Part 7

One day the Signore and Dorione found themselves in a battle together, sore beset and separated from all their troop. They were in extremest danger of being killed. {61} When all at once there came an idea to Dorione, who had his vase slung to his side like a canteen. He pronounced the spell, ordering all the arms in the hands of the enemy to fly through the vase to his castle. In an instant swords and spears, daggers and battle-axes, had left their owners, who stood unarmed and amazed. So the two were saved.

The Signore took a great deal of booty, and rewarded Dorione very liberally, the more so because he was greatly delighted to see the gifts disappear in the vase—no matter what, all was fish to that net, and all the sheep black—and Dorione liked to please his kind master, especially in this way. Yes, to amuse him he would often wish away a gold-hilted and jewelled sword or helm from an enemy, and was pleased to hear the brave old knight laugh to see the things fly.

The generosity of the lord stopped, however, at a certain point. He had a beautiful daughter whom Dorione loved, _alla follia_, to distraction, but the father would not consent to bestow her on him. But it came to pass that one day the castle was besieged by a vast force, which spared neither man, woman nor child, and it seemed plain that the besieged must yield. The lord bade Dorione to cause the arms of the enemy to vanish.

“This time,” replied his secretary, “I cannot do it. The fame of my vase or of my power has spread far and wide, and the enemy have had their arms enchanted by a mighty sorcerer, so that I cannot take them.”

They fought on until of all the garrison only Dorione, with the lord and his daughter, were left alive. They were in extremity.

“And now,” thought Dorione, “something must be done, for there is many a wolf at the door. Let me see whether I cannot make the young lady go into my vase, and then her father.” So, bringing them together, he said:

“Signora bella, signora mia! La più bella che su questa terra sia! Ti prego—subito, subito, Di qua vattene via! Vai nell istante al mio castello, Vi troverai un vaso bello, Che la sua bocca aprira, E li dentro ti salvera!”

“Lovely lady, lady mine own, The fairest whom earth has ever known; Fly in a hurry, oh, fly away! Leave the castle—flit while you may, And off to my distant shelter flee! The beautiful vase is ready for thee, Who will open her mouth to take you in. Safe you will be when once within!”

In a second, ere the eye could follow, the young lady was whirled away mysteriously, and, the conjuration being repeated, then her father. After which Dorione prayed to the spirit of the vase, who was no other than Saint Virgil himself, {62a} to save him also. And in an instant he felt himself swallowed up like a bean in the mouth of a horse. And as soon he found himself in the vault of the castle with the lady and her father. And they were amazed, in looking about, to see what wealth was there gathered up, for Dorione had been very industrious in many a battle in sending arms and booty to his home.

Then all three, joining hands, danced and sang for joy to find themselves safe, Dorione and the lady doing the most rejoicing, because the lord had promptly said:

“After this you may get married.” And they had the wedding that night.

The good lord, as a proof of affection and esteem for Dorione, pronounced an oration of regret as a penance on himself for not having sooner consented to the nuptials, ending with these words: “And now let everyone here present drink a cask of wine, and get as drunk as a tile, or four fiddlers.” {62b}

VIRGIL AND THE LADY OF ICE AND WATER. {63}

“And truly at that time it came to pass That Virgil, by the power of sorcery, Made a fair lady, who did shine like glass Or diamonds with wondrous brilliancy, Whom to the Emperor he did present, And who therewith, I trow, was well content.”

VIRGILO IL MAGO (MS.).

It happened on a time that the Emperor, coming from Rome to Florence, was guest in the Duke’s palace, and treated so magnificently and in a manner so much after his own heart, that he was indeed well content.

Now, in those days there was in Florence no Signore who, when he gave an entertainment, did not invite Virgil, not only because he was the greatest poet in Italy, but because he always played some admirable trick or jest, which made men merry and was always new.

So at the first great feast the Emperor was greatly delighted at the endless jokes, as well as by the genius of the distinguished guest.

Therefore, when the Emperor, before his departure, gave in turn a great entertainment to all the nobles of Florence, as well as of Rome, who were in the city, he sent the first invitation to Virgil, requesting him at the same time to invent for the occasion a jest of the first magnitude.

So unto this for such occasion the magician gave all his mind. And that the Emperor should really “_catch_ the fly,” he resolved that the jest should be one at the Imperial expense—_e lo scherzo voleva farlo a lui medesimo_.

After long meditation he exclaimed, “_Ecco_, _l’ ho trovato_! I’ve got it! I will give him a girl made of water!”

Forthwith he wrote to the Emperor that he would not fail to be at the festival, but also begged permission to bring with him a beautiful young lady—his cousin.

The Emperor, who was very devoted to the fair sex, inferred from this directly that the jest was to be of a kind which would please all free gallants—that is to say, the being introduced to some easy and beautiful conquest—either wedded or a maid. And, delighted at the thought that the trick would take this turn, he replied to Virgil that he had _carta biancha_, or full permission to bring with him whomever he pleased.

Then the magician made a woman of ice and light and water, clear as the light of day he made her, and touched her thrice with his wand, and lo! she became beautiful—but such a beauty, indeed, that you would not find the like in going round the world; the sun or moon ne’er shone upon her like, for she was made of star-rays and ice and dewdrops, so that she looked like all the stars swimming in a burnished golden sky, and shining like the sun, so resplendent in her beauty that she dazzled the eyes.

When Virgilio arrived at the palace, all the guests were there before him, and they were so overwhelmed with blank amazement at the sight of the sorcerer with such a beauty, that they, in silence and awed, drew apart on either side, leaving open space through which Virgilio passed to the Emperor. And the latter was himself for a minute stupefied at the sight of such brilliancy and beauty, when, recovering himself, he gave his arm to the fair cousin, and asked her name. To which she replied: “_La Donna di Diaccio_” (ice).

“_Donna di Fuoco_! (Our Lady of Fire), {64} rather,” cried the Emperor, “since all hearts are inflamed at thy beauty. Truly, I had no idea that the great poet had such a lovely cousin!”

The dance began, and the Emperor would have no other partner than this lady, who outshone the rest as the moon the stars, and yet surpassed them even more by her exquisite grace in every movement, and by her skill as a dancer, so that one seemed to see a thousand exquisite statues or studied forms of grace succeeding to one another as she moved. Nor was she less fascinating in her language than in her beauty, and no wonder, for Virgilio had called into the form one of the wittiest and most gifted of all the fairies to aid the jest.

So the dance swept on, and the Emperor, utterly enchanted, forgot Virgilio and his promised jest, and the time, and the court, and all things save the beauty beside him. Finally he withdrew with her to a side-room, where, sending for refreshment, he sat pouring forth wine into himself and love into the ears of the lady by turns.

Virgil, indeed, wishing the Emperor to have a fine time of it for awhile, did nothing to disturb the splendid pair. But as daybreak would soon appear, he spoke to one and another, saying that he had promised the Emperor a merry jest to make them all laugh. Whereupon there was a general cry for the diversion, and by one consent the gay company invaded the room where the fond couple sat.

Then Virgil, with the greatest politeness and a laughing air, said:

“Excuse me, your Highness, but it seems that my fair cousin here has so engrossed you that you have forgotten that you laid an absolute command on me that I should prepare and play some rare jest, the like of which you had never seen, and I fear, should I forget it, you may ne’er forgive me.”

Then the Emperor, good-natured and grateful to the poet for his fair cousin’s sake, excused the intrusion, and begged for the jest, expressing a hope that it would be a thoroughly good one.

Then Virgil said to the Emperor:

“Take my cousin upon thy lap, and let her arms be round thy neck!”

“_Per Bacco_!” cried the Emperor, “the jest begins well!”

“And now embrace her firmly!” exclaimed Virgil.

“Better and better!” quoth the Emperor.

Then Virgil spoke solemnly to the lady, and said:

“What is thy name?”

“Donna di Diaccia,” was her reply.

“Then, Lady of Ice,” replied the wondrous man, “in the name of my magic power, I summon you to return to the ice from which you sprung, and to the water from which you were born!”

Then little by little, as she sat in the Emperor’s lap, the beautiful girl became a brilliant block of ice, and truly the great man, as his fingers and all his person began to freeze, was fain to place the image on the sofa, where they saw it presently thaw—features and feet and all dispersing, and running away in a stream, till every trace had flown, and the Emperor and the company understood that they had been admiring a Woman of Water.

There was a pause of utter bewilderment, as of awe, at this strange ending, and then a roar of laughter, in which the Emperor himself finally joined, crying: “_Viva Virgilio_! Long may he flourish with his magic art!” And so the feast ended with the clattering of cups, laughter, and merry cheers.

[So the Donna di Diaccio was a spirit? Certainly—the Spirit of Ice-water. If there is spirit in vermouth, why should there not be one in the iced water which you mix with it?]

* * * * *

This story may remind the reader of “Our Lady of the Snow,” or Byron’s “Witch of the Alps,” or Shelley’s “They all seem to be Sisters,” or else suggest “Frozen Champagne,” and “Philadelphia Frozen Oysters.”

VIRGIL THE MAGICIAN, OR THE FOUR VENUSES.

“Maint autres grand clercs ont estè Au monde de grand poesié Qui aprisrent tote lor vie, Des sept ars et le astronomie, Dont aucuns i ot qui a leur tens, Firent merveille par lor sens; Mais cil qui plus s’en entremist, Fu Virgile qui mainte enfist. Pour ce si vous en conterons Aucune dont oi avons.”

_L’Image du Monde_ (1245).

Virgilio was as great a magician as he was a distinguished post. And of the great works which he did when alive many are yet remembered here in Florence, and among other things his skill was such that by means of it he made statues sing and dance.

_Ecco come avenne_—behold how it came to pass! It chanced one day that when walking alone in the environs of Florence, he found himself in a place where there were four very beautiful Venuses. {67} And looking at them with great admiration, and observing their forms, he said:

“Truly they all please me well; and if they could converse I hardly know which I would choose for a companion. _Ebbene_! I will make them all talk and walk, live and move, and can then see if anyone of them will show any gratitude for the gift of life.”

Then he took human fat, and anointed with it all the statues, and then of the blood of a wild boar, and rubbed it very thoroughly over them, and when this was done he waved his magic wand, and said:

“In the name of my magic art and power I order you to speak and move and live!”

And with this they all awoke, as it were, from a long dream, and stepping down from their pedestals, they walked about, seeming far more beautiful than before. And they gathered round Virgil, for truly they were enchanted with him as well as by him, in more ways than one, and embraced and kissed him with a thousand caresses and endearments, and each and all wished him to select her as his mate.

Then Virgilio, laughing, said:

“I know not which to choose among the four; I cannot make all four into a wife; But to determine who shall be the first, Do ye go forth and seek each one a gift, And come to-morrow evening to my house, And she who brings the gift which I prefer Shall be the fair one first preferred by me.”

And on the following eve the first who came was the Venus Agamene; thus was she called who brought the first gift, and this was a splendid diamond. Virgilio received it with admiration, but said that he must wait to see what the others would bring before he could decide.

Then the second was announced, whose name was Enrichetta, and she presented a marvellous garment, richly embroidered and adorned. And this too was admired; but to her also Virgilio said he would await what was to come.

The third, whose name was Veronica, brought such a wonderful bouquet of flowers that the magician was more pleased with it than he had been by the diamond or the robe.

Then there came the fourth, called Diomira, and she brought a splendid crown of —. {68} And Virgil preferred this to all, and gave the prize to Diomira. So he bade them all come the next evening to a grand festival. And when they came, it was indeed a wonderful assembly, for there were present, and in life, all the statues from all the palaces. They came down from their pedestals and danced in the house of Virgilio—nor did they return until the early dawn; and so it came to pass that on that night all the statues spoke and danced.

“They danced so merrily all the night, Till the sun came in with a rosy light, And touched the statues fair, When in an instant every one Was changed again to marble stone. Per Bacco! I was there!”

* * * * *

It is not remarkable that there should be so many tales in Italy of statues speaking or coming to life. They abounded among the Romans, and are to be found in later literature. Bonifacius, in his “Ludicra,” as I have said, collects instances of men who have loved statues, and Zaghi, whom I shall quote again directly, does the same. But the idea of images speaking is so natural that we need not have recourse to tradition to account for its existence.

Among the archaic and very curious traditions in this tale we are told that Virgil rubbed the statues with human fat and the blood of a wild boar. Both of these occur not only in witchcraft, but also in the wild science of the earlier time, as potent to give or take life. For the blood of a boar that of a bull is equivalent. In the recipes for preparing the celebrated poison of the Borgias one or the other is presented. That of the boar still exists in the poisoning common in Germany caused by eating _Blutwurst_. In the “Selva di Curiosità,” by Gabriel Zaghi, 1674, there is a chapter (xx.) devoted to showing that bull’s blood—_sangue di toro_—is a deadly poison; to prove this he cites Plutarch, Pliny, Dioscorides, and others, from which it appears that the idea is ancient. That it gives life to statues in the tale is quite in keeping with the strange and rude homœopathy which is found in Paracelsus, and all the writers on mystical medicine of his time, from which Hahnemann drew his system, _i.e._, that what will kill can also cure, or revive.

It is very remarkable that in this tale Agamene brings a diamond. According to Hyginius (“Astronom.,” II., 13, _vide_ Friedrich, “Symbolich der Natur.,” p. 658), Aega (or Aegamene) nursed the youthful Jupiter. In another legend (No. 1) Virgil is the son of Jove. “Aega was a daughter of the Sun, and of such brilliancy that the Titans, dazzled by her splendour, begged their mother _Gäa_, or Gea, to hide her in the earth.” This clearly indicates a diamond. Jupiter transformed her into a star.

It is simply possible, and only a conjecture of mine, that in Diomira we find the name of Diomedea, the _Diomedea necessitas_ of Plato (“De Repub,” lib. 6), who carried all before her. Diomira conquers all her rivals in this legend. She is the _Venus Victrix_.

I cannot help believing when we find such curious instances of tradition as that of Aega, or Agamene, surviving in these tales, that there is a possibility that the whole story may, more or less, be of classic or very ancient origin. We are not as yet able to _prove_ it, and so there are none who attach much value to these fragments. But a day will come when scholars will think more of them. That there still survives a great deal of Græco-Latin lore which was not recorded by classic writers has become to us a certainty. Therefore it is possible, though not now to be proved, that these statues of Virgil had a common origin with the image of Selostre, or _Testimonium luminis_, described by Pausanius, which spoke when the sun rose or at the Aurora.

If it be possible, and it certainly is conjectural, that Diomira is the same with Diadumena, we have beyond question a very remarkable illustration of old tradition surviving in a popular tale; for Diadumena, or “She who binds her forehead with a fillet,” or band, was the name of one of the most beautiful statues of Polycletus. According to Winkelmann (“Ist. dell Acte,” lib. 6, cap. 2), this statue was very frequently copied and familiarly known. A statue in the Villa Farnese is believed to be an imitation of it. Were this conjecture true, the gift brought by Diomira would be the fillet which Virgil wears by tradition, as typical of a poet. An ornament, fillet, or tiara is, effectively, a crown. Therefore, the meaning of the myth is that a true poet is such by necessity; he cannot help it—_poeta nascitur_, _non fit_.

VIRGIL, THE LADY, AND THE CHAIR.

“Now the golden chair wherein Juno was compelled to sit, by the artifice of Vulcan, means that the earth is the mother of riches, and with it that part of the air which cannot leave the earth, Juno being air.”—NATALIS COMITIS: _Mythologia_, lib. ii., 79 (1616).

“Thou wolt algates wete how we be shape! Thou shalt hereafterward, my brother dere, Come wher thee needeth not of me to lere, For thou shalt by thine own experience Conne in a chaiere rede of this sentence Better than Virgile while he was on live Or Dante also.”

CHAUCER: _The Frere’s Tale_.

There once lived in Rome a very great, rich, and beautiful Princess, but she was as bad at heart as could be, and her life was of the wickedest. However, she kept up a good appearance, and was really at last in love with a fine young man, who returned her affections.

But Virgil, knowing all, and pitying the youth, said to him that the woman would certainly be the cause of his ruin, as she had been of many others, and told him so many terrible things of her, that he ceased to visit the Princess.

And she, first suspecting and then learning what Virgil had done, fell into bitter hatred, and swore that she would be revenged on him.

So one evening she invited the Emperor and many nobles, among them Virgil, to a splendid supper.

And being petty and spiteful by nature, the Princess had devised a mean trick to annoy Virgil. For she had prepared with great craft a chair, the seat of which was of paper, but which seemed to be of solid wood. It appeared to be a handsome seat of great honour.

But when the great man sat on it, there was a great crash, and he went down, indeed, but with his legs high in the air. So there was a peal of laughter, in which he joined so heartily and said so many droll things over it, that one would have thought he had contrived the jest himself, at which the lady was more angry than ever, since she had hoped to see him angry and ashamed. And Virgil, taking all the blame of the accident on himself, promised to send her in return a chair to pay for it. And he requested leave to take the proper measure for it, so that she might be fitly taken in.

Which she was. For, having returned to his home, Virgil went to work and had a splendid chair made—_con molto artifizio_. With great art he made it, with much gold inlaid with pearls, studded with gems. It was all artificial. {72}

And having finished it, Virgil begged the Emperor to send it to the Princess as a gift.

The Emperor did so at the proper time, but there was in it a more cunning trick than in the one which she had devised. For there were concealed therein several fine nets, or snares, so that whoever sat in it could not rise.

Then the Princess, overjoyed at this magnificent gift, at once sent an invitation to her friends to come to a supper where she could display it; nor did she suspect any trick, having no idea that she had any enemy.

And all came to pass as Virgil planned. For the lady, having seated herself in great state, found herself caught, and could not rise.

Then there was great laughter, and it was proposed that everyone present should kiss her. And as one beginning leads to strange ending, the end thereof was that they treated her _senza vergogna_, saying that when a bird is once caught in a snare, everybody who pleases may pluck a feather.

* * * * *

The classical scholar will find in this tale a probable reminiscence of the chair made by Vulcan wherein to entrap Juno, in which he succeeded, so that she was made to appear ridiculous to all the gods. It is worth noting in this connection that such chairs are made even to the present day, and that without invisible nets or any magic. One is mentioned in a book entitled “The Life of Dr. Jennings the Poisoner” (Philadelphia, T. B. Peterson, Bros.). If any person sat in it, he or she fell back, and certain clasps closed over the victim, holding him or her down perfectly helpless, rendering robbery or violence easy. Since writing the foregoing, I have in a recent French novel read a description of such a chair, with the additional information that such seats were originally invented for and used by physicians to confine lunatic patients. A friend of mine told me that he had seen one in a house of ill-fame in New York.

The legend of the Lady and the Chair suggests a very curious subject of investigation. It is very probably known to the reader that, to make a mesmerized or hypnotized subject remain seated, whether he or she will or not, is one of the common experiments of the modern magicians. It is thus described by M. Debay in his work “Les Mystères du Sommeil et Magnetisme.”

The operator asks the subject, “Are you asleep?”

“No.”

“Rise from your chair.” (_He rises_.) “Tell all present that you are not asleep.”

“No. I am wide awake.”

The operator takes the subject by the hand, leads him to different persons present with whom he is acquainted, and asks him if he knows them. He replies:

“Certainly I know them.”

“Name them.”

He does so.

“All right. Now sit down.” (_The subject obeys_.) “And now I forbid you to rise. It is for you impossible—you cannot move!”

The subject makes ineffectual efforts to rise, but remains attached to the chair as if held fast by an invisible power.

The operator then says:

“Now you may rise. I permit you to do so. Rise—I order it!”

The subject rises from the chair without an effort.