Part 18

"'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."

To any one who fully feels and understands what is meant to be conveyed by this incantation--and a great deal is expressed by passionate singing and a deep thrilling intonation which the text does not give--my translation will appear to be quite accurate. But, in any case, no scholar or poet can deny that there is in it a strange depth of classic feeling, or of old Roman romance, not strained at second-hand through books, but evidently drawn from rude antiquity, which is as fresh in its ring as it is marvellous.

It may be observed as exquisitely curious that in this incantation the peasant who wishes to become a skilled performer on the flageolet _buries it for three days in the ground_, invoking Orpheus by what the spirit suffered in losing Eurydice, and subsequently distinctly declaring that he won or conjured his great musical power from Hades, which means that by the penance and loss, and his braving the terrors of the Inferno, he gained _skill_. This is a mighty element of the myth in all its forms, in all ages, in every country. The burying the instrument for three days probably typifies the three days during which Orpheus was in hell.

It may be observed that Eurydice has become _Auradice_ in the incantation, in which there is probably an intimation of _Aura_, a light wind or zephyr. Air is so naturally associated with music. This, by a very singular coincidence, yet certainly due to mere chance, recalls the invocation to the Spirit of the Air, given by Bulwer in "The Last Days of Pompeii":

"Spectre of the viewless air, Hear the blind Thessalian's prayer, By Erichtho's art that shed Dews of life when life was fled, By lone Ithaca's wise king, Who could wake the crystal spring To the voice of prophecy _By the lost Eurydice_! Summoned from the shadowy throng, At the muse-son's magic song: Come, wild Demon of the Air, Answer to thy votary's prayer."

It is indeed very remarkable that in the call to the God of Music, who is in certain wise a spirit of the air, as in that to the Spirit of the Air himself, both are invoked:

"By the lost Eurydice!"

If it could be shown that Bulwer owed this poem and allusion to any ancient work or tradition, I should be tempted to believe that the popular invocation was derived from some source in common with the latter. There is indeed a quaint naive drollery in the word _Aura_dice--"Air-tell!" or "Air-declare!" which adapts it better to the spirit of Bulwer's poem, in which the air is begged to tell something, than to the Orphean or Orphic spell. It may be that the Orphic oracles were heard in the voice of the wind, apropos of which latter there is a strange Italian legend and an incantation to be addressed to all such mystic voices of the night, which almost seems re-echoed in "Lucia":

"Verrano a te sull' aure, I miei sospiri ardenti, Udrai nell mar che mormora L'eco de miei lamenti!"

It is worth observing that this tradition, though derived from the Romagna, was given to me in Florence, and that one of the sculptures on the Campanile represents Orpheus playing the pipe to wild beasts. It is said that in the Middle Ages the walls of churches were the picture-books of the people, where they learned all they knew of Bible legends, but not unfrequently gathered many strange tales from other sources. The sculptors frequently chose of their own will scenes or subjects which were well known to the multitude, who would naturally be pleased with the picturing what they liked, and it may be that Orpheus was familiar then to all. In any case, the finding him in a witch incantation is singularly in accordance with the bas-relief of the Cathedral of Florence, which again fits in marvellously well with Byron's verse:

"Florence! whom I will love as well As ever yet was said or sung, Since Orpheus sang his spouse from hell, Whilst thou art fair and I am young.

"Sweet Florence! those were pleasant times, When worlds were staked for ladies' eyes. Had bards as many realms as rhymes, Thy charms might raise new Antonies!"