Part 6

The story of the fly is told in almost all the collections. The reader will bear in mind the following frank and full admission, of which all critics are invited to make the worst, that in many cases I had already narrated these Virgilian tales to my collector, as I did here—a course which it is simply impossible to avoid where one is collecting in a speciality. If you want fairy-tales, take whatever the gods may send, but if you require nothing but legends of Red Cap, you must specify, and show samples of the wares demanded. But it may here be observed, that after I had communicated these tales, they all returned to me with important changes. In the older legends the fly made by Virgil is manifestly—like the leech which he also fabricated—simply an _amulet_ or talisman formed under the influence of the planets, or by astrology. In the version which I give there is an altogether different, far more ancient and mysterious motive power described. This is the direct aid of _Moscone_, the King of the Flies, suggestive of _Baal tse Bul_, or Beelzebub himself. The reader may find a chapter on this mystical being, who is also the god of news, in the “Legends of Florence,” Part II. According to my story, the Golden Fly is not a _talisman_ made by planetary influences, but a tribute of respect to a demon, which he demands shall be set up in Saint Peter’s. Here the _witch_, ever inimical to orthodox faith, appears in black and white—so true is it, as I have before remarked, that even where my assistant has been asked to re-tell a tale, it always returned with darker and stranger colouring, which gave it an interest far greater than existed in the simple narrative. The tale of the fly, as a mere amulet, is of almost no importance whatever, beyond its being an insignificant variant; but as a legend of the chief of the flies, or Beelzebub, claiming honour and a place in the great Christian Church, it is of extraordinary novelty.

Amber, in which insects are often found, especially small flies or midges, was anciently regarded as a gem, and is classed as one in the _Tesoro delle Goie_. _Trattato curioso_, Venice, 1676.

It may be observed that something like this story of the gem with an insect in it occurs not only in the early legends of Virgil, but also in the oldest _novelle_, as may be seen in Roscoe’s “Italian Novelists.” In fact, there is probably not one of the old Neapolitan Virgilian stories which is not, like this, of Oriental origin.

THE COLUMNS OF VIRGIL AND HIS THREE WONDERFUL STATUES.

“En sic meum opus ago, Ut Romæ fecit imago Quam sculpsit Virgilius, Quæ manifestare suevit Fures, sed cæsa quievit Et os clausit digito.”

DE CORRUPTO ECCLESIÆ STATU: _XVIth Century_. _Virgilius the Sorcerer_ (1892).

The reader who is familiar with “The Legends of Florence” will remember that, in the second series of that work, {49} there are several tales referring to the Red Pillars of the Baptistery, of which, as Murray’s “Guide Book” states, “at each side of the eastern entrance of the Battisterio di San Giovanni there is a shaft of red porphyry, presented by the Pisans in 1117.” To which I added:

“Other accounts state that the Florentines attached immense value to these columns, and that once when there was to be a grand division of plunder between Florence and Pisa, the people of the former city preferred to take them, instead of a large sum of money, or something which was apparently far more valuable. And the Pisans parted from them most unwillingly, and to deprive them of value passed them through a fire. Which is all unintelligible nonsense, but which becomes clear when we read further.

“I had spoken of this to Mr. W. de Morgan, the distinguished scholar, artist, and discoverer in ceramics, when he informed me that he had found, in the ‘Cronaca Pisana’ of Gardo, a passage which clearly explains the whole. It is as follows:

“In the year 1016, the Pisans brought the gates of wood which are in the Duomo, and a small column, which is in the façade, or above the gate of the Duomo. There are also at the chief entrance two columns, about two fathoms each in length, of a reddish colour, and it is said that whoever sees them is sure in that day not to be betrayed. And these two columns which were so beautiful had been so enchanted by the Saracens, {50a} that when a theft had been committed the face of the thief could be seen reflected in them. And when they had scorched them they sent them to Florence, after which time the pillars lost their power; whence came the saying, _Fiorentini ciechi_, or ‘blind Florentines.’ {50b}

“Unto which was added, _Pisani traditori_, or ‘treacherous Pisans.’ Those pillars were, in fact, magic mirrors which had acquired their power by certain ceremonies performed when they were first polished, and which were lost.”

A German writer on witchcraft, Peter Goldschmidt, states that there was once in olden time in Constantinople a certain Peter Corsa, who, by looking in two polished stones or magic mirrors, beheld in them proof that his wife, then far away, was unfaithful to him. It is possible, or probable, that this refers to the same pillars, before they had been brought to Pisa, even as the column of the Medicis in the Piazza Annunciata was sent from the East to Florence.

What renders this the more probable is the following passage by Comparetti, given in his “Virgilio nel Medio Evo”:

“In a History of the Pisans, written in French in the fifteenth century and existing in manuscript in Berne, there is mention of two columns made by Virgil, and which were then in the cathedral of Pisa, on the tops of which one could see the likeness of anyone who had stolen or fornicated.” See De Sinner, “Catal. Codicum MSS. Bibl. Bernensis,” II., p. 129; Du Meril, “Mélanges,” p. 472.

It is most unlikely that the Pisans had _two_ pairs of columns, in each of which appeared the forms or phantoms or _simulacra_, of criminals, for which reason we may conclude that those in the Battisterio of Florence are quite the same as those which were said to have been made by Virgil. And it is also probable that the belief that they were made by Virgil went far to give them the great value which was attached to them. They should be called the columns of Virgil.

It may be observed that the Berne manuscript cited mentions that it was on the _top_ of the pillars that the visions were seen, and that the tops of the columns of the Battisterio have been knocked away, possibly by the Pisans, in order to deprive them of their peculiar value.

Virgil is also accredited with having made a statue which, like Mahomet’s coffin, hung free in mid-air, and was visible from every part of Rome, or in fact from every door and window. And it had the property that no woman who had once beheld it had, after that, any desire to behave improperly, which thing, according to the plainly-speaking author of “Les Faicts Merveilleux de Virgille,” was a sad affliction to the Roman dames, _qui aymoyent par amour_, since they could not put foot out of doors without seeing “that nasty-image” which prevented them from having _soulas de leurs amours_. So they all complained bitterly to Virgil’s wife, who promised to aid them. Therefore, one day when her husband was absent, she went up the bridge or ladder which led to the statue and threw down the latter. “So, from that time forth, the _dames de Rome firent à leur volonté et a leur plaisance_, _et furent bien ayses de lymage qui fut abbatu_.” Truly the Ibsenite and other novelists of the present day, but especially the lady realists of our time, have great cause to be thankful that no such statues are stuck up in the public places of our cities, for if such were the case their occupation would be gone for ever—or until they had overturned them.

Virgil would appear, however, to have been somewhat inconsistent in this matter of statues, or else desirous of demonstrating to the world that he could go to opposite extremes, since he made another, which is thus delicately hinted at in a footnote by Comparetti: {52}

“In contradizione con questo racconto in cui Virgilio apparisce come protettore del buon costume, trovasi un altro racconto, secondo il quale . . . egli avrebbe fatto una donna pubblica artificiale. Cosi Enenkel nel suo ‘Weltbuch’; vede V. J. Hagen, ‘Gesammtten Abenteuer,’ II., 515; Massmonn, ‘Kaiser Chronik,’ III., 451. Una leggenda rabbinica parla anch’ essa di una statua destinata a quell’ uso ed esistente in Romæ. Vede Praetorius, ‘Anthropodemus Plutonicus,’ I., 150, e Liebrecht nella ‘Germania di Pfeiffer,’ X., 414.”

The passage in Enenkel referred to is given with the rest of the “Weltbuch” by Comparetti, and is as follows:

“Virgilius der selbe man, Begunde nu ze Rôme gân, Und versuocht ’sain maisterschaft, Ob es wær’ wâr der teuvel kraft, Er macht’ ze Rôm’ ain stainein Weib Von Künste den het ainen Leib Swann’ ain Schalk, ain boeser Man Wolte ze ainem Weibe gân, Daz er gie zu dem Staine, Der boese, der unraine, Das im was bei des Staines Leib Recht als ob er wær im Weib, Nicht vür baz ich en sagen sol Main mainung ’witzt ihr alle wol.”

Bonifacius, in his “Ludicra,” Ravisius Textor (“Officina”), and Kornmann (“Curiosa”) have brought together all the instances in special chapters of men who have fallen in love with statues. I observe that in a late popular novel this device of the _donna artificiale_ is described in a manner which leaves actually nothing to be desired to the lovers of indecency, vileness, blasphemy, or “realism”—_c’est tout un_.

It may be observed that in another tale collected by me, Virgil has for his Egeria a statue called Pæonia, which comes to life when he would confer with her, and which I regard, on what is at least startling coincidence if not full proof, a tradition of Minerva-Pæonia and Esculapius.

The tale in question declares that the magician Virgil, who had a marked fancy for making statues love, or turning women into stone—ever petting or petrifying among the petticoats—had a third favourite, a Pæonia, who was marble when not specially required for other purposes than ornament. These three ladies suggest the Graces:

“Aglaia, Euphrosyne que Thaliaque splendida Clara letitiæ matres!”

It is probably by mere coincidence or chance that in Keats’ “Endymion” the habitual friend and comforter of the hero is:

“_Peona_, his sweet sister; of all those His friends, the dearest, . . . Whose eloquence did breathe away the curse. She led him like some midnight spirit-nurse.”

But that Peona, through all the poem, plays the part which Pæonia has with Virgil is unquestionable. It would seem as if there is, if not a spiritual, at least an æsthetic influence in names. _Nomen est omen_. “All Bobs are bobbish,” said a farmer, “and all Dicks dickies.”

VIRGIL AND ADELONE.

“Who would have ever said that amid the horrors of prison I would find a true friend to console me?”—BOETHIUS _to_ PATRICIUS.

“All by prayer and penitence May be at length forgiven.”

_Ballad of Sir Tannhäuser_.

There once lived in Florence a young man who was not really bad at heart, but utterly selfish, especially to his relations, and was without heed or feeling as to the sufferings of others. And, it being in his power, he wasted all the income of the family on sport, letting his brothers and sisters endure great privations; nor would he have cared much had they starved. He was like all such people—frivolous and capricious. If he met a poor child in the street, he would give it a gold crown, and then let all at home hunger for days.

One day his suffering mother went to Virgilio, and, telling him all about her son, begged the master, if it were possible, to reform him.

Virgilio said to her: “I will indeed do something which will bring thy son to his senses.”

The young man was named Adelone, and Virgilio, meeting him the next day, said:

“If thou wouldst fain see a strange thing indeed—such as thou hast erewhile prayed me to show thee by my art—then be to-night at twelve in the cloister of Santa Maria Novella, where thou wilt see and learn that which it is most needful for thee to know. But to behold and bear the sight thou muse be bold, for a faint heart will fail before it.”

Then Adelone, who, to do him justice, was no coward, did not fail to be in the cloister of Santa Maria Novella at the appointed hour. And as the last stroke of twelve was heard, Adelone saw before him the spirit of a young man named Geronio, who had died one year before, and who had been, as one like him in all respects, his most intimate friend. They were always together, and what one did the other joined in; both were reckless wasters of money, and selfishly indifferent to their families. And as Adelone looked at Geronio he saw in the face of the latter such an expression of awful suffering, that it was a torture to behold him. And Geronio, seeing this, said:

“Depart now, for it is time; but this night I will come to thee and remain with thee till morning.” {55}

And Adelone was glad to have seen Geronio once more, but greatly grieved at finding him in such suffering.

That night he was in his room, which was on the ground, and at the appointed hour the spirit came. And, looking with awe at his friend, Adelone said:

“I see that thou art in pain beyond all belief.”

“Yes,” replied Geronio; “I suffer the greatest agony, such as no mortal could endure. But I pray you come with me.”

Then the two sunk softly down into the earth, ever deeper and deeper in silent darkness, until Adelone saw that they were in an immense cavern, all of gray ice, dimly lighted, with dripping icicles hanging from the roof, and all the floor was covered with dirty, half-freezing water, under which was a bed of stinking mud, and over all was an air of sadness and wretchedness beyond description.

“This is my home,” said Geronio; “but it is as nothing compared to what I suffer in my soul—which is a thousand times more terrible than anything which mortals can imagine, for they have no idea of what spiritual torture is like, because they always think of pain as bodily. But know that I had rather be beaten or burned in fire for a year than suffer for an instant the remorse which I endure.”

“Can anything be done to help you?” asked Adelone.

“Yes, all can be done; and you can save me and not only give me peace, but do as much for thyself, and thereby escape what I have suffered. If thou wilt lead a good and loving life—good and kind to all, especially to thy family and friends, no longer wasting money and life on selfish follies, no longer neglecting duty and acting as an egoist—thus thou canst give me peace, and rescue me from this inferno. But woe unto thee, shouldst thou promise this and fail to keep thy word. For when thy time cometh, as come it will, thou wilt suffer as I do—yea, with redoubled remorse.”

Then Adelone, looking about him, saw many sad shades of men and women wandering or wading through the icy water; all people who had lived for themselves alone, all waiting till someone as yet alive should, by good conduct, save them. And none spoke, for they were doomed to silence. So they looked at one another, and passed on, and such looks were the only thing like comfort allowed them.

Then Adelone fell, as it seemed to him, asleep, and when he awoke he was in his own room, but he well knew that it was no dream which he had beheld. And from that hour he was another man, becoming as good as he had been bad, living to make all others happy, and devoted in every way to his family. And thereby he became for the first time truly contented.

* * * * *

Six months passed, and one night at twelve o’clock, on awaking, he saw before him Geronio, who no longer seemed to suffer as before, though there was still in his eyes something terrible.

“How is it with thee?” asked Adelone.

“Far better. Come with me.”

Then Adelone found himself in a great castle, which seemed like a free prison, which was grim and without comfort. Many souls were in it, but they were walking about together, or resting and conversing, apparently in no suffering. It was a joyless place, but not one of torture, nor was it filthy. {57}

“We do not suffer so much here,” said Geronio. “We have still much remorse, but at least we have the consolation of being able to converse one with another, and enjoy sympathy in sorrow.”

“What do you talk about?” asked Adelone.

“Chiefly about the people whom we hope will set us free. I talk of thee, because all my hope is in thee. I think of nothing else by day or night.”

Then Adelone returned to his home. After six months he beheld Geronio again. Again he found himself in a castle, but the spirits were conversing happily, many were singing hymns, they had guitars and mandolins, and here and there were vases of flowers which gave forth delightful perfume.

Geronio said to him:

“Here we are happier still, and, believe me, friend, if thou canst in this life make others as good as thou art, to love their relations and friends, and cease to be selfish, thereby everyone can save another soul, and win great reward for himself.”

Adelone replied:

“I truly will do all I can to content thee.”

From that day he did all that he could, not only to do good himself, but to cause others to act like him. Six months after this Geronio came to him and said:

“Now that I know that thou art truly good, learn that I am at peace. And as thou hast been the means of giving it to others, know that in future all good spirits will aid thee!”

It is not enough not to be a sinner. He who does not take care and pains and labour earnestly to make others happy will be punished as an evil-doer. He who does not love (us) is an enemy.

* * * * *

It is to be remarked in this, as in all the other tales from the same sources, when a moral end or plot is to be worked out, it is done without benefit of clergy or aid of priest, or the Church. For these are legends of the witches and wizards, who have ever been the foes, and consequently the hated and afflicted, of the orthodox. It is a curious reflection that as it has been said that the last savage in America will die with the last Indian, so the _strega_, or witch, will remain to the end a heathen. And I find curious emotion in the thought that what I have gathered, or am gathering, with such care, is the last remainder of antique heathenism in Europe. Superstitions there are everywhere, but in this kind Italy is alone.

VIRGIL AND DORIONE, or THE MAGIC VASE.

I have a vase in which I daily throw All scraps and useless rubbish—oh that I Had one wherein to cast away all thoughts, Imaginations, dreams and memories Which haunt and vex the soul, to disappear For ever, lost in fast forgetfulness! That were a vase indeed, and worth far more Than that which forms the subject of this tale.

Many centuries ago there was in Naples a young man named Dorione, who studied magic, and his master was a great sorcerer named Virgil. One evening Dorione found himself in company with friends, and there was present another wizard named Belsevo. {58} Now, there was not bread enough in the house for supper for all.

“Never mind,” remarked Belsevo. “He who hath art will find his bread in any part. Observe me.”

Taking a large vase, he turned it upside down and said:

“Viene pane! Abbiamo fame; Dimmi o Cerere del pane! Se questa grazia mi farai, Sempre fedele a te sarai.”

“Come, bread, to me, For hungry are we! Oh, Ceres, give us bread! Grant me this grace benign, And I will be ever thine!”

Then he removed the vase, and there were on the table eight small loaves.

Then Belsevo said to Dorione:

“Canst thou not give us wine for the bread, O scholar of the grand master Virgil?”

But Dorione, being only a beginner in magic, could not effect such a miracle, and was much ashamed because all laughed at him.

The next morning Dorione told what had happened to Virgil.

“Well didst thou deserve,” replied the master, “to be thus scoffed at and jeered, for a young magician should never play tricks at a table like a juggler to amuse fools. But thou hast been sufficiently punished, and to please thee I will give thee a fine present. And if thou canst not make bread come, thou shalt at least have the power to make it and other things disappear. I will give thee this vase of bronze. It is but small, as thou seest, but tell any object, however large, to disappear in it, then the vase will swallow it. Thou shalt keep for thyself in secret a house somewhere, and whatever the vase may swallow thou wilt find it in the house, however distant thou mayst be from it. Only say, ‘Go into the vase!’ and by the vase it will be swallowed up. But thou shalt never use it to steal, or for any dishonest purpose. So long as thou art honest it will serve, and none shall rob thee of it. And if that should come to pass, call to it and it will return to thee.”

Then Dorione took the vase, and thanked the grand master Virgil. After a time the scholar went on a long journey. Dorione possessed a small castle in a remote place in the mountains of Tuscany, and in it was a secret vault. “There,” he said, “I will send all that the vase may swallow. Many a thing may be come by honestly, if one knew how to send it away and where to put it.

“‘He who hath a cage, I’ve heard, In time will surely get a bird.’”

It came to pass that he became the secretary of a certain lord, who, like many of the brave gentry of his time, was ever at war with somebody, plundering or being plundered, every one in his turn, as fortune favoured.

“Up on the top of the hill to-day, Down in the dale to-morrow; Oft in the morning happy and gay, After a night of sorrow; For some must fall that others may rise, And the swallow goes chirping as she flies.”

One evening his master heard a trumpet afar, and, looking forth, seemed suddenly startled, like a man in great alarm. Pointing to a splendid suit of armour, he said:

“Seest thou that armour, Dorione? It is worth ten thousand crowns, and I would give ten thousand it were this instant in hell. I took it in a raid from the Grand Duke, and he will be here in ten minutes with all his men. If he finds the armour I shall lose my head. And there, too, is an iron chest full of gold and jewels—all plunder, and all in evidence against me.”

“If you will give it to me,” answered Dorione, “I will make it all vanish in an instant.”

“Yea, I give it with all my heart; but be quick about it, for the Grand Duke and his soldiers are at the gate, and I feel the rope round my neck!”

Then Dorione brought his vase in a minute, and uttered the conjuration:

“Vattene via! Vattene via! Roba bella, cosa mia! Vai nell’ istante al mio castello! Apri la bocca, vaso bello!”

“Hasten away! Begone! begone! All ye fine things which are now mine own, Fly to my castle—never pause; Beautiful vase, now open thy jaws.”

And in an instant the armour and chest went flying into the vase and disappeared.

Just as they vanished the Duke and his men entered, but though they sought in every cranny they found nothing; and so, having come for a bargain of wool, went away shorn, {60} as the proverb says.

“Thou hast saved my life,” said the Signore. “God only knows how you ran away with the things, but you are welcome to them. Truly I was glad to get them, but a thousand times better pleased to see them go.”