Part 11

“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.”

“But they will drive me out headlong,” replied Gianni; “I dare not go. And if I do not return to my family, who are all ill or starving to death, they will think that some disaster has befallen me.”

“For that too there is also a remedy,” said Virgil, with a smile. “Have no care. Now to thy master!”

“Why didst thou send away this honest man?” asked Virgil of the _padrone_.

To which the master replied by telling all about the oxen. “Therefore, because he brought ruin into my house did I dismiss him.”

“Well,” replied Virgil, “this time thou didst get rid of an honest man and keep the knave. Now let us go and see to thy dead oxen.”

So they went apace to the spot where the dead oxen had all been thrown, where the whole eight lay unchanged, for decay had not come upon them, they were as sound as ever.

Then Virgil exclaimed, as he waved his wand:

“If ye are charmed, retake your breath! If you’re bewitched, then wake from death! Speak with a voice, and tell us why, And who it was that made ye die!”

Then all the oxen came to life, and sang in chorus with human voices:

“Dorione slew us for revenge, Because Gianni would not buy his oxen, Truly they were greatly ornamented, Yet withal were wretched, sorry cattle. So he swore to be revenged upon him, So he was revenged by witching us.”

“You have heard the whole truth,” said Virgil to the Emperor. “It is for you to condemn the culprit.”

“I condemn him to be at once put to death,” replied the Emperor. “Hast thou anything to add?”

“Yes,” said Virgil; “I condemn him to immediately become a goat after death.”

Then Dorione was burnt alive for an evil wizard, and he leapt from the flame in the form of a black goat and vanished.

Gianni returned in favour to his master, and all went well with him evermore.

* * * * *

The very singular or unusual name of Dorione intimates a classical origin, and it is true that one of the Danaides, the bride of Cerceste, was called thus; but on this hook hangs no analogy. Dordione was the Roman god of blackguardism _pur et simple_, unto whom people made obscene offerings—which, according to sundry reviewers, might suggest the Dorian of a certain novel of the ultra Greek-æsthetic school, which had many admirers in certain circles, both in America and England. But it is very remarkable that wherever it occurs, be it in pagan antiquity or modern times, the name has always had a certain evil smell about it, a something fish-like and ancient, but not venerable. It is true that I have already given a legend of another Dorione, who was a protégé of Virgil; but even this latter example was sadly given to “rapacious appropriation.” The Dorians were all a bad lot from a moral point of view, according to history.

It is remarkable that Dorione, who is a mountain shepherd or herdsman, is noted as a sorcerer. Owing to their solitary lives and knowledge of secrets in the medical treatment and management of cattle, this class in many countries (but especially in France and Italy) is regarded as consisting entirely of sorcerers. This is specially the case with smiths, farriers, and all who exercise the veterinary art.

It may also strike the reader as singular that Dorione in the tale should be moved to such deadly vengeance, simply because Gianni would not buy his cattle, and preferred others. This is a very common and marked characteristic of Italians. If you examine a man’s wares, talk about, and especially if you touch them, you will often be expected to buy as a matter of course. I have been seriously cautioned in a fair, by one who was to the manner born, against examining anything unless I bought it, or something. A few years ago, in Florence, a flower-girl asked an Englishman to buy of her ware, which he declined to do, and then changing his mind, bought a bouquet from another girl close by. Whereupon the first _floriste_ stabbed and slew the second—to the great astonishment of the tourist!

There is an unconscious fitness and propriety in making the author of the “Georgics” so familiar with cattle that he is able to raise them from the dead. The chorus of oxen, accusing the evil-doer, is an idea or motive which also occurs in the story of Cain, as given in my “Legends of Florence.”

The black goat is, and ever was in Italy, specially accursed as a type of evil. Witches are rarely described as riding brooms—their steed is the goat. Evil spirits, or souls of men accursed, haunt bridges in this form. The perverse and mischievous spirit of the animal, as well as his appearance, is sufficient to explain this.

THE GIRL AND THE FLAGEOLET.

“Thus playing sweetly on the flageolet, He charmed them all; and playing yet again, Led them away, won by the magic sound.”

_De Pueris Hamleënsibus_, 1400.

There is in the Toscana Romagna a place known as La Valle della Fame, or Valley of Hunger, in which dwelt a family of peasants, or three brothers and two sisters. The elder brother had married a wife who was good and beautiful, and she had given birth to a daughter, but died when the babe was only one year old. Then, according to the advice of the sisters and brothers, he married again, that he might have someone to take care of his child. The second wife was a pretty young woman, but after she had been wedded a year she gave birth to a daughter, who was very ugly indeed and evil; but the mother seemed to love her all the more for this, and began to hate the elder, who was as good and beautiful as an angel. And as her hatred grew she beat and abused the poor little girl all day long.

One morning the latter went into the woods to hide herself from her stepmother till it should be evening, when she could return home and be safe with her father and aunts. And while sitting all alone beneath a tree, she heard a bird above her singing so sweetly that she felt enchanted. It was a marvellous sound, at times like the music of a flute played by a fairy, then like a human voice carolling in soft tones, and then like a horn echoing far away. The little girl said:

“Oh dear, sweet bird, I wish I could pipe and play like you!”

As she said this the bird fell from the tree, and when she picked it up she found that it was a _zufolo_, or shepherd’s flageolet, in the form of a bird. And when she blew on it, it gave forth such sweet sounds—_suone belle da rimanere incantati_—as would charm all who heard them. And as she practised, she found the art to play it seemed to come of itself, and every now and then she could hear a fairy voice in the sound speaking to her.

Now, this was a miracle which had been wrought by Virgil the magician, who did so many wonderful things in the olden time.

In the evening she returned home and played on the bird-pipe, and all were charmed except the stepmother, who alone heard in the music a voice which said:

“Though sweet thy smile, and smooth thy brow, Evil and cold at heart art thou; I never yet did harm to thee, Yet thou hast beat me cruelly, And given me curses fierce and wild Because I’m fairer than thy child. Unless thou lettest me alone Henceforth, all ill shall be thine own, With all the suffering I have known.”

But to the girl the pipe sang:

“Sing to thy father, gently say That thou the morrow goest away, And tell him thou hast borne too long Great cruelty and cruel wrong; For truly he was much to blame That he so long allowed the same; But now the evil spell is broken, The time has come, the word is spoken!”

Then her father would fain have kept her, but the spell was on her, and she went out into the wide world playing on her pipe. And when she was in the woods, the birds and wild beasts came and listened to her and did as she bade; and when she was in towns, the people gathered round and were charmed to hear her play, and gave her money and often jewels, and no one dared to say an evil word to her, for a spell was on her, and a charm which kept away evil.

So years passed by, and she was blooming into maidenhood, when one day a young lord, passing with his mother, who was a woman as noble of soul and good as her son, paused to hear the girl play on her pipe and sing, for they thought the marvellous song of the _zufolo_ was her voice.