Part 6

"'_Eureka_! I have it,' he at last exclaimed, 'by the neck and tail. I will _spogliar la tesoria_--rob the treasury and spoil the Egyptian--_si non in errore versatus sum_--unless I am stupendously mistaken. Monk! thy weird will soon be dreed--thy penance prophesied will soon be o'er.'

"Saying this he went into the city. And there the next day, going to a fair dame of his acquaintance, who excelled all the ladies of all Italy in ingenious needlework, he had made of silk a rose; and so deftly was it done, that had it been put on a bush, you would have sworn that a nightingale would have sung to it, or bee have sought to ravish it.

"Then going to a Venetian perfumer's, the wise Flaxius had his flower well scented with best attar of roses from Constantinople, and when midnight struck he was at the tower once more calling to the goblin.

"'_Che vuoi_? What dost thou seek?' cried the Elf.

"'The treasure of the monk!'

"'_Bene_! Give me a rose.'

"'_Ecco_! There it is,' replied Flaxius, extending it.

"'_Non facit_--it won't do,' answered the goblin (thinking Flaxius to be a monk). 'It is a sham rose artificially coloured, _murice tincta est_.'

"'Smell it,' replied Flaxius calmly.

"'The _smell_ is all right, I admit,' answered the guardian of the gold. 'The perfume is delicious;' here he sniffed at it deeply, being, like all his kind, enraptured with perfume, 'and that much of it is, I grant, the real thing.'

"'Now tell me,' inquired Flaxius, 'truly--_religiose testimonium dicere_--by thy great ancestress Diana and her sister-double Herodias and her Nine Cats, by the Moon and the eternal Shadow, Endamone, and the word which Bergoia whispered into the ear of the Ox, and the Lamia whom thou lovest--what is it makes a man? Is it his soul or his body?'

"'Man of mystery and master of the hidden lore,' replied the awe-struck goblin, 'it is his _soul_.'

"'And is not the perfume of the rose its _soul_--that which breathes its life, in which it speaks to fairies or to men? Is not the voice in song or sweetened words the perfume of the spirit, ever true? Is not--'

"'I give it up,' replied the goblin. 'The priest may turn in now for a long, long nap. Here, take his gold, and _ne gioire tutto d'allegrezza_--may you have a merry time with it. There is a great deal of good drinking in a thousand crowns; and if you ever try to _ludere latrunculis vel aleis_, or shake the bones or dice, I promise you three sixes. By the way, I'll just keep this rose to remember you by. _Addio--a rivederlei_!'

"So the bedesman slept amid his ashes cold, and the good Flaxius, who was a stout carl for the nonce, with a broad back and a great beard, returned, bearing a mighty sack of ancient gold, which stood him in good stead for many a day. And the goblin is still there in the tower."

"_Haec fabula docet_," wrote Flaxius as he revised the proof with a red-lead pencil, for which he had paid a penny in the Calzolaio. "This tale teaches that in this life there is naught which hath not its ideal side or inner soul, which may raise us to higher reflection or greater profit, if we will but seek it. The lower the man the lower he looks, but it is all to his loss in the end. Now every chapter in this book, O my son--or daughter--may seem to thee only a rose of silk, yet do not stop at that, but try to find therein a perfume. For thou art thyself, I doubt not, such a rose, even if thy threads (as in most of us) be somewhat worn, torn, or faded, yet with a soul far better than many deem who see thee only afar off. And this my book is written for the perfume, not the silk of my reader. And there is no person who is better than what the world deems him or her to be who will not find in it marvellous comfort, solace, and satisfaction."

Thus wrote Flaxius.

* * * * *

Since I penned the foregoing from memory, I have found the Italian text or original, which had been mislaid for years. In it the tale is succinctly told within the compass of forty lines, and ends with these words:

"'Take the treasure, and give me the rose!'

"And so the spirit gave him the treasure and took the rose, and the poor man went home enriched, and the priest to sleep in peace--_fra gli eterni_--among the eternals."

I ought, of course, to have given scientifically only the text word for word, but _litera scripta manet_--what is written remains, and Flaxius is an old friend of mine, and I greatly desired to introduce him to my readers. And I doubt not that the reviewers will tell me if I have sinned!

"Do a good deed, or aught that's fit, You never again may hear of it; But make a slip, all will detect it, And every friend at once correct it!"

THE GHOST OF MICHEL ANGELO

"If I believed that spirits ne'er Return to earth once more, And that there's naught unto them dear In the life they loved before; Then truly it would seem to me, However fate has sped, For souls there's no eternity, And they and all are dead."

It must have struck every one who has read the life of Michel Angelo, that he was, like King James the First of England, "nae great gillravager after the girls," or was far from being susceptible to love--in which he formed a great contrast to Raphael, and indeed to most of the Men of his Time--or any other. This appears to have impressed the people of Italy as something even more singular than his works, for which reason he appears in popular tradition as a good enough goblin, not without cheerfulness and song, but as one given to tormenting enamoured couples and teasing lady artists, whom he subsequently compliments with a gift. The legend is as follows:

LO SPIRITO DI MICHELE ANGIOLO BUONAROTTI.

"The spirit of Michel Angelo is seen mostly by night, in woods or groves. The good man appears as he did in life, _come era prima_, ever walking among trees singing poetry. He amuses himself very much by teasing lovers--_a dare noia agli amoretti_--and when he finds a pair who have hidden themselves under leaves and boughs to make love, he waits till they think they are well concealed, and then begins to sing. And the two feel a spell upon them when they hear his voice, and can neither advance nor retreat.

"Then all at once opening the leafy covert, he bursts into a peal of laughter; and the charm being broken, they fly in fear, because they think they are discovered, and it is all nothing but the spirit of Michel Angelo Buonarotti.

"When some lady-artist goes to sketch or paint, be it _al piazzale_, in open places, or among the woods, it is his delight to get behind, and cause her to blunder, scrawl, and daub (_fare degli scarabocchi_). And when the artist is angered, she will hear a loud peal of laughter; and if this irritates her still more, she will hear a song, and yet not perceive the singer. And when at last in alarm she catches up her sketch, all scrawled and spoiled, and takes to flight, she will hear the song following her, and yet if she turns her head she will see no one pursuing. The voice and melody are always beautiful. But it is marvellously lucky to have this happen to an artist, for when she gets home and looks at her sketch, she finds that it is neither scrawled nor daubed, but most exquisitely executed in the style of Michel Angelo."

* * * * *

It is marvellous how the teasing faun or Silvanus of the Romans has survived in Tuscany. I have found him in many forms, under many names, and this is the last. But why it should be Michel Angelo, I cannot imagine, unless it be that his face and stump nose, so familiar to the people, are indeed like that of the faun. The _dii sylvestres_, with all their endless mischief, riotry, and revelry, were good fellows, and the concluding and rather startling touch that the great artist in the end always bestows a valuable picture on his victim is really godlike--in a small way.

It is remarkable as a coincidence, that Michel Angelo was himself during life terribly annoyed and disturbed by people prying and speering about him while painting--especially by Pope Leo--for whom he nevertheless painted very good pictures. It would almost seem as if there were an echo of the event in the legend. Legend is the echo of history.

"This legend," remarks Flaxius, "may give a valuable hint to collectors. Many people are aware that there are in existence great numbers of sketchings and etchings attributed to Michel Angelo, Durer, Raphael, Marc Antonio, and many more, which were certainly executed long since those brothers of the paint or pencil passed away. May it not be that the departed still carry on their ancient callings by the aid of new and marvellous processes to us as yet unknown, or by what may be called 'pneumato-gravure'? Who knows?--'tis a great idea, my masters;--let us pass on or _legit_ unto another legend!

"'Well I ween it may be true That afar in fairyland Great artists still pursue That which in life they knew, And practise still, with ever bettering hand, Sculpture and painting, all that charm can bring, While by them all departed poets sing.'"

THE APPARITION OF DANTE

"Musa profonda dei Toscani, il Dante, Il nobil cittadin, nostro Alighieri, Alla filosofia ricco e brillante Purgo il linguaggio e corredo i pensieri; E nell' opera sua fatto gigante A Campaldino nei primi guerrieri; Lui il Purgatorio, Paradiso e Inferno Fenomeno terren, poeta eterno!"

--_Le Statue disotto gli Ufizi in Fireneze_. _Ottave improvisate da Giuseppe Moroni detto Il Nicchieri_ (_Iliterato_). Florence, 1892.

It has been boldly asserted by writers who should know better, that there are no ghosts in Italy, possibly because the two only words in the language for such beings are the equivocal ones of _spirito_ or spirit, and _spettro_ or spectre--or _specter_, as the Websterians write it--which is of itself appalling as a terrific spell. But the truth is that there is no kind of _spuk_, goblin, elf, fairy, gnome, or ouphe known to all the North of Europe which was not at home in Italy since old Etruscan days, and ghosts, though they do not make themselves common, are by no means as rare as eclipses. For, as may be read in my "Etruscan Roman Legends," people who will look through a stone with a hole in it can behold no end of _revenants_, or returners, in any churchyard, and on fine nights the seer can see them swarming in the streets of Florence. Giotto is in the campanile as a gentle ghost with the fairy lamb, and Dante, ever benevolent, is all about town, as appears from the following, which was unexpectedly bestowed on me:

LO SPIRITO DI DANTE ALIGHIERI.

"When any one is passionately fond of poetry, he should sit by night on the _panchina_ {63} in the piazza or square of Santa Croce or in other places (_i.e._, those haunted by Dante), and having read his poetry, pronounce the following:

"'Dante, che eri La gran poeta, Siei morto, ma vero, Il tuo spirito E sempre rimasto, Sempre per nostro Nostro aiuto.

"'Ti chiamo, ti prego! E ti scongiuro! A voler aiutarmi. Questa poesia Voglio imparare; Di piu ancora, Non voglio soltanto Imparar la a cantare, Ma voglio imparare Di mia testa Poter le scrivere, E cosi venire Un bravo poeta."

"'Thou Dante, who wert Such a great poet, Art dead, but thy spirit Is truly yet with us, Here and to aid us.

"'I call thee, I pray thee, And I conjure thee! Give me assistance! I would learn perfectly All of this poetry. And yet, moreover, I would not only Learn it to sing it, But I would learn too How I may truly From my head write it, And become really An excellent poet!'

"And then a form of a man will approach from around the statue (_da canto_), advancing gently--_piano-piano_--to the causeway, and will sit on it like any ordinary person, and begin to read the book, and the young man who has invoked the poet will not fail to obtain his wish. And the one who has come from the statue is no other indeed than Dante himself.

"And it is said that if in any public place of resort or inn (_bettola_) any poet sings the poems of Dante, he is always present among those who listen, appearing as a gentleman or poor man--_secondo il locale_--according to the place.

"Thus the spirit of Dante enters everywhere without being seen.

"If his poems be in the house of any person who takes no pleasure in them, the spirit of the poet torments him in his bed (in dreams) until the works are taken away."

* * * * *

There is a simplicity and directness in this tradition, as here told, which proves the faith of the narrator. Washington Irving found that the good people of East Cheap had become so familiar with Shakespearian comedy as to verily believe that Falstaff and Prince Hal and Dame Quickly had all lived, and still haunted the scenes of their former revels; and in like manner the Florentine has followed the traditions of olden time so closely and lovingly, that all the magnates of the olden time live for him literally at the present day. This is in a great measure due to the fact that statues of all the celebrities of the past are in the most public places, and that there are many common traditions to the effect that all statues at certain times walk about or are animated.

One of the commonest halfpenny or _soldo_ pamphlets to be found on the stand of all open-air dealers in ballads--as, for instance, in the Uffizzi--is a collection of poems on the statues around that building, which of itself indicates the interest in the past, and the knowledge of poets and artists possessed by the common people. For the poorest of them are not only familiar with the names, and more or less with the works, of Orcagna, Buonarotti, Dante, Giotto, Da Vinci, Raffaelle, Galileo, Machiavelli, and many more, but these by their counterfeit presentments have entered into their lives and live. Men who are so impressioned make but one bold step over the border into the fairyland of faith while the more cultured are discussing it.

I do not, with some writers, believe that a familiarity with a few names of men whose statues are always before them, and from whose works the town half lives, indicates an indescribably high culture or more refined nature in a man, but I think it is very natural for him to make legends on them. There are three other incantations given in another chapter, the object of which, like this to Dante, is to become a poet.

"From which we learn that in the fairy faith," writes Flaxius, with ever-ready pen, "that poets risen to spirits still inspire, even in person, neophytes to song.

"'Life is a slate of action, and the store Of all events is aggregated there That variegate the eternal universe; Death is a gate of dreariness and gloom, That leads to azure isles and beaming skies . . . Therefore, O spirit, fearlessly bear on.'"

LEGENDS OF LA CERTOSA

"'Now when ye moone like a golden flowre, In ye sky above doth bloome, Ile lett doune a basket in that houre, And pull ye upp to my roome, And give mee a kisse if 'tis yes,' he cryed; Ye mayden would nothing refuse; But held upp hir lippes-- Oh I would I had beene Just thenn in that friar's shoos."

If we pass the Porta Romana, and keep on for three miles, we shall arrive at the old Carthusian convent of La Certosa in Val d'Ema. Soon after passing "the village of Galluzzo, where the stream is crossed, we come to an ancient gateway surmounted by a statue of Saint Laurence, _through which no female could enter_ except by permission of the archbishop, and out which no monk could pass." At least, it is so stated in a justly famous English guide-book, though it does not explain how any "female" could enter the saint, nor whether the female in question belonged to the human species, or was fish, flesh, or red-herring. I should, however, incline to believe the latter is meant, as "herring" is a popular synonym for a loose fish.

The Certosa was designed and built in the old Italian Gothic style by Andrea Orcagna, it having been founded in the middle of the fourteenth century by Niccolo Acciajuoli, who was of a great Florentine family, from whom a portion of the Lung Arno is named. The building is on a picturesque hill, 400 feet above the union of the brooks called the Ema and the Greve, the whole forming a charming view of a castled monastery of the Middle Ages.

There is always, among the few monks who have been allowed to remain, an English or Irish brother, to act as cicerone to British or American visitors, and show them the interesting tombs in the crypt or subterranean church, and the beautiful chapels and celebrated frescoes in the church. These were painted by Poccetti, and I am told that among them there is one which commemorates or was suggested by the following legend, which I leave the reader to verify, not having done so myself, though I have visited the convent, which institution is, however, popularly more distinguished--like many other monasteries--as a distillery of holy cordial than for aught else:

AL CONVENTO DELLA CERTOSA.

"There was in this convent a friar called Il Beato Dyonisio, who was so holy and such a marvellous doctor of medicine, that he was known as the Frate Miraculoso or Miraculous Brother.

"And when any of the fraternity fell ill, this good medico would go to them and say, 'Truly thou hast great need of a powerful remedy, O my brother, and may it heal and purify thy soul as well as thy body!' {67} And it always befell that when he had uttered this conjuration that the patient recovered; and this was specially the case if after it they confessed their sins with great devoutness.

"Brother Dyonisio tasted no food save bread and water; he slept on the bare floor of his cell, in which there was no object to be seen save a scourge with great knots; he never took off his garments, and was always ready to attend any one taken ill.

"The other brothers of the convent were, however, all jolly monks, being of the kind who wear the tunic as a tonic to give them a better--or bitter--relish for secular delights, holding that it is far preferable to have a great deal of pleasure for a little penitence than _per poco piacer gran penitenza_--much penitence for very little pleasure. In short, they were just at the other end of the rope away from Brother Dyonisio, inasmuch as they ate chickens, _bistecche_ or beef-steaks, and drank the best wine, even on fast-days--_giorni di vigiglia_--and slept in the best of beds; yes, living like lords, and never bothering themselves with any kind of penance, as all friars should do.

"Now there was among these monks one who was a great _bestemmiatore_, a man of evil words and wicked ways, who had led a criminal life in the world, and only taken refuge in the disguise of a monk in the convent to escape the hand of justice. Brother Dyonisio knew all this, but said nothing; nay, he even exorcised away a devil whom he saw was always invisibly at the sinner's elbow, awaiting a chance to catch him by the hair; but the Beato Dyonisio was too much for him, and kept the devil ever far away.

"And this was the way he did it:

"It happened one evening that this _finto frate_, or mock monk or feigned friar, took it into his head, out of pure mischief, and because it was specially forbidden, to introduce a _donna di mala vita_, or a girl of no holy life, into the convent to grace a festival, and so arranged with divers other scapegraces that the damsel should be drawn up in a basket.

"And sure enough there came next morning to the outer gate a fresh and jolly black-eyed _contadina_, who asked the mock monk whether he would give her anything in charity. And the _finto frate_ answering sang:

"'You shall have the best of meat, Anything you like to eat, Cutlets, macaroni, chickens, Every kind of dainty pickings. Pasticcie and fegatelli, Salame and mortadelle, With good wine, if you are clever, For a very trifling favour!'

"To which the girl replied:

"'Here I am, as here you see! What would'st thou, holy man, with me?'

"The friar answered:

"'When thou hear'st the hoots and howls At midnight of the dogs and owls, And when all men are sunk in sleep, And only witches watch do keep, Come 'neath the window unto me, And there thou wilt a basket see Hung by a rope as from a shelf, And in that basket stow thyself, And I alone will draw thee up, Then with us thou shalt gaily sup.'

"But the girl replied, as if in fear:

"'But if the rope should break away, Oh, then there'd be the devil to pay, Oh, holy father, first for thee-- But most especially for me! For if by evil luck I'd cracked your Connecting cord, my limbs I'd fracture!'

"The friar sang:

"'The rope is good, as it is long, The basket's tough, my arms are strong, Have thou no fear upon that score, T'as hoisted many a maid before; For often such a basket-full Did I into a convent pull, And many more I trust will I Draw safely up before I die.'

"And at midnight the girl was there walking beneath the windows awaiting the hour to rise--_Ascensionem expectans_--truly not to heaven, nor from any great liking for the monks, but for a great fondness for roast-chickens and good wine, having in her mind's eye such a supper as she had never before enjoyed, and something to carry home with her.

"So at last there was a rustling sound above, as a window softly opened, and a great basket came vibrating down below; and the damsel, well assured, got into it like a hen into her nest, while the lusty friar above began to draw like an artist.

"Now the _Beato frate_ Dyonisio, knowing all that passed round about by virtue of his holy omniscience, determined to make manifest to the monks that things not adapted to piety led them into the path of eternal punishment.

"Therefore, just as the basket-full of girl touched the window of the convent, it happened by the virtue of the holy Dyonisio that the rope broke and the damsel came with a _capi tombola_ somerset or first-class tumble into the street; but as she, poor soul, had only sinned for a supper, which she greatly needed and seldom got, she was quit for a good fright, since no other harm happened to her.

"But it was far otherwise with the wicked monk, who had only come into that holy monastery to stir up sin; for he, leaning too far over at the instant, fell with an awful howl to the ground, where he roared so with pain that all the other monks came running to see what was the matter. And they found him indeed, more dead than alive, terribly bruised, yet in greater agony of mind than of body, saying that Satan had tempted him, and that he would fain confess to the Beato Dyonisio, who alone could save him.

"Then the good monk tended him, and so exhorted him that he left his evil ways and became a worthy servant of God, and the devil ceased to tempt him. And in due time Brother Dyonisio died, and as a saint they interred him in the crypt under the convent, and the morning after his burial a beautiful flower was found growing from his tomb, and so they sainted him.

"The fall of the girl was a scandal and cause of laughter for all Florence, so that from that day the monks never ventured more to draw up damsels in baskets."

* * * * *