Chapter V: Part 5

“Other people do not think much about them in any way,” replied Cicero. “But that is not the case with me. To me they are all saints and gods. _Domenica_ is a holy name, which praises the Lord. _Giovedi_ (Tuesday) is the day of Jove, and that is a glorious name. _Evviva Giove_! So it is with them all; and were I rich enough, I would build a temple to the days of the week wherein to worship them.”

“That money shall not be wanting, O thou happy man!” replied the lady. “Knowest thou who we are? We are the Seven Days of the Week; and for what thou hast said of me, every Friday thou shalt find a hundred gold crowns under thy pillow. And when thou needest any special favour, then pray to us all.”

And as he heard the last word Cicero fell asleep. When he awoke he was alone in the ruin, but by him was a purse with one hundred crowns in gold.

Then in time Cicero built the temple, as he had promised, to Venus, and in it he placed all the images of the seven gods. Then whoever wanted a favour invoked those deities, as indeed did Cicero when he needed aught; and those gods were the seven youths, and those youths whom he had found in the hall were the days of the week.

Then for a time Cicero lived in happiness. But something came to disturb it, for one morning he saw at a window near by a young lady of such marvellous beauty that he was as if enchanted, nor was she less pleased with him.

“Tell me, thou splendid star,” said Cicero, “the very truth now passing in thy mind. Dost thou love me?”

“In very truth,” she replied, “I do love thee. O Cicero, but thou lovest only to lose, for this day I am to leave Rome never to return, unless thou canst by some miracle so manage it as to prevent the journey, and keep me here!”

Then Cicero went to the Temple of the Days and conjured them thus:

“Lunedi e Marte! (Martedi.)
Fai che la stella mia non parta!
Mercurio e Giove!
Fai che la stella non mova!”

“Monday and Tuesday,
I pray you cause my love to remain!
Wednesday and Thursday,
Let her not move!
Venus, thou who art the fairest day,
The one whom I most adore!
Thou who hast put me in the way of wealth,
And unto whom I truly built a temple,
As I did promise in the bygone time,
And as thou thyself didst promise,
That if I needed aught, and came to thee,
My wishes should be granted, now I pray
To Venus and to Saturn—Saturday,
That as I have no peace, and none can know,
Till I have won the maid, give her to me!
And thou, O Sunday, when the wedding comes,
I pray thee give her to me with thy hand!”

Then a voice from the depth of the temple replied:

“Because thou hast spoken so well,
What thou hast asked is granted;
She whom thou lovest
Is not of the race of men;
She is an enchantress,
Born of Venus, who loves her,
Venus, who bent her to love thee;
The grace is granted:
Wed and be happy!”

* * * * *

This pretty and fanciful, or strange, tale recalls that in the “Pentamerone” of Gianbattista Basile, the Neapolitan, in which a young man meets the Twelve Months in human form, and pleases March by speaking well of him. In this story the hero is a famed orator, who not only possesses the _gaber_—or “gift of the gab”—but of whom we are told how he came by it, namely, from Virgil, whose verse has indeed for ages wakened eloquence in many hearts.

The days of the week in English are derived as follows:

Sunday Sun day. Monday Moon day. Tuesday Tuisco’s day. Wednesday Woden or Odin’s day. Thursday Thor’s day. Friday Frey’s day. Saturday Seater’s day.

According to this, Friday is the luckiest day, because Frey was the god who gave good fortune, and Freya, his female counterpart, was the Northern Venus. The Italian names with their gods correspond to ours, as the deities of the North resembled those of the Latin pantheon. As this is an interesting subject, I take from the Italian Historical-Mythological Dictionary the following:

“_Settimana_ is a time composed of seven days. Dion Cassius asserts
that the Egyptians were the first to divide time into periods of
seven days, and that it was suggested by the seven planets. However,
the ancients in this did not follow the rule, since in that case we
should have had Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, the Sun, Venus, Mercury, and
the Moon. Saturday, Sabato, is derived from Saturn, who ruled the
first hour.”

It was, in fact, from the disposition of the _hours_ that the days of the week received their names; hence the transposition of names, as is very ingeniously worked out by the author.

It is almost amusing to observe that in this, as in all tales coming from a witch source, the incantations, though not at all necessary to the story, are given with scrupulous care.

To the reader who would seriously study Cicero, yet in a deeply interesting form, I commend “Cicero and his Friends,” by Gaston Bussier (London: A. D. Innes and Co., 1897). According to this genial and vigorous French writer, there is a great deal of mystery as to the manner in which the noble orator acquired the money to purchase estates and villas, when he was notoriously devoid of income. It is true that a great deal of public money was passing through his hands just then, but as he was as incorruptible and pure as an average American senator, of course _this_ cannot account for his acquisitions. Here the legend comes to our aid and meets the difficulty. Having the Seven Days to draw upon, which probably means infinite extension of time and renewal of his notes, the great Roman, borrowing, like his friend Cæsar, by millions, got along very comfortably. In fact, they borrowed so much that all Rome was interested in their prosperity, and helped to make them rich that they might pay.

VIRGIL AND THE GODDESS VESTA.

“Put out the light, and then—put out the light!”

“Ut inquit Hecateus in Genealogiis: Enim vero cùm _duæ_ essent Vestæ,
per antiquiorem Saturni matrem; terram; at per juniorem ignem purum
ætheris significarunt.”—_Mythologia Natalis Comitis_, A.D. 1616.

Many centuries have passed since there was (worshipped) in Florence a goddess who was the great spirit of virtue and chastity, (yet) when a maid had gone astray she always devoted herself to worship the beautiful Avesta, as this deity was called, and the latter never failed in such case to get her devotee out of the difficulty. Her temple was that building which is now called the Baptistery of Saint John, and she was the goddess of light, as of candles, torches, and all that illuminates. And Avesta was, as I have said, known as the deity of virtue, albeit many of the people shrugged their shoulders when they heard this, being evidently strongly inclined to doubt, but they said nothing for fear of punishment.

For it was rumoured that Avesta had many lovers, and that in the rites of her religion there were secrets too dark to discover, and that as everything in her worship was involved in mystery and carried on occultly, it followed, of course, that it involved something wrong. And it was observed that once a month many women who worshipped her met in her temple by night, and that they were accompanied by their lovers, who with them adored the goddess in the form of a large lighted lamp. But that when this rite was at an end and the multitude had departed, there remained unnoted a number, by whom the doors were closed and the light extinguished, when a general orgy ensued, no one knowing who the others might be. {98a} And it was from this came the saying which is always heard when two lovers are seated together by a light and it goes out, that Avesta did it. {98b}

There was in Florence a young lord who loved a lady of great beauty. But she had a bitter rival, who to cross their love had recourse to sorcery or witchcraft, and so “bound” or cast on him a spell which weakened his very life, and made him impotent and wretched, that his very heart seemed to be turned to water.

And this spell the witch worked by taking a padlock and locking it, saying:

“Chiudo la catena,
Ma non chiudo la catena,
Chiudo il corpo e l’anima
Di questo bel signor ingrato,
Chi non ha voluto,
Corrispondermi in amore, {98c}
Ha preferito un’ altra a me,
E questa io l’odio
Come odio la signorina,
Pure catena che incateni
Tanti diavoli tieni!
Tengo incatenata questo signor
Fino a mio comando
Che nessuno la possa disciogliere
E incatenato possa stare,
Fino che non si decidera
Di sposarmi. . . .”

“Now here I close the lock,
Yet ’tis not a lock which I close;
I shut the body and soul
Of this ungrateful lord,
Who would not meet my love,
But loves another instead,
Another whom I hate,
Whom I here lock and chain
With devil’s power again.
I hold this man fast bound
That none shall set him free
Until I so command,
And bound he shall remain
Till he will marry me.”

One day Virgil was passing the Piazza del Duomo, when he met with the young man who had thus been bound or bewitched, and the victim was so pale and evidently in terrible suffering, that the great poet and magician, who was ever pitying and kind, was moved to the heart, and said:

“Fair youth, what trouble have you, that you seem to be in such suffering?”

The young man replied that he, being in love unto life and death, had been bewitched by some malignant sorcery.

“That I can well see,” replied the sage, “and I am glad that it will be an easy thing for me to cure you. Go thou into a field which is just beyond Fiesole, in a place among the rocks. There thou wilt find a flat stone bearing a mark. Lift it, and beneath thou wilt find a padlock and chain. Take this golden key: it is enchanted, for with it thou canst open any lock in the world of door or chain. {99} Keep the lock, open it, and then go to the Temple of Vesta and return thanks with prayer, and wait for what will come.”

So the young man did as Virgil had told him, and among the rocks found the stone and the padlock, and went to the Temple of Avesta, where he opened the lock and made the prayer to the goddess, which having done, he fell asleep, and no one beheld him.

And while he was there the young lady entered the Baptistery to worship Avesta, to offer her devotions, which being ended, she sat down and also fell into a deep sleep, and no one observed her.

But later in the night, when the doors were closed and the light extinguished, and the worshippers who remained were calling “Avesta!” the two sleepers who were side by side were awakened by a rustling of silk, and this was caused by the dress of the goddess, who roused them. And the young man found himself restored to vigorous health and unwonted passion, and quickly noting that a lady was by him, and carried away by feelings beyond his control, embraced and kissed her—nor did she indeed resist, for the will of Avesta was on them both. But noting that the lady had a silk handkerchief {100} partly out of her pocket, he adroitly stole it, putting in its place his own, and so with a kiss he left her, neither knowing who the other was. But on awaking, as if it were from a dream or a delirium, the lady was overcome with shame and grief, and could only think that madness or magic had overcome her reason, to cause her to yield as she had done. For this morning she felt more passionately in love with her betrothed than she had ever done before, and this was because the spell which had bound her was broken with the opening of the padlock.

But what was the astonishment of the lover, who was also restored to all his health and strength, when in the morning he looked at the handkerchief which he had carried away and found embroidered on it the arms and name of his love! So he went to visit her, and his greeting was:

“Signorina, have you lost a handkerchief?”

“Not that I know of,” replied the lady, amazed.

“Look at the one in your pocket, and then at _this_,” was his laughing reply.

She did so, and understanding all in an instant, cried out in shame and horror, while she became at first like blood and then milk. Then the gentleman said:

“It seems to me, Signorina, that we must by mistake have exchanged handkerchiefs last night in the dark, and no wonder, considering the fervency of our devotions. And since we have begun to worship and pray so devoutly, and have entered on such a good path, it were a pity for us to turn back, and therefore it were well for us to continue to travel on it hand in hand together. But I propose that instead of changing pocket-handkerchiefs, we exchange rings before the altar and get married.”

The lady laughed and replied:

“I accept with great pleasure, Signore, the handkerchief; just as the women in Turkey do when it is thrown to them. And you know the proverb:

“‘La donna chi prende
Tosto si rende
E poi si vende.’”

“She who will take will give herself away,
And she who gives will sell herself, they say.”

“Even so will I sell mine for thine; but you must take the bargain on the nail, and the ball on the bound in the game of love.”

“Yes,” replied the young man; “I do so with all my heart. But as for our handkerchiefs, I now see that it is true that the peasant does not always know what it is that he carries home in his bag from the mill. Thanks be to Avesta that we found such good flour in our sacks!”

“To Vesta and to Virgil be all praise!” replied the lady. “But I think that while we continue our daily worship in the temple, we will go there no longer by night. _Vi sono troppo donne devote nel buio_”—There are too many lady devotees there in the darkness.

* * * * *

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.

THE STONE FISH, AND HOW VIRGIL MADE IT EATABLE.

“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:

“‘Se tu pesce sei fatto
Da un uomo, pel suo atto,
Rimane sempre come sei,
Ma se tu sei scongiurato,
O vere scongiurato,
Non restare pietra—ritorna come eri.’”

“Fish, if once a man thou wert,
Then remain e’en as thou art!
But if a fish, I here ordain
That thou become a fish again.”

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}

VIRGILIO AND THE BRONZE HORSE.

“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.

VIRGILIO AND THE BALL-PLAYER.

“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.

VIRGIL AND THE GENTLEMAN WHO BRAYED.

“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.”

VIRGIL AND THE GIRL WITH GOLDEN LOCKS.

“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_!

VIRGIL AND THE PEASANT OF AREZZO.

“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.”