.

"'But he who is in everything most human
May highest rise and yet the lowest fall;
And when a brave kind heart meets with _the_ woman,
Our greatest duties seem extremely small,
And those which were the first became the least:
Even so it happened to this gentle priest.

"'In the old dwelling where he had his home,
Which otherwise had been most drear and dull
At morn or eve did oft before him come
A girl as sweet as she was beautiful;
Full soon they learned that both in head and heart
Each was to each the very counterpart.

"'There is in every soul of finer grain
A soul which is in self a soul apart,
Which to itself doth oft deep hid remain,
But leaps to life when Love awakes the heart.
Then as a vapour rises with the sun,
And blends with it, two souls pass into one.

"'And so it came that he would sometimes kiss
Her lovely face, nor seemed it much to prove
That they in anything had done amiss.
Until, one night, there came the kiss of Love, {202}
Disguised in friendly seeming like the rest--
Alas! he drove an arrow to her breast.

"'Then came the glow of passion--new to both--
The honeymoon of utter recklessness,
When the most righteous casts away his oath,
And all is lost in sweet forgetfulness,
And life is steeped in joy, without, within,
And rapture seems the sweeter for the sin.

"'Then came in its due course the sad awaking
To life and its grim claims, and all around
They found, in cold grim truth, without mistaking,
These claims for them did terribly abound;
And the poor priest was brought into despair
To find at every turn a foe was there.

"'To know our love is pure though passionate,
And have it judged as if both foul and base,
Doth seem to us the bitterness of fate;
Yet in the world it is the usual case.
By it all priests are judged--yea, every one--
Never as Jesus would Himself have done.

"'Because the noblest love with passion rings,
Therefore men cry 'tis _all_ mere sexual sense,
As if the rose and the dirt from which it springs
Were one because of the same elements:
Therefore 'tis true that, of all sins accurst,
Is Gossip, for it always tells the worst.

"'So Gossip did its worst for these poor souls.
The bishop made the priest appear before him,
And, as a power who destiny controls,
Informed him clearly he had hell before him,
And if he would preserve the priestly stole, {203a}
Must leave his woman--or else lose his soul!

"'Now had this man had money, or if he,
Like many of his calling, had been bold
With worldly air, then all this misery
Might have been 'scaped as one escapes the cold
By putting on a sheepskin, warm and fine;
But then hypocrisy was not his line.

"'His love was now a mother, and the truth
Woke in him such a deep and earnest love,
That he would not have left her though in sooth
He had been summoned by the Power above;
And so the interdict was soon applied,
But on that day both child and mother died.

"'She, poor weak thing, could not endure the strain,
So flickered out, and all within a day;
And then the priest, without apparent pain,
Began mysteriously to waste away,
And, shadow-like and silent as a mouse,
Men saw him steal into, or from, the house.

"'And thinner still and paler yet he grew,
With every day some life from him seemed gone,
And all aghast, though living, men still knew
He had become a literal skeleton;
And so he died--in some world less severe
Than this to join the one he held so dear. {203b}

"'Yet no one knew when 'twas he passed away
Out of that shadowy form and 'scaped life's power,
For still 'twas seen beneath the moon's pale ray,
Or gliding through the court at twilight hour.
But there it still is seen--and so it came
The Via del Scheletro got its name.'"

There is not a word of all this which is "Protestant invention," for though I have poetised or written up a very rude text, the narrative is strictly as I received it. There is one point in it worth noticing, that it is a matter of very general conviction in Italy that in such matters of Church discipline as are involved in this story, it is the small flies who are caught in the web, while the great ones burst buzzing through it without harm, or that the weak and poor (who are very often those with the best hearts and principles) are most cruelly punished, where a bold, sensual, vulgar _frate_ makes light of and easily escapes all accusations.

There is something sadly and strangely affecting in the conception of a simply good and loving nature borne down by the crush of the world and misapplied morality--or clerical celibacy--into total wretchedness--a diamond dissolved to air. One in reading this seems to hear the sad words of one who thought his own name was written in water:

"I am a shadow now, alas! alas!
Upon the skirts of human nature dwelling
Alone. I chant alone the holy mass,
While little signs of life are round me kneeling,
And glossy bees at noon do fieldward pass,
And many a chapel bell the hour is telling,
Paining me through: those sounds grow strange to me,
And thou art distant in Humanity!"

THE MYSTERIOUS FIG-TREE A LEGEND OF THE VIA DEL FICO

"In every plant lie marvellous mysteries,
In every flower there is a dream divine;
The fig-tree bears the measure of a life,
And, as it leaves or fruits, our lives do pass,
And all things in each other subtly blend."

"Ha chiappato il fico--_ficum capit_."--_Old Proverbs_.

"Quidam itidem medium digitum ostendunt, idque in Hispania adhuc
dicitur fieri, et FICA appellator, hic illudendi actus, de quo Eryc.
Puteanus, _loc. cit._, p. 70."--_Curiosus Amuletorum Spectator_, D.
Wolf, 1692.

The following tale is, for reasons which I will subsequently explain, one of the most remarkable which I have collected:

LA VIA DEL FICO.

"There stood formerly in the Via del Fico a very ancient palace with a garden, in which there grew a fig-tree which was said to have grown of itself, or without ever having been planted. This tree bore much fruit of great beauty.

"But however proud the owner of the tree was of its beauty, or however much he might desire to have its fruit, something always strangely occurred to prevent its being enjoyed. For when any one was about to pluck it, there suddenly appeared a great black dog, who, seizing men or women by their garments, dragged them away, beginning to howl and bay. {205} And then they hurried away and let the figs alone, in order to make the dog cease his terrible unearthly baying; for it is believed to be an omen of death when a dog utters such sounds, it being such a presage of disaster as when a _civetta_ or small owl hoots on the roof.

"However, it sometimes happened that the dog did not come, but those who took and ate the figs fared just as badly all the same. For they soon began to feel ill and suffer dire pains, and when they had gone into their bedrooms and laid down, there always entered a beautiful girl clad in white, who began to whirl round (_a girarsi_) or spin, making all the time a great buzzing sound, until horror came over them, which when she perceived, she vanished.

"And many tried also to lop off boughs from the fig-tree, but they were found the second night replaced by a perfect new growth with fully ripe fruit. And it was not the least marvel of the tree that it was always in full leaf, with abundance of ripe figs on it, even in winter, when there was snow on the ground.

"One day men digging in the garden found a tablet of stone or metal on which was inscribed:

"'Il fico rispettate
E non la toccate,'
E non cercate
Neppure mangiarne.'

"'Respect the tree, and let it be,
From branch to root, nor touch its fruit!
Of itself the tree did grow,
From a dog who long ago,
Enchanted by the fairies' power,
Was buried here in mystic hour;
Therefore we bid you let it stand,
And if you follow the command
You will be happy all your days,
But woe to him who disobeys!'

"Now, the owner of the palazzo and garden was a man who had no faith in old legends, or love for such mysteries as these, and so he said, 'It is time to put an end to all this superstition, and I am determined to at once see whether all my prosperity depends on a fig-tree; so do you cut it down and tear it up, root and branch, utterly.'

"This was at once done by the labourers, but, while doing so, they heard sounds as of wailing and great lamenting in the earth beneath them. And when they, astonished, asked the signore to listen to the voices, he replied, 'Away with your superstitions; we will see this time whether the tree will grow or return again.'

"Truly it did not return, but passed away for ever, and with it all the property and prosperity of the lord. For in time he had to sell all he had, and, losing what he got, died in poverty. Then those who had to go in the street where his palace had been would say, '_Andiamo nella Via del Fico_,' just as they say, '_Andar per la Via de' Carri_,' but meaning to 'go in the way of what is worthless or poverty-stricken,' and so it was that the street came by its name."

* * * * *

This strange tale, which is evidently of great antiquity, and deeply inspired with real witch tradition, has, indeed, nothing in common with the pretty fairy stories which are so generally presented as constituting the whole of popular narrative folklore. It was not made nor intended to serve as a pleasing tale for youth, but to embody certain ideas which the witch-teacher explained to the pupil. The first of these is, that the _fig-tree_ planted under certain circumstances became a kind of Luck of Eden Hall to its possessor. This story comes from the Etruscan-Roman land, where traditions have been preserved with incredible fidelity. In the olden time Tarquin the Elder planted a fig-tree in a public place in Rome, and it was a matter of common faith that this tree would flourish for ever if undisturbed, and that on it depended the prosperity and preservation of the city. {207} And in India, the motherland of Greek and Roman mythology, it was believed that whenever one of certain ancient fig-trees died, that the reigning family would pass away. The opinion was widely spread that the fig-tree was above all others the one of life and destiny. In the Bagvatgeta, Krishna says of himself: "I am the spirit, the beginning, the middle, and the end of creation. I am as the _Aswatha_ (_pipal _or Indian fig) among trees." Hence it came that many Christians believed that the Tree of Life in Eden was not an apple but a fig-tree. The traditions which establish the fig-tree as being above all others one on whose existence that of individuals, families, and states depended, are extremely numerous and varied. "It was," remarks Alt, "not only a symbol of fertility, but an emblem of ever-renewed and never-extinguished _vitality_, and one of eternity, the resurrection, and of the transmigration of the soul." On the celebrated altar in Ghent, the Tree of Life is represented as a fig-tree (Menzel, _Christliche Symbolik_, i. 277). This universal belief explains why the fig-tree determines the duration and destiny of lives and families.

It may have struck the reader as singular that those who eat of the forbidden figs are punished by the visit of a beautiful girl who whirls around with a buzzing sound till they are overcome by awe. Here be it noted first of all, that the fig, like the pear, is exactly the shape of a top, even the stem representing the peg. Now, in ancient Latin witchlore or sorcery, extraordinary magic power, or even sanctity, was attached to everything which made a humming or buzzing sound. It was supposed, when properly made, with certain incantations or instruments, to be capable of throwing people into a trance. Chief among these instruments was the top. Thus Horace begs Crattidia to stop the enchantment of the buzzing top (Ode xv. Book v.).

On this subject I find the following in _Diavoli e Streghe_, by Dr. A. Zangolini, 1864:

"The _rombo_ {208} is an instrument not unlike the _trottola_ or
peg-top of our boys, called in Latin _turbo_, and in common language
also _paleo_. It was believed that with it in witchcraft a lover
could have his head turned with passion, or that he would be turned
at will while it spun. The same held true of other disks
(tee-totums) of wood, iron, or copper."

This idea was extended to the hum of spinning-wheels, which aided the conception of the Fates, and the thread of life, to the buzzing of bees and flies, and many other variations of such sounds. Mr. Andrew Lang has in an admirable paper shown that the _bull-roarer_ has been regarded as so sacred among certain savages that women, or the profane, were not allowed to touch it. A bull-roarer is so easily constructed, that it is remarkable how few people are familiar with it. Take a common stick, say six inches in length, tie a cord three feet long to one end, and, grasping the other, whirl it round, with the result of astonishing all to whom it is not familiar by its sound:

"First it is but a gentle hum,
Like bird-song warbling in the trees,
Then like a torrent it doth foam,
And then a wild and roaring breeze."

When vigorously spun, it may be heard of a calm evening for a mile, and its effect is then indescribably--I will not say, as most novelists here would, "_weird_," for I do not know that it prophesies anything, but it is certainly most suggestive of something mysterious.

Therefore the bayadere, with her spinning _pas seul_ and buzzing _romore_, who appears to the eater of the figs, is the magic top in person, her form being taken from the fig. The connection of the enchanted dog with the tree is not so clear, but it may be observed that there is a vast mass of tradition which makes the black dog a _chthonic_, that is, a subterranean or under-earthly symbol, and that in this story he comes out of the earth. This animal was a special favourite of Hecate-Diana of the world below, the queen of all the witches.

There is a vast quantity of folklore in reference to the fig as an emblem of fertility, reproduction, and sensual affinity, and, on the other side, of its being an emblem often used in proverbs to express the very contrary, or trifling value, worthlessness, and poverty. Thus, the barren fig-tree of the New Testament had a deep signification to all who were familiar with these poetic and mystic "correspondences." The reader has probably observed that in this story there is, as in a parable, a strong intimation of symbolism, or as if more were meant than meets the ear.

"Remains to be said," that the putting the thumb between the index and middle finger, which was regarded with awe by the Romans as driving away evil spirits, was called "making the fig," or _far la castagna_, to make the chestnut--in Latin, _medium ostendere digitum_. The same sign as the fig to drive away devils became a deadly insult when made at any one, as if he were a wizard and accursed. It had also a jeering and indecent meaning. It has been said that the fig, as a synonym for anything worthless, originated from the great abundance and cheapness of the fruit in Greece, but this is very unsatisfactory, since it would apply as well to olives or grain.

* * * * *

"This tale doth teach," notes the learned Flaxius, "as regards the folklore of the black dog, that in this life most things are good or bad, as we take them. For the black dog, Monsieur, of Cornelius Agrippa (like that in Faust) was a demon, albeit his pupil, Wierus, records that he himself knew the animal well, but never supposed there was aught of the goblin in it. And this same Wierus has mentioned (_loc. cit._, p. m. 325), that one of the things which most terrify the devil and all his gang is the blood of a black dog splashed on the wall. So in ancient symbolism death meant life, the two being correlative, and in witchcraft the spell of the frog and many more are meant to do deadly harm, or great good, according to the way in which they are worked. Wherein lies an immense moral lesson for ye all. Remember, children--

"'There is no passion, vice, or crime,
Which truly, closely understood,
Does not, in the full course of time,
Do far less harm than good.'"

IL PALAZZO FERONI SHOWING HOW IT GOT ITS NAME FROM A FAIRY

"Ah me! what perils do environ
The man who meddles with cold iron!
Thus sang great Butler long ago,
In Hudibras, as all men know;
But in this story you will see
How Iron was sold by irony."

One of the most picturesque mediaeval palaces in Florence is that of the Feroni, and its architectural beauty is greatly enhanced by its fine situation at the head of the Tornabuoni on the Piazza della Trinita, with the magnificent column of the Medicis just before its gate. According to Italian authority, "this palace may be called, after those of the Praetorio (_i.e._, Bargello) and the Signoria, the most characteristic building of its epoch in Florence. It is said to have been built by Arnolfo di Cambio. It once belonged to the Spini, from whom it passed to the Feroni." When I was in Florence in 1846-47, this palace was the best hotel in Florence, and the one in which I lived. There have been great "restorations" in the city since that time, but very few which have not been most discreditably and foolishly conducted, even to the utter destruction of all that was truly interesting in them; as, for instance, "the house of Dante, torn down within a few years to be rebuilt, so that now not one stone rests upon another of the original;" and "Santa Maria Novella, where the usual monkish hatred of everything not _rococo_ and trashy has shown itself by destroying beautiful work of earlier times, or selling it to the Kensington Museum, setting up a barbarously gilt gingerbread high altar, and daubing the handsome Gothic sacristy with gaudy colours." To which the author of Murray's "Guide-Book for Central Italy" adds, that "perhaps on the whole list of ecclesiastical restorations there does not exist a more deplorable instance of monastic vandalism than has been perpetrated here by the architect Romoli"--a remark which falls unfortunately very far short of the truth. Such ruin is wrought _everywhere_ at present; witness the beautiful Fonte Gaja, "the masterpiece of Jacopo della Quercia in Siena (1402), which, since the change of Government, was not 'restored,' but _totally destroyed and carted away_, a miserable modern copy having been recently set up in its place" (Hare, "Cities of Central Italy"), all of which was probably done to "make a job" for a favoured builder. "But what can you expect," adds a friend, "in a country where it is common to cover a beautiful dry stone wall with plaster, and then paint it over to resemble the original stone," because, as I was naively told, "the rough stone itself looks _too cheap_"? Anybody who has lived long in Italy can add infinitely to such instances. The Palazzo Feroni has, however, suffered so little, for a wonder, from restoration, and still really looks so genuinely old, that it deserves special mention, and may serve as an excuse for my remarks on the manner in which ancient works are destroyed so _con amore_ by monks and modern municipalities. I may here note that this building is, in a sense, the common rendezvous for all the visitors to Florence, chiefly English and Americans, since in it are the very large circulating library and reading-rooms of Vieusseux. {212}

There is, of course, a legend attached to the Palazzo Feroni, and it is as follows:

IL PALAZZO FERONI.

"The Signore Pietro, who afterwards received the name Feroni, was a very rich man, and yet hated by the poor, on whom he bestowed nothing, and not much liked by his equals, though he gave them costly entertainments; for there was in all the man and in his character something inconsistent and contradictory, or of _corna contra croce_--'the horns against the cross,' as the proverb hath it, which made it so that one never knew where to have him:

"'Un, al monte, e l'altro al pian,
Quel che, e oggi, non e doman.'

"'On the hill in joy, in the dale in sorrow--
One thing to-day, and another to-morrow.'

"For to take him at every point, there was something to count off. Thus in all the city there was no one--according to his own declaration--who was

Richer or more prosperous,

Or who had enjoyed a better education,

Or who had such remarkable general knowledge of everything taking place,

Or more of a distinguished courtier,

Or one with such a train of dependants, and people of all kinds running after him,

Or more generally accomplished,

Or better looking--

"And finally, no one so physically strong, as he was accustomed to boast to everybody on first acquaintance, and give them proofs of it--he having heard somewhere that 'physical force makes a deeper impression than courtesy.' But all these fine gifts failed to inspire respect (and here was another puzzle in his nature), either because he was so tremendously vain that he looked down on all mortals as so many insects, and all pretty much alike as compared to himself, or else from a foolish carelessness and want of respect, he made himself quite as familiar with trivial people as with anybody. {213}

"One evening the Signore Pietro gave a grand ball in his palace, and as the guests came in--the beauty and grace and courtly style of all Italy in its golden time--he half closed his eyes, lazily looking at the brilliant swarm of human butterflies and walking flowers, despising while admiring them, though if he had been asked to give a reason for his contempt he would have been puzzled, not having any great amount of self-respect for himself. And they spun round and round in the dance. . . .

"When all at once he saw among the guests a lady, unknown to him, of such striking and singular appearance as to rouse him promptly from his idle thought. She was indeed wonderfully beautiful, but what was very noticeable was her absolutely ivory white complexion, which hardly seemed human, her profuse black silken hair; and most of all her unearthly large jet-black eyes, of incredible brilliancy, with such a strange expression as neither the Signore Pietro nor any one else present had ever seen before. There was a power in them, a kind of basilisk-fascination allied to angelic sweetness--fire and ice . . . _ostra e tramontan_--a hot and cold wind.

"The Signore Pietro, with his prompt tact, made the lady's paleness a pretence for addressing her. 'Did she feel ill--everything in the house was at her disposition--

"'Servants, carpets, chairs and tables,
Kitchen, pantry, hall and stables,
Everything above or under;
All my present earthly plunder,
All too small for such a wonder.'

"The lady, with a smile and a glance in which there was not the slightest trace of being startled or abashed, replied:

"''Tis not worth while your house to rifle,
_O mio Signor_, for such a trifle.
'Tis but a slight indisposition,
For which I'll rest, by your permission.'

"The Signore Pietro, as an improvisatore, was delighted with such a ready answer, and remarking that he was something of a doctor, begged permission to bring a soothing cordial, admirable for the nerves, which he hoped to have the honour of placing directly in that fairy-like hand. . . . The Signore vanished to seek the _calmante_.

"The guests had begun by this time to notice this lady, and from her extremely strange appearance they gathered round her, expecting at first to have some sport in listening to, or quizzing, an eccentric or a character. But they changed their mind as they came to consider her--some feeling an awe as if she were a _fata_, and all being finally convinced that whoever she was she had come there to _sell_ somebody amazingly cheap, nor did they feel quite assured that they themselves were not included in the bargain.

"The Signore Pietro returned with the soothing cordial; he had evidently not drunk any of it himself while on the errand, for there was a massive chased iron table inlaid with gold and silver in his way, and the mighty lord with an angry blow from his giant arm, like one from a blacksmith's No. 1 hammer, broke it, adding an artisan-like oath, and knocked it over. Flirtation had begun.

"'Did you hurt yourself, Signore?' asked the lady amiably.

"'Not I, indeed,' he replied proudly. 'A Stone is my name, but it ought to have been Iron, lady, for I am hard as nails, a regular Ferrone or big man of iron, and all my ancestors were Ferroni too; ah! we are a strong lot--at your service!' Saying this he handed the cup to the lady, who drank the potion, and then, instead of giving the goblet back to the Signore Pietro, as he expected, meaning to gallantly drink off _les doux restes_, she beckoned with her finger and an upward scoop of her hand to the table, which was lying disconsolately on its back with its legs upwards, like a trussed chicken waiting to be carved, when lo! at the signal it jumped up and came walking to her like a Christian, its legs moving most humanly, and yet all present were appalled at the sight, and the Signore gasped--

"'I believe the devil's in it!'

"The lady composedly placed the draught on the table and smiled benevolently. There was something in that angelic smile which made the Signore feel as if he had been made game of. In a rage he rushed at the table, which reared up on its hind legs and showed fight with its forepaws, on which there were massy round iron balls, as on the other extremities. Truly it was a desperate battle, and both combatants covered themselves with dust and glory. Now the table would put a ball well in, and the Signore would counter, or, as I may say, cannon or cannon-ball it off; and then they would grapple and roll over and over till the Signora called them to time. At last the lord wrenched all the cannon-balls off from the table, which first, making a jump to the ceiling, came down in its usual position, while the balls began dancing on it like mad.

"At such a sight all present roared with laughter, and it was observed that the lady, no longer pale, flushed with merriment like a rose. As for Signore Pietro he was red as a beet, and heaved out that he had been _canzonato_ or quizzed.

"'Truly yes,' replied the lady; 'but henceforth you shall have a name, for to do you justice you are as hard as iron, and Iron you shall be called--Big Iron Ferrone--and cannon-balls shall be your coat-of-arms, _in saecula saeculorum_. By edict of the Queen of the Fairies!'

"Now at this all the love in the Signore Pietro concentrated itself in his heart, passed into his tongue, and caused him to burst forth in song in the following _ottava_, while the music accompanied:

"'Quando vedo le femmine rammone,
Mi sento andare il cuore in convulsione,
Hanno certe facette vispe e sane,
Da fare entrare in sen la tentazione,
Oh donnina! Non siate disumana!
Di Pietro abbiate compassione!
Scusante la modestia se l'e troppo
Di questi personali non sene poppo.'

"'When I behold thy all too lovely features,
I feel my heart in soft convulsions heaving,
Thou art the most entrancing of all creatures,
I tell you so in sooth, without deceiving,
In fact there is no beauty which can beat yours;
And Pietro loves you, lady, past believing;
In breasts like cannon-balls there's naught to blame;
But oh! I hope your heart's not like the same!'

"But as this exquisite poem concluded with an immense sigh, there appeared before them a golden and pearl car, in which the fairy entered, and rising sailed away through a great hole in the ceiling, which opened before and closed behind her, Signore Pietro remaining _a bocca aperta_, gaping with opened jaws, till all was o'er.

"'Well!' exclaimed the master, 'she gave me the slip, but we have had a jolly evening of it, and I'm the first man who ever fought an iron table, and I've got a good idea. My name is now Feroni--the Big Iron Man--ladies and gentlemen, please remember, and cannon-balls are in my coat-of-arms!'"

* * * * *

I have naturally taken some liberty as regards mere text in translating this tale, in order to render the better the spirit of the original; but not so much as may be supposed, and spirit and words are, on the whole, accurately rendered.

The reader is not to suppose that there are any traces of true history in this fairy tale. I am very greatly indebted to Miss Wyndham of Florence (who has herself made collections in folk-lore), for investigating this subject of the Feroni family, with the following result--it being premised that it had occurred to the lady that the "cannon-balls" or Medicean pills, or pawnbroker's sign, whatever it was, had been attributed by mistake to the Feroni. Miss Wyndham, after consulting with authority, found that the Feroni themselves had not the balls, but, owing probably to transfer of property, there is found on their palaces the Alessandri shield, on which the upper half and lower left quarter contain the Medici spheres. She also sent me this extract from the old work, _Marietta di Ricci_:

"The Feroni family, originally named from Balducci da Vinci, and of
peasant origin, owes its fortune to Francesco, son of Baldo di Paolo
di Ferone, a dyer of Empoli. Going as a merchant to Holland, he
accumulated a large fortune. Made known to Cosimo III. (just called
to the Grand Duchy) by his travels, he was called to Florence. In
1673 he was made citizen of Florence, in 1674 he was elected senator,
and in 1681 appointed Marquis of Bellavista. He left a colossal
fortune, which has been kept up by his heirs to the present day. His
grandson Guiseppe was made cardinal in 1753.

"Their arms are an arm mailed in iron, holding a sword, and above it
a golden lily in a blue field."

This extract is interesting, as showing how a family could rise by industry and wealth, even in one generation, by the work of a single man, to the highest honours in Florence. And it is very remarkable that some impression of the origin of this vigorous artisan and merchant, of peasant stock, is evident in the tale. He is there clever and strong, but vulgar and familiar, so that he was not personally liked. He remains standing open-mouthed, like a comic actor, when the fairy vanishes. In fact the whole tale suggests the elements of a humorous melodrama or operetta, a _bourgeois gentilhomme_.

"And should it come to pass that any read
This tale in Viesseux, his library,
In the Feroni palace, let them think
That, even in the rooms where they do read,
The things which I have told once came to pass--
Even so the echo ever haunts the shrine!"

LA VIA DELLE BELLE DONNE

"The church of San Gaetano, on the left of the Via Tornabuoni, faces
the Palazzo Antinori, built by Giuliano di San Gallo. Opposite is
the Via delle Belle Donne, a name, says Leigh Hunt, which it is a
sort of tune to pronounce."--HARE, _Cities of Central Italy_.

The name of this place is suggestive of a story of some kind, but it was a long time before I obtained the following relative to the Street of Pretty Women:

"In the Via delle Belle Donne there was a very large old house in which were many lodgers, male and female, who, according to their slender means, had two rooms for a family. Among these were many very pretty girls, some of them seamstresses, others corset-makers, some milliners, all employed in shops, who worked all day and then went out in the evening to carry their sewing to the _maggazini_. And it was from them that the street got its name, for it became so much the fashion to go and look at them that young men would say, '_Andiamo nella Via delle Belle Donne_,'--'Let us go to the Street of the Pretty Women;' so it has been so-called to this day.

"And when they sallied forth they were at once surrounded or joined by young men, who sought their company with views more or less honourable, as is usual. Among these there was a very handsome and wealthy signore named Adolfo, who was so much admired that he might have had his choice of all these belles, but he had fixed his mind on one, a beautiful blonde, who was, indeed, the fairest among them all. She had large black eyes, with quick glances, beautiful light hair in masses, and was always dressed simply, yet with natural elegance. She had long avoided making acquaintance among men, and she now shunned Adolfo; but at last he succeeded, after many difficulties, in becoming acquainted, and finally won her heart--the end of it all being the old story of a poor girl ruined by a gay and great signor, left a mother, and then abandoned.

"For four years she lived alone, by her work, with her child, who grew up to be a very beautiful boy. Then he, noting that other children had parents, asked her continually, 'Mamma, where is my papa?'

"He gave her no rest, and at last she went to Adolfo and asked him what he would do for their child.

"He laughed at her, and said, 'Nothing. That folly is all over. Begone!'

"Then, in a wild passion of rage at seeing her child so despised, she stabbed him to the heart, and escaped unseen and undiscovered.

"Then, when the boy asked her again:

"'Cara madre, cara madre,
Dove e lo mio padre?'

"'Mother dear, tell to me
Where may my father be?'

"She replied:

"'Darling son, thy sire is dead,
Lying in an earthen bed;
Dead he ever will remain,
By my dagger he was slain.
Had he but been kind to thee,
Living still he yet would be;
Other sorrows I forgave,
With my dirk I dug his grave. {220}

This is but a commonplace story, yet it is such as finds more currency among the people, and particularly among girls, than many a better one. There is a strong touch of nature, and especially of Italian nature, in the concluding lines.

THE WIZARD WITH RED TEETH

"And dost thou fear to greet
The Dead with me. They graced our wedding sweet."

--MOORE, _The Veiled Prophet of Khorassan_.

The following ballad may be classed as Florentine, since it was in Florence that I heard it sung, but it is not attached to any particular place. It is one of those compositions which are either sung or simply recited, and quite as often intoned in a manner which is neither singing nor speaking. In such chant, when a rhyme happens to fall in by chance, the utmost is made of it by dwelling on the word or drawling it out. Sometimes, as in the following, there are verses of four lines each, but only the concluding line of every verse rhymes, _i.e._, with the preceding last line of the previous stanza:

IL STREGHONE COI DENTI ROSSI.

"C'era un gran signore
Che una bella figlia aveva,
Far la felice lo credeva,
Col far la maritar.

"'Babbo, no'voglio marito,
Prendo uno soltanto,
Se si uomo coi dente rossi,
Di famelo trovar.'

"'Figlia, non e possibile
A me mi strazzi il cuor
Avanti di morire
Vo farti tranquillo il cuor.'

"Un giorno allor comparvi,
Un giovane assai bello,
E denti rossi li teneva,
La sua figlia, Amelia,
'Mi dica dove ella.'

"'Io lo vo sposare,
E con me la vo' portare.'
'Dimmi dove la porti,
Giovane sconosciuto,
La mia figlia no ti rifiuto,
Coi denti rossi lo vuol sposar?'

"Sposa la siora Amelia,
E se la porta via.
La casa dove sia,
Questo poi non lo sa.

"La porta in una capanna,
Di foglie, legno, e fieno,
'Ortello fa sapere,
Se vuoi saper chi sono.

"'Io sono un' streghone,
Te'l giuro in verita,
La notte a mezzanotte
Io ti faccio levar.

"'Ti porto al camposanto,
A sotterar i morti;
E se tu vuoi mangiar,
Quel sangue, bella mia,
Tu l'ai da succiar.'

"La giovana disperata,
Piange, grida e si dispera,
Ma rimedio piu non v'era
Anche lei una strega,
Toccava diventar."

TRANSLATION.

"There was a grand signore
Who had a daughter fair;
He longed to see her happy,
And wished that she were wed.

"'Oh, father! I would not marry,
I have vowed to have for my husband
One with teeth as red as coral.
Oh! find him for me,' she said.

"'My daughter, it is not possible,
You wring and pain my heart.
Ere I die and pass away
I would fain be at peace,' said he.

"One day there appeared before her
A knight of goodly seeming,
His teeth were red as coral.
Said the beautiful Amelia,
'There is the spouse for me.'

"'I will marry her,' said the knight,
'And bear her with me away.'
'Tell me where wilt thou take her,
Thou strange and unknown man.
I do not refuse her to thee,
But whither wilt thou roam?'

"He married fair Amelia,
And carried her far away.
"Where is the house thou dwell'st in?
And say where is thy home?'

"He took her to a cabin,
All leaves and sticks and hay,
'My true name is Ortello.
To-night, at the hour of midnight,
I will carry thee away.

"'I will bear thee to the graveyard
To dig up the newly dead;
Then if thou hast thirst or hunger
Thou mayst suck the blood of the corpses,'
To her the Sorcerer said.

"She wept in desperate sorrow,
She wrung her lily hand,
But she was lost for ever,
And in the witches' band."

This was, and is, a very rude ballad; its moral appears to be that feminine caprice and disregard of parental love must be punished. It is very remarkable as having to perfection that Northern or German element which Goethe detected in a Neapolitan witch-song given in his Italian journey. {224} It has also in spirit, and somewhat strangely in form, that which characterises one of Heine's most singular songs. It impresses me, as I was only yesterday impressed in the Duomo of Siena at finding, among the wood-carvings in the choir, Lombard grotesques which were markedly Teutonic, having in them no trace of anything Italian.

"Quaint mysteries of goblins and strange things,
We scarce know what--half animal half vine,
And beauteous face upon a toad, from which
Outshoots a serpent's tail--the Manicore,
A mixture grim of all things odd and wild,
The fairy-witch-like song of German eld."

ORPHEUS AND EURYDICE

"Wherever beauty dwells,
In gulf or aerie mountains or deep dells,
Thou pointest out the way, and straight 'tis won,
Thou leddest Orpheus through the gleams of death."

--KEATS.

"Silvestres homines sacer interpres que Deorum
Caedibus et victu deterruit ORPHEUS.
Dictus ob hoc lenire tigres, rabidosque Leones."

--HORACE.

It may have happened to the reader, in his travels, to trace in some majestic mountain-land, amid rocky ravines, that which was, perhaps, in prehistoric times a terrible torrent or a roaring river. I mean, indeed, such a furious flood as is now unknown on earth, one which tore away the highest hills like trifles, melting them in a minute to broad alluvials, and ground up the grandest granite cliffs to gravel-dust, even as a mighty mill grates grain to flour.

You trace the course of the ancient river which when young vaulted the valley, which it had made, on either side with overhanging precipices, which now bend like silent mourners over its grave. And it seems to be dead and buried for ever.

Yet it may chance that, looking more deeply into its course to see if, perhaps, some flakes of antique gold are not to be found in the bed of the old water-course, you hear deep in some rocky crevice far below, and out of sight, the merry gurgle or voice-like murmur of a spring or unseen rivulet which indicates that the river of ancient days is not quite lost in the land. Unsuspected, like the sapphire serpent of Eastern legend, that diamond-clear rivulet has wound its mysterious course deep in the earth for ages, and, following its sound, you may come to some place where it again leaps forth into sunlight--little, indeed, yet ever beautiful. It is almost touching to see that diminished rill creeping timidly round the feet of giant boulders which it once rent in sport from the mighty rocks, and rolled into what were for it in its whilom power, mere marbles. It is small now, and very obscure, yet it lives and is ever beautiful.

Such a stream, which I traced yesterday in an ancient gorge in the heart of the Apennines, where the grey tower of Rocca looks down on the mysterious Ponte del Diavolo of the twelfth century--the most picturesque bridge in Italy--forcibly reminds me of the human stream of old tradition which once, as marvellous mythology or grand religion, roared and often raged over all this region, driving before it, and rending away, all the mighty rocks of human will, now tearing down and anon forming stupendous cliffs of observances, and vast monoliths of legend and faith. Such were the Etruscan and early Roman cults, which drove before them and engulfed irresistibly all the institutions of their time, and then disappeared so utterly that men now believe that the only remaining record of their existence is in their tombs or rocky relics of strange monuments.

But by bending low to earth, or seeking among the people, we may hear the murmur of a hidden stream of legend and song which, small and shrunken as it may be, is still the veritable river of the olden time. Many such streams are running in many lands, and that full openly on the earth's surface, but this to which I specially refer is strangely occult and deeply hidden, for to find it we must seek among the _strege_ and _stregoni_, or witches and sorcerers, who retain as dark secrets of their own, marvellous relics of the myths of the early ages. These are, in many cases, so strangely quaint and beautiful that they would seem to have kept something of an original perfume which has utterly perished in the dried flowers of tradition preserved in books, or even by poets.

This seems to me to be the case with the incantation to Orpheus, which is now before me, written in rude dialect, which indicates, so to speak, the depth of the earth from which it was taken. I had asked the woman who gave it to me whether she knew such a name as that of Orpheus or Orfeo, as connected with music. This was the reply which I received:

ORFEO.

_Scongiurazione a Orfeo per suonare bene uno Zuffolo_. This is the invocation to Orpheus for him who would fain become a good player on the shepherd's pipe. {227}

SCONGIURAZIONE.

"Ogni giorno io mi metto
Questo zuffolo a suonare,
Per poterlo bene inparare,
E a preso dei maestri
Per potermi fare insegnare,
Ma non so come mi fare,
Nella testa non mi vuole entrare,
A che partito mi devo apigliare:
Io non so come mi fare;
Ma tu Orfeo che siei tanto chapace
Per lo zuffolo, e il violino,
Suoni bene pur lo organino,
La chitarra e il mandolino,
La gran cassa, il trombone,
Suoni bene lo clarino,
E non 'ce uno strumento
Che tu Orfeo tu non sia
Chapace di bene suonare,
Per la musicha siei molto bravo,
E tu ai ogni potenza,
Che da diavoli siei protetto,
Dunque insegnami come fare,
Questo zuffolo va scongiurare,
Per poter bene suonare,
Questo zuffolo lo prendo,
Sotto terra io lo metto,
E tre giorni ce lo fo stare,
A fine che tu Orfeo,
Bene tu me lo facci a suonare;
Che tanto siei amante
Di suonare sarai amante,
Pur d'insegnare per quanto
Ai soferto la tua _Auradice_,
Dal inferno non potere levare,
Ma vollo lei a preghare,
Che ti aiuti questo zuffolo volere suonare,
E tu che sempre e di musicha,
Siei chapace che fino
Le bestie ti vengono ascoltare,
Orfeo! Orfeo! ti prego;
Orfeo! volermi insegnare
Questo zuffolo bene suonare,
E appena suonero,
Il maestro musicho Orfeo ringraziero,
E a tutti sempre faro,
Sapere a chi mi a dato,
Questo talento che le stato,
Orfeo dal inferno lo scongiurato,
E per la musicha o tanto,
Pasione al mio zuffolo a dato,
Lezione e lo zuffolo e un strumento
Che ne son tanto inamorato
Che dai miei vecchi era molto ramentato,
E sempre mi dicevano,
Se dinparar lo non siei chapace,
Orfeo devi scongiurare;
E cosi io faro,
E Orfeo preghero!"

TRANSLATION.

"Every day I try, and yet
I cannot play the flageolet;
Many masters I have sought,
Naught I learned from all they taught;
I am dull, 'tis very true,
And I know not what to do
In this strait, unless it be,
Great Orpheus, to come to thee;
Thou who the greatest skill didst win,
On flageolet and violin,
Who play'st the organ, pealing far,
The mandolin and the guitar,
Thou wak'st the clarion's stirring tone,
The rattling drum and loud trombone;
On earth there is no instrument,
Whate'er it be, to mortals sent,
Enchanting every sense away,
Which thou, O Orpheus! canst not play;
Great must thy skill in music be,
Since even the demons favour thee;
And since on this my heart is set,
Enchant, I pray, this flageolet,
And that its tones may sweetly sound,
I bury it beneath the ground;
Three days shall it lie hidden thus,
Till thou, O mighty Orpheus!
Shalt wake in it by magic spell
The music which thou lov'st so well.
I conjure thee by all the woe
Which grieved thy soul so long ago!
And pain, when thy _Auradice_
From the dark realm thou couldst not free,
To grant me of thy mighty will
That I may play this pipe with skill,
Even as thou hast played before;
For, as the story runs, of yore,
Whenever thou didst wake its sound,
The forest beasts came raptured round.
Orpheus! Orpheus! I pray,
Orpheus! teach me how to play!
And when sweet music forth I bring,
On every chord thy name shall ring,
And every air which charms shall be
A hymn of thanks, great lord, to thee!
And unto all I'll make it known,
I owe it all to thee alone,
And of the wondrous skill I'll tell,
Which mighty Orpheus won from hell.
And by the music, and the power,
Of passion in me, from this hour
Henceforth in this sweet instrument
I shall be ever well content;
For now, I do remember well,
What 'twas my father oft would tell,
That all who would learn music thus
Must conjure mighty Orpheus,
Even as I have done to-day,
So I to him will ever pray."

To which the manuscript adds in prose:

"Thus the peasants do when they do not succeed in playing the
shepherd's pipe, which they esteem beyond any other instrument."