Chapter VIII: Part 8

Meanwhile the latter for a time enjoyed life as she had never done before; but though she looked anxiously to the right and the left for a husband, found none, the well-to-do young men being quite as anxious to wed wealth as she was, and all of them soon discovered on inquiry that she had little or nothing, despite her style of living, and her money rapidly melted away, till at last she found that to live she must work—there was no help for it. With what remained she bought a fine loom and thread, and sat down to weave; but though she succeeded in making common stuff like others, it was not silk, nor anything like it, nor was there anyone who would buy what she made. In despair she remembered what Mamma Nunzia had solemnly said to her, that she must never part from the old loom, so she went to Ermelinda to reclaim it. But her false friend, although she could do nothing with the loom herself, was not willing that Gega, whom she hated with all her heart, should in any way profit, and declared that her mother had broken up and burned the rubbishy old thing, and to this story she adhered, and when Gega insisted on proof of it, drove her in a rage out of the house.

While Mamma Nunzia was living she, being a very wise woman, had taught Gega with care the properties and nature of plants, roots, herbs, and flowers, saying that some day it might be of value to her, as it is to everyone. So whenever they had a holiday they had gone into the fields and woods, where the girl became so expert that she could have taught many a doctor very strange secrets; and withal, the Mamma also made her learn the charms and incantations which increase the power of the plants. So now, having come to her last coin, and finding there was some profit in it, she began to gather herbs for medicine, which she sold to chemists and others in the towns. And finding a deserted old tower in a wild and rocky place, she was allowed to make it her home; and indeed, after all she had gone through, and her disappointment both as to friends and lovers, she found herself far happier when alone than when in a town, where she was ashamed to meet people who had known her when she lived in style.

One evening as she was returning home she heard a groaning in the woods as of someone in great suffering, and, guided by the sound, found a poor old woman seated on a stone, who told her that she had hurt her leg by slipping from a rock. And Gega, who was as strong as she was kind and compassionate, carried the poor soul in her arms to the tower, where she bound an application of healing herbs to the wound, and bade her remain and welcome.

“I have nothing to give you for it all,” said the old woman on the following day.

“Nor did I do it in the hope of aught,” replied Gega.

“And yet,” said the sufferer, “I might be of use to you. If, for example, you have lost anything, I can tell you how to recover it or where it is.”

“Ah!” cried Gega, “if thou canst do that, thou wilt be a friend indeed, for I have lost my fortune—it was a loom which was left to me by Mamma Nunzia. I did not regard her advice never to part with it, and I have bitterly repented my folly. I trusted it to a friend, who betrayed me, for she burned it.”

“No, my dear, she did nothing of the kind,” replied the old woman; “she has it yet, and I will make it return to thee.”

Then she repeated this invocation:

“Telaio! Telaio! Telaio!
Che per opera e virtú
Del gran mago Virgilio
Fosti fabricato,
E di tante virtù adornato
Ti prego per opera e virtu
Del gran mago Virgilio
Tu possa di una tela
Di oro di argento
Essere ordito.
E come il vento,
Dalla casa di Ermelinda,
Tu possa sortire,
Sortire e tornare
Nella vecchia sofitta
Della figlia mia
Per opera e virtú
Dal gran mago Virgilio!”

“Loom! Loom! O loom!
Who by the labour and skill
Of the great magician Virgil
Wert made so long ago,
And gifted with such power!
I pray thee by that skill
And labour given by
Virgil, the great magician,
As thou canst spin a web
Of silver or of gold,
Fly like the wind away
From Ermelinda’s house
Into the small old room
Where once my daughter dwelt,
All by the skill and power
Of great Virgilius!”

When in an instant they were borne away on a mighty wind and found themselves in the old room, and there also they found the loom, from which Gega could now weave at will cloth of gold or silver as well as silk.

Then the old woman looked steadily at Gega, and the girl saw the features of the former change to those of Nunzia, and as she embraced her, the old woman said:

“Yes, I am Mamma Nunzia, and I came from afar to restore to thee thy loom; but guard it well now, for if lost thou canst never recover it again. But if thou shouldst ever need aught, then invoke the grand magician Virgil, because he has always been my god.” {177}

Having said this, she departed, and Gega knew now that Nunzia was a white witch or a fairy. So, becoming rich, she was a lady, and ever after took good care of her loom and distrusted flattering friends.

* * * * *

This legend exists as a fairy-tale in many forms, and may be found in many countries; perhaps its beginning was in that of the princess who could spin straw into gold. To have some object which produces food or money _ad libitum_ when called on, to be cheated out of it, and finally be revenged on the cheater, is known to all.

Virgil is in one of these tales naïvely called a saint, and in this he is seriously addressed as a god, by which we, of course, understand a classical heathen deity, or any spirit powerful enough to answer prayer with personal favours. But Virgil as the maker of a magic loom which yields gold and silk, and as a _god_ at the same time, indicates a very possible derivation from a very grand ancient myth. The reader is probably familiar with the address of the Time Spirit in Goethe’s “Faust”:

“In Being’s flood, in action’s storm,
I work and weave, above, beneath—
Work and weave in endless motion
Birth and Death—an infinite ocean,
A-seizing and giving
The fire of the Living.
’Tis thus at the roaring loom of Time I ply,
And weave for God the garment thou see’st Him by.”

Thomas Carlyle informs us, in “Sartor Resartus,” that of the thousands who have spouted this really very intelligible formula of pantheism, none have understood it—implying thereby that to him it was no mystery. But Carlyle apparently did not know, else he would surely have told the reader, that the idea was derived from the Sanskrit myth that Maya (delusion or appearance), “the feminine half of the divine primitive creator (Urwesen), was represented as weaving the palpable universe from herself, for which reason she was typified as a spider.” {178} Hence Maia of the Greeks; and it is a curious coincidence that Maia in the Neapolitan legends is the mother of Virgil, all of which is confused, and may be accidental, but there may also be in it the remains of some curious and very ancient tradition. The spider was, however, certainly the emblem of domestic, stay-at-home, steady industry, as Friedrich illustrates, therefore of prosperity, hence it is believed to bring luck to those on whom it crawls, as set forth in the novel of “The Red Spider.” And it is evident that the moral of this tale of Virgil’s loom is to the effect that the heroine gained her good fortune by hard work at home, and came to grief by gadding abroad and playing the belle.

That Maia, or Illusion or Glamour, should, according to our tradition, be the mother of the greatest thaumaturgist, wonder-worker, poet, and sorcerer of yore is curious. That the original Maya of India should be the living loom from which the universe is spun, and that in another tale the _same_ magician, her son, is a god who makes a magic loom which spins gold, silver, and silk, may be all mere chance coincidence, but, if so, it is strange enough to rank as a miracle _per se_.

The name Gega, with _g_ the second soft, is very nearly _Gaia_, the Goddess of the Earth, who was one with Maia, as a type of the Universe.

As I regard this as a tradition of some importance, I would state that it owes nothing whatever to any inquiry, hint, or suggestion from me; that it was gathered from witch authority by Maddalena, near Prato; and, finally, that it is very faithfully translated, with the exception of the passages indicated by brackets, which were inserted by me to make the text clearer—a very necessary thing in most of these tales, where much is often palpably omitted. I have seldom had a story so badly written as this was; it appears to have been taken down without correction from some illiterate old woman, who hardly understood what she was narrating.

It is to be observed that in a number of these tales the proper names are strangely antique and significant. They are not such as are in use among the people, they would not even be known to most who are tolerably well read. I have only found several after special search in mythologies, etc.; and yet they are, I sincerely believe, in all cases appropriate to the tradition as in this case.

VIRGIL AND THE PRIEST.

“Beware, beware of the Black Friar,
Who sitteth by Norman stone.”—BYRON.

“Seven times shall he be accursed who returns evil for good, and
seven times seven he who lives for himself alone, but seventy times
seven the one who wrongs the orphan, the weak, the helpless, the
widow or the young!”—_The Ladder of Sin_.

There is in Arezzo a lonely old lane or silent street where few people care to go after dark, nor do they love it much even by daylight, the reason being that it is haunted, for many have seen walking up and down in it after midnight the form of a ghostly friar, who is ever muttering to himself. So he wanders, speaking to none, but now and then he seems to be in great distress, and screams as if in agony, when light dim flames fly from his mouth and nostrils, and then he suddenly vanishes.

It is said that long, long ago there lived in or near Arezzo a poor young orphan girl who had no relations, and had been taken in charity as a servant in a farmer’s family, where she was not unkindly treated, but where everything was in harsh contrast to the life which she had led at home, for her parents, though poor, were gentle folk, and had brought her up tenderly.

So it happened that when at Easter she was ordered to kill for the usual feast a pet lamb, because all the rest were too busy to attend to it, she could not bring herself to do it, and wept bitterly when the lamb looked at her, which the master and mistress could not understand, and thought her very silly. And being deeply grieved at all this, she could eat nothing, and so went along weeping, wishing that her life were at an end. And while walking she met a priest, who was indeed a black sheep of the flock, or rather a wolf, for he was a hardened villain at heart, and ready for any knavery; and he, seeing that the girl, whose name was Ortenzia, was in distress, drew from her all her sad story, and was very much interested at learning that she had some small store of money and a few jewels and clothes, which her mother had charged her not to part with, but to keep till she should be married or for dire need.

Then the priest, pretending great sympathy and pity, said that the farm was no place for her, and that he himself was in great need of a maid-servant, and if she would come and live with him she should be to him as a daughter, and treated like a lady, with much more honeyed talk of the kind, till at last she assented to his request, at which he greatly rejoiced, and bade her be careful to bring with her all her property; whereupon he lost no time in inducing her to sign a paper transferring it all to him, which she in her ignorance very willingly did.

The poor child found very soon indeed that she had only changed the frying-pan for the fire, for the same night the priest made proposals to her, which she rejected in anger, when he attempted force, which she resisted, being strong and resolute, and declared that she would leave his house at once. But when she asked for her money and small property he jeered at her, saying that she had _given_ it to him, and all the law in the land could not take it away. And more than this, he declared she was possessed by a devil, and would certainly be damned for resisting him, and that he would excommunicate and curse her. Hearing all this, the girl became mad in fact, and rushed forth. For a long time she went roaming about the roads, in woods, and living on what people gave her in pity; but no one knew what it was that had turned her brain, and the priest, of course, said all that was ill and false of her.

One day, as the poor lunatic sat in a lonely place singing and making bouquets of wild-flowers, the priest passed, and he, seeing her still young and beautiful, was again inspired by passion, and threw his arms about her. She, seized with horror, again resisted, when all at once a voice was heard, and there stood before them a tall and dignified man, who said to the priest:

“Leave untouched that poor girl, who is all purity and goodness, thou who art all that is vile and foul!”

Then the priest, in great terror and white as death, replied:

“Pardon me, Signore Virgilio!”

“What thou hast deserved, thou must endure,” replied Virgil, “and long and bitter must thy penance be; but first of all restore to this poor creature all that of which thou hast robbed her, and make a public avowal of her innocence and of all thy crimes.”

And this he did; when Virgil said:

“Now from this hour thy spirit shall haunt the street where thou hast lived, and thou shalt never leave it, but wander up and down, thinking of all the evil thou hast wrought. And when thou wouldst curse or rage, it shall come forth from thy mouth in flames, and therewith thou shalt have some short relief.”

As for the girl, she was restored to health, and Virgil made for her a happy life, and she married well, and after a long and prosperous life passed away, having founded a great family in the land.

But the goblin friar still haunts the street in Arezzo, for he has not yet fully and truly repented, and a life as evil as his leaves its stain long after death.

IL GIGLIO DI FIRENZE, OR THE STORY OF VIRGIL AND THE LILIES.

“The lily is the symbol of beauty and love. By the Greeks it was
called Χαρμα Αφροδιτης, the joy of Venus, and according to Alciatus,
Venus Urania was represented with a lily in her hand.”—J. B.
FRIEDRICH: _Die Symbolik der Natur_.

This story is of the lily, or the _stemma_, or crest of Florence. One day Virgilio went forth to walk when he met with a Florentine, who saluted him, saying:

“Thou truly shouldst be a Florentine, since thou art by name a _vero giglio_”—a true lily (_Ver_’-_giglio_).

Then the poet replied:

“Truly I am entitled to the name, since our first ancestors were as the lilies of the field, who toiled not, neither did they spin, hence it came that they left me nothing.”

“But thou wilt leave a lordly heritage,” replied the nobleman, smiling; “the glory of a great name which shall honour all thy fellow-citizens, and which will ever remain in the shield as the flower of Florence.” {182}

* * * * *

This is a pretty tale, though it turns on a pun, and has nothing more than that in it. Much has been written to prove that the lilies in the shields of France and Florence and on the ends of sceptres are not lilies, but there can be no reasonable doubt of its Latin symbolical origin. Among the Romans the lily was the emblem of public hope, of patriotic expectation, hence we see Roman coins with lilies bearing the mottoes: _Spes Publica_, _Spes Augusta_, _Spes Populi Romani_, and Virgil himself, in referring to Marcellus, the presumed heir to the throne of Augustus, makes Anchises cry: “Bring handfuls of lilies!”

This did not occur to me till after translating the foregoing little tradition, and it is appropriate enough to suggest that it may have had some connection with the tale. The idea of its being attached to power, probably in reference to the community governed, was ancient and widely spread. Not only was the garment of the Olympian Jupiter adorned with lilies, {183a} but the old German Thor held in one hand the lightning and in the other a lily sceptre {183b} indicating peace and purity, or the welfare of the people. The lily was also the type of purity from its whiteness, the origin of which came from Susanna the Chaste, who during the Babylonian captivity remained the only virgin. Susan is in Hebrew _Shusam_, which means a lily. “This was transferred to the Virgin Mary.” Hence the legend that Saint Ægidius, when the immaculateness of the Virgin was questioned, wrote in sand the query as to whether she was a maid before, during, and after the Conception, whereupon a lily at once grew forth out of the sand, as is set forth in a poem by the German Smetz—of which lily-legends of many kinds there are enough to make a book as large as this of mine.

The cult of the lily in a poetical sense was carried to a great extent at one time. The Dominican P. Tommaso Caraffa, in his “Poetiche Dicerie,” or avowed efforts at fine writing, devotes a page of affected and certainly florid Italian to the “Giglio,” and there are Latin poems or passages on it by Bisselius, P. Laurent le Brun, P. Alb. Ines, given by Gandutius (“Descriptiones Poeticæ”), Leo Sanctius and A. Chanutius. There is also a passage in Martial eulogizing the flower in comparing to it the white tunic given to him by Parthenio:

“Lilia tu vincis, nec adhuc dilapsa ligustra,
Et Tiburtino monte quod albet ebur.
Spartanus tibi cedit color, Paphiæque columna
Cedit Erithræis eruta gemma vadis.”

I saw once upon a time in Venice a magnificent snow-white carpet covered with lilies—a present from the Sultan to the well-known English diplomat and scholar, Layard—to which it seems to me that those lines of the Latin poet would be far more applicable than they could have been to what was in reality about the same as an ordinary clean shirt or blouse—for such was in fact the Roman tunic. It must, however, be candidly admitted that he does good service to humanity who in any way renders romantic, poetic, or popular, clean linen or personal purity of any kind.

VIRGIL AND THE BEAUTIFUL LADY OF THE LILY.

“Ecce tibi viridi se _Lilia_ candice tollunt,
Atque humiles alto despactant vertice flores
Virginea ridente coma.”

P. LAURENCE LE BRUN, _El._ 50, 1. 7.

Once the Emperor went hunting, when he heard a marvellously sweet voice as of a lady singing, and all his dogs, as if called, ran into the forest.

The Emperor followed and was amazed at seeing a lady, beautiful beyond any he had ever beheld, holding in one hand a lily and wearing a broad girdle as of steel and gold, which shone like diamonds. The dogs fawned round her when the Emperor addressed her, but as he spoke she sank into the ground, and left no trace.

The Emperor came the second day also, alone, and beheld her again, when she disappeared as before.

The third day he told the whole to Virgil, and took the sage with him. And when the lady appeared Virgil touched her with his wand, and she stood still as a statue.

Then Virgil said:

“Oh, my lord, consider well this Lady of the Lily, and especially her girdle; for in the time when that lady shall lose that girdle Florence will gain more in one year than it now increases in ten.”

And with this the lady vanished as before, and they returned home.

VIRGIL AND THE DAUGHTER OF THE EMPEROR OF ROME.

“As the lily dies away
In the garden, in the plain,
Then as beautiful and gay
In the summer comes again;
So may life, when love is o’er,
In a child appear once more.”

The following strange legend, which was taken down by Maddalena from some authority to me unknown, near Arezzo, is so imperfectly told in the original, and is, moreover, so evidently repieced and botched by an ignorant narrator, that I at first rejected it altogether; but finding on consideration that it had some curious relations with other tales, I determined to give it for what it may be worth.

* * * * *

Once the Emperor of Rome was in his palace very melancholy, nor could he rally (_ralegrarla_), do what he might. Then he went forth into the groves to hear the birds sing, for this generally cheered him, but now it was of no avail.

Then he sent a courier to Florence, and bade him call Virgil with all haste.

Virgil followed the messenger at full speed.

“What wilt thou of me?” asked the sorcerer of the Emperor.

“I wish to be relieved from the melancholy which oppresses me. I want joy.”

“Do like me, and thou wilt always have a peaceful mind:

“‘I work no evil to any man;
I ever do what good I can.
He who acts thus has ever the power
To turn to peace the darkest hour!’”

“Nor do I recall that I ever did anything to regret,” replied the Emperor.

“Well, then, come with me, for I think that a little journey will be the best means of distracting your mind and relieving you from melancholy.”

“Very well,” replied the Emperor. “Lead where you will; anything for a change.”

“We will take a look at all the small districts of Tuscany,” answered Virgil.

“Going from the Florentino,
Through Valdarno to Casentino;
Where’er we see the olives bloom,
And smell the lily’s rich perfume,
And mountains rise and rivulets flow,
Thither, my lord, we two will go.”

To which the Emperor replied:

“Where’er you will, all things to see,
High or low—’tis all one to me,
If I can only happy be.”

So they travelled on through many places, but the Emperor was ever dull and sad; but when in Cortona he said that he felt a little better, and went forth with Virgil to look about the town.

[And it was unto this place and to a certain end that Virgil led his lord.]

Passing along a street, they saw at a window a girl of extraordinary beauty, who was knitting. . . . {187a}

The girl instead of being angered, laughed, showing two rows of beautiful teeth, and said:

“Thou mayst become gold, and the skein a twist of gold.”

The girl was utterly surprised and confused at this, and knew not whether to accept or refuse (the gift offered).

The Emperor said to Virgil:

“Just see how beautiful she is. I would like to win her love, and make her mine.”

“Always the same song,” replied Virgil. “You never so much as say, ‘I wish she were my daughter.’”

“She can never be my daughter,” answered the Emperor; “but as she is as poor as she is beautiful, she may very easily become my love. Honour is of no value to a poor person.”

“Nay,” replied Virgil, “when the poor know its value, it is worth as much to them as gold to you who are wealthy. {187b} And it is from your neglecting this that you have so long suffered, you knew not why [but an evil deed will burn, though you see no light and know not what it is]. For thus didst thou once betray a poor maid, and then cast her away without a further thought, not even bestowing aught upon her. And thou hadst a daughter, and her mother now lies ill and is well nigh to death. And it is this which afflicted thee [for every deed sends its light or shadow at some time unto the doer]. And now, if thou dost not repair this wrong, thou wilt never more know peace, and shalt ever sit in the chair of penitence.”

“And where is my daughter and her mother?” asked the Emperor.

“That girl is the daughter, and if you would see her mother, follow me,” replied Virgil.

When they entered the room where the dying woman lay, the Emperor recognised in her one whom he had loved.

“Truly,” he said, “she was the most beautiful to me of all.”

And he embraced and kissed her; she was of marvellous beauty; she asked him if he recognised their daughter.

“I recognise and acknowledge her,” he replied. “Wilt thou live?”

“No,” she replied; “for I have lived to the end, and return to life. [I am a fairy (_fata_) who came to earth to teach thee that fortune and power are given to the great not to oppress the weak and poor, but to benefit.”]

Saying this she died, and there remained a great bouquet of flowers.

The Emperor took his daughter to the palace, where she passed for his niece, and with her the flowers in which he ever beheld his old fairy love, and thus he lived happy and contented.

* * * * *

To supply a very important omission in this legend, I would add that the bouquet was certainly of lilies, as occurs in other legends, and the real meaning of the whole is a very significant illustration of the history and meaning of the flower. Old writers and mythic symbolism, as Friedrich and many more have shown, believed that Nature taught, not vaguely and metaphorically, but directly, many moral lessons, and that of the lily was purity and truth. By comparing this with the other stories relating to this flower which I have given, it will hardly be denied that my conjectural emendations formed part of the original, which the narrator had not remembered or understood.

There is something beautifully poetical in the fancy that spirits, _fata_, assume human form, that they by their influence on great men, princes or kaisars, may change their lives, and teach them lessons by means of love or flowers. This makes of the tale an allegory. It was in this light that Dante saw all the poems of Virgil, as appears by passages in the “Convito,” in which curious book (p. 36, ed. 1490) there is a passage declaring that the world is round and hath a North and South Pole, in the former of which there is a city named Maria, and on the other one called Lucia, and that Rome is 2,600 miles from the one, “more or less,” and 7,500 miles from the other.

“And thus do men, each in his different way,
From fancies unto wilder fancies stray.”

Or as the same great poet expresses it in the same curious book: “Man is like unto a weary pilgrim upon a road which he hath never before travelled, who every time that he sees from afar a house, deems that it is the lodging which he seeks, and finding his mistake, believes it is the next, and so he erreth on from place to place until he finds the tavern which he seeks. And ’tis the same, be it with boys seeking apples or birds, or their elders taking fancies to garments, or a horse, or a woman, or wealth, ever wanting something else or more and so ever on.”

The lily in Italian tales is the flower of happy, saintly deaths; it fills the beds of the departing, it sprouts from the graves of the holy and the good. In one legend it is the white flower of the departing soul which changes into a white bird. But in this story it has a doubly significant meaning, as the crest of Florence and as conveying a significant meaning to its ruler.

The “Convito” of Dante is not nearly so well known as the “Commedia,” but it deserves study. The only copy which I have ever read is the editio princeps of 1490, which I bought of an itinerant street-vendor for 4 soldi, or twopence.

VIRGIL AND POLLIONE, OR THE SPIRIT OF THE PROVERB.

“A Proverb is a relic or remain of ancient philosophy, preserved
among many ruins by its brevity and fitness.”—ARISTOTLE AP. SYNESIUS.

“I Proverbi e la sapienza dell uomo
El Proverbio no fale.”

_Proverbi Veneti_, _da_ PASQUALIGO.

“He who leaves money leaves what may be lost,
But he who leaves a _Proverb_ keen and true
Leaves that wherein his soul will never die.”

C. G. LELAND.

“Tremendo leone, destriero animoso
Che in lungo riposo giaceste al suo pié.
Mostrate agli audaci cui grato e l’ errore
Che ’l vostro vigore scemato non è.”

GABRIEL ROSSETTI (1832).

There was once a young man of genius, and honest; he was a true gentleman (_vero galantuomo_), with a good heart.

At that time there was also in Rome a great magician who was called the Poet, but his real name was Virgilio. And the honest youth, whose name was Pollione, was a student with Virgilio, and also his servant.

Everybody may have heard who Virgilio was, and how he was a sorcerer above all others. He had a custom of giving to his friends sayings and proverbs, or sentences {190a} wherein there was always wisdom or a moral. His friends did not know it, but with every one of these sayings there went a spirit, and if they gave heed to the saying {190b} the spirit took care that from it some good resulted to them.

One day when Virgil gave sayings to his friends, he said to Pollione:

“When a man speaks to you, hear to the end all that he has to say before answering.”

After a while Pollione left Rome, and went to Florence. While wandering, he found himself not far from Lucca, in a solitary forest. And while resting he observed a stone, almost hidden under the grass, on which stone were letters, and, clearing it away, he read the word “Lift.” So he raised the stone, and found under it a small ancient vase, in which was a gold ring. Then he took the ring, and went his way.

And after weary wandering he found a small house, empty, into which he entered. It was one of the cabins in which peasants store chestnuts or grain or their implements for work. Therein was a partition of boards, and the youth lay down behind it and went to sleep.

After a little time there entered two friars, who never suspected there was anybody behind the screen, so they began to talk freely. And Pollione, awaking, listened to them.

One friar said to the other:

“It is now a year since old Father Girolamo died, who on his deathbed left to us both, to wear by turns, the gold ring which is hid somewhere in this wood in a vase under a stone on which is the word ‘Lift.’ Pity that he died before he could tell us just where it is. So we have sought and sought in vain, and so we must seek on, seek ever.”

When Pollione heard that, in the honesty of his heart, he was about to show himself and cry out, “Here is your ring!” when all at once he recalled the proverb of Virgilio to always hear all that a man has to say before answering. So he kept quiet, while the other friar said:

“Thou knowest that with that ring one can turn any man or woman into any kind of an animal. What wouldst thou do with it if it were thine?”

“I,” replied the other, “would at once change our Abbot into an ass, and beat him half to death ten times a day, because he put me _in penitenza_ and in prison because I got drunk.”

“And I,” answered the second friar, “would change the proud, beautiful daughter of the count who lives in the castle yonder into a female dog, and keep her in that form till she should consent to be my mistress. Truly, I would give her a good lesson, and make her repent having scorned me.”

When Pollione heard such talk as this he reflected:

“I think I would do well to keep the ring myself.”

Then he took a piece of paper and wrote on it:

“L’ anello non avrai,
Ma asinello tu sarai,
Tu asinello diventerai
E non l’Abate,
Cosi dicono le Fate.”

“The ring of gold is not for thee,
For thou thyself an ass shalt be;
Not the Abbot, but thou in truth,
This the Fairies say in sooth.”

This poem he placed on the stone which had covered the ring. And when the two friars found and read it, and discovered that the ring was gone, they verily believed that the fairies had overheard them and taken away the ring, and so, full of sorrow, returned to their convent.

Then Pollione, ever travelling on, one day met in Verona a clever, bold-looking young man, who was playing marvellous juggler’s tricks in a public place. And, looking closely at one another, each recognised in his observer the wizard who knew hidden things.

“Let us go together,” said Pollione. “We shall do better by mutual aid.”

So they went into partnership.

One evening they found themselves in a castle, where the signore treated them very kindly; and this lord had a beautiful daughter, who looked at Pollione with long glances, nor were his at her one whit shorter.

But the father seemed to be dying with some great sorrow; and at last he said to Pollione:

“Thou art a gentleman, and a man who is learned in books and wise. It may be that thou canst give me good advice and save me. If thou canst, there is nothing of mine which I will not give thee. And this is the story:

“A year ago I was sent on State affairs to Constantinople, where the Sultan promised me that within a certain time he would send me a lion as a gift for our Grand Duke.

“And after I had returned to Italy I told the Duke of this, at which he was greatly pleased. But when the time had come to an end the lion did not arrive. Then several of the courtiers who were my envious enemies made the Duke believe that the tale of the lion was all a lie, and a mere boast of mine.

“Then the Duke said to me that if the lion did not arrive within six months I should lose my head, and the allotted time is nearly past.”

“I believe that I can save you,” replied Pollione. “I will do it, if only to please your daughter.”

“Do it, and she shall be thine,” answered the father.

And the daughter smiled.

So the signore wrote to the Grand Duke that on a certain day the lion would be his, and invited him with all the court to his castle to see it.

Then there was at the time appointed a grand pavilion, in which was the Grand Duke, with all the courtiers and music.

The sorcerer Jannes, who was the companion of Pollione, had formed a deep attachment to the signore, as the latter had to him. Then the magician asked the lord to point out carefully to him all those who were his enemies.

And then from a tent there came forth a great lion. It was the magician, who had been touched by the ring.

The music sounded, and the people cried, “_Evviva il lione_!” Hurrah for the lion!

But when the lion, running round the course, came to the courtiers, he roared and became like a raging devil. He leaped over the barrier, and, attacking the courtiers, tore them limb from limb, and did terrible things. Nor could the Duke say anything, for it was his own fault.

Then the lion bounded away and was seen no more.

So the signore was saved, and Pollione wedded his daughter, and became very wealthy and a great lord.

And it is a true thing that there are wizards’ sayings or proverbs which cause good luck—_buona fortuna_; and if such a proverb remains always in the memory the spirit of the proverb will aid him who knows it. And to secure his aid one should repeat this spell:

“Spirito del proverbio!
Ti prego di stampare
Questo proverbio corretamente
Per sempre nella mia mente,
Ti prego di aiutarlo,
Sempre cosi la detta sara
Cagione della felicità.”

“Spirit of the proverb,
I pray thee to impress
This proverb exactly
And for ever in my mind,
So that it may ever be
A blessing and a joy to me.”

And this done, the proverb or poem will become a living spirit, which will aid you to become learned and wise. {194}

* * * * *

As the _Jatakas_ of Buddha, which perhaps give the origin of the fable, were all intended to set forth the great doctrine of the immortality of the soul in transmigrations, so most stories like the preceding have for an aim or object the teaching of a spell. That which is here explained is very singular, yet the idea is one which would naturally occur to a student of magic. It is that in a deep meaning or moral there is a _charm_, and every charm implies a spirit. Hence a spirit may go with a proverb, which in its form is like a spell. It is simply a perception of the similarity of a saying or proverb to a charm. As the Pythagoreans and Neo-Platonists believed there were spirits in numbers and ideas, so a believer might even more rationally conceive of a soul in a wise saying.

VIRGIL AND MATTEO, OR ANOTHER PROVERB OF VIRGILIO.

“Proverbi, noti spontaneamente, e quasi inconsciamente sulle labbre
del popolo, oltre contenere una profonda sapienza . . . manifestano
la prontezza, il brio.”—DA AUGUSTO ALFANI: _Proverbi e Modi
Proverbiali_ (1882).

The following story is translated from the Romognola, or mountain dialect, also called Bolognesa, which is a rude, strange patois, believed to be very ancient. It was written by a native of Rocca Casciano, near Forli. The beginning of it in the original is as follows:

“_Un Eter proverbi di Virgilio_.—Ho iera una volta un om co des a Verzeglie che un su usen lera un ledre e vieva rube quaicosa, e é bon om ed nom Matei, e pregheva Verzeglie ed ulei de un det, ho proverbi, incontre a e le der.”

There was once a man who said to Virgil that one of his neighbours was a thief, who had stolen something from him, and the man, whose name was Matteo, begged Virgil to give him a saying or a proverb against the thief.

Virgil replied: “Truly thou hast been robbed; but be of good cheer, and thou mayst regain thine own again if thou wilt remember this saying:

“Se un dievele ti disprezza,
Tu guent un dievele e mezza,
E quan e lup la e tu agnel,
L’ e temp et tolá su pel.”

“If a devil should injure thee,
Doubly a devil thou shouldst be;
And if a wolf thy lamb should win,
’Tis time for thee to take his skin.”

Matteo had learned that the thief, whose name was Bandelone, was in the habit of sitting by a pool or pond, and whenever any traveller came by he would cry that he had let fall a bag of gold into the water, and, being very lame and ill, could not dive for it. So he would promise a great reward to him who would recover it.

Then the traveller, deluded by the tale, would strip himself and dive into the pool, which was very deep, with steep banks. And while he was under water the crafty thief would seize on his clothes, arms, and money, mount his horse, and ride away.

Matteo reflected on this. Then he got a small bag and filled it with nails, so that it seemed to be heavy, as if with money. So he went to the pool, where Bandelone was waiting like a spider for flies, and seeing Matteo, whom he did not recognise, because the latter was disguised, he began to cry:

“Oh, kind sir, have pity on a poor man who has lost his whole fortune!” And so he went on to tell how he had dropped his bag full of gold in the water, and was too weak to dive for it, with all the rest of the tale.

Then Matteo consented to dive for the purse; but first of all put his horse, with all his arms and clothes, on the opposite bank, where they would be in safety.

Bandelone was angry enough at this, and cried:

“Why do you do that? Do you think I am a thief?”

“No, friend,” answered Matteo. “But if a thief should come to take my things thou wouldst be too weak to defend them, and he might do thee harm. It is all for thy good that I take such care.”

Bandelone wished all this kind care to the devil, but he had to submit. Then Matteo dived twice or thrice, and then came out of the water as if overjoyed, crying, as he held his bag of nails {196} on high:

“Ech! Ho alo trovè e sac d’ oro! Com le grand!”—Behold, I have found the bag of gold! How large it is!

Bandelone was indeed surprised at this; but, believing that Matteo had by chance really found a treasure, he cried:

“Yes, that is mine! Give it to me!”

“_Zentiment_! Fair and softly, friend,” replied Matteo. “Give me half, or I will keep it all.”

Bandelone would by no means consent to this. At last Matteo said:

“Well, as I do not know what is in the bag, I will take a risk. Give me your horse and sword and cloak for the bag. That is my last word, and if you utter another I will ride away with the bag and keep all.”

So Bandelone gave him his horse and cloak and a fine sword. And Matteo, when mounted, pitched him the bag, and rode away singing merrily:

“If a devil should injure thee,
Doubly a devil thou must be;
And if a wolf thy lamb should win,
’Tis time for thee to take his skin.”

VIRGILIO AND THE FATHER OF TWELVE CHILDREN. A LEGEND FROM COLLE DI VAL D’ELSA, TUSCANY.

“In the earliest form of the legend, Virgil appears not only as doing
no harm, but also as a great benefactor.”—COMPARETTI: _Virgil in the
Middle Ages_.

Once when Virgil was in Colle di Val d’Elsa, he found that the utmost poverty and wretchedness prevailed among the people. Everywhere were men and women wailing and weeping because they could not get food for their children.

Virgil began by giving alms right and left, but was obliged to cease, finding that all his means would be but a trifle towards relieving such suffering. Therefore he resolved to go to the Emperor and beg him to use his authority in the matter. But while in the first furlong of his journey he met a man wailing bitterly, and on asking the cause, the one who wept replied:

“_Caro Signore_, I weep in despair not for myself, but for my twelve children, who, starving, lie on the bare ground. And this day we are to be turned out of the house because I owe for the rent. And I have gone hither and thither to seek work and found none, and now thou knowest all.”

Then Virgil, who was kind of heart, replied:

“Be not afraid of the future. Holy Providence which takes care of the birds of the air will also provide for you.”

“My dear lord,” replied the poor man, “I trust it is true what you tell me, but I have waited a long time now for Holy Providence without seeing it.”

“Hope yet a little longer,” answered Virgil. “Just now I will go with you to your house and see how I can aid you.”

“Thank you, my lord,” replied the poor man, whose doubts in a Holy Providence began to weaken. So they went together, and truly found twelve children with their mother, well-nigh dying from cold, hunger, and exposure.

Then Virgil, having relieved them, thought deeply what could be done to help all this wretchedness, and invoked a certain spirit in whom he trusted—_un spirito di sua fiducia_—asking how he could aid the suffering _Colligiani_.

And the spirit replied:

“Sorti da quella casa,
E passa disotto a una torre,
E nel passare
Si senti a chiamare
A nome, alze il capo,
Ma non videte nessuno,
Soltanto senti una voce,
Una voce che le disse
‘Sali su questa torre!’”

“Leave this house, in going,
Thou’lt pass beneath a tower,
And hear a voice which calls thee,
Yet looking, thou’lt see nothing,
Yet still will hear it crying,
‘Virgil, ascend the tower!’”

Virgil did this, and heard the Voice call him, when he ascended the tower and there beheld a small red goblin, who was visible to him alone, because Virgil had invoked him. And the Spirit said to him:

“Behold this little dog. Return with it to the house whence thou hast come, and go forth with the poor man, and take the dog with you. And where the dog stops there dig!”

And they did so. And they went away, and at last the dog stopped at a place, and the poor man began to dig. And lo! ere long the earth became red, and he came to iron ore. And from this discovery resulted the iron factory of Colle, and by it that of glass; wherever the dog led they found minerals. So from that time there was no more suffering because there was work for all.

* * * * *

This legend is a full confirmation of what I have elsewhere remarked, that these “witch-stories” have almost invariably a deeper meaning or moral than is to be found in the “popular tales” generally prevalent among peasants and children. Thus, while we find in this the magician Virgil, his invocation to a familiar spirit, the apparition of the Red Goblin of the Tower and the mystical dog of the Kobold, or goblins of the mines, there is with it a noble reflection that the best way to relieve suffering is to provide work. In an ordinary fairy-tale the magician would have simply conjured up a treasure and have given it to the poor.

Apropos of the word _goblin_, which is generally supposed to be from the German _Kobold_, I would observe that the Greek κοβαλι or _cobali_ are defined in a curious old French work as _lutins_, “household spirits, or domestic fairies.”

VIRGILIO AS A PHYSICIAN, OR VIRGIL AND THE MOUSE.

“Now to signify destruction and death they paint a _mouse_. For it
gnaweth all things, and works ruin.”—HORI APOLLI: _Hieroglyphica_;
_Rome_, 1606.

There once lived in Florence a young gentleman—_un gran signore_—who wedded a beautiful young lady to whom he was passionately attached, as she indeed was for a time to him. But “fickle and fair is nothing rare,” and it came to pass that before long she gave her love again to an intimate friend of her husband. And the latter did not indeed perceive the cause, but he was much grieved at the indifference to him which his wife began to show.

Then the wife began to tell her lover how her husband had scolded her for her neglect, and how much afraid she was lest their intrigue would be discovered, and that she was so uneasy that she was ready to poison her spouse “if she could only get rid of him!”

The lover replied that there were many ways to get rid of a man without really killing him, for that a violent death would lead to suspicion, inquiry, scandal, and perhaps legal punishment. And then he hinted that a better method would be to consult a witch.

The lady lost no time in running to one, to whom she told her whole story, and what she wanted, and as she began by paying a large fee, the sorceress promised she should have her wish.

Then the witch prepared with magic skill a flask of water, and a powder. The water she gave to the wife, and bade her sprinkle it over her husband’s clothes. But she changed herself into a mouse, and having been carried to the bedroom which the married couple occupied, she gnawed a hole in the mattress, and crawling in, dragged after her the bag, and so remained hidden.

When the husband went to bed, there came over him an utter weakness and sickness, so that he lay in pain as if dead, and this grew worse day by day. His parents in vain called in the first physicians, and every remedy was resorted to without result.

Then Virgilio, who knew much and suspected all the rest of this affair, was angry that so vile a woman and her gallant should inflict such torture on an excellent and innocent man, and resolved to have a hand in the affair.

Therewith he dressed himself as a _medico_, or doctor, from some distant land, saying that he had heard of this extraordinary case of illness, and would like to see the sufferer. To which the parents replied that he was welcome to do so, since all the professors of medicine in Florence could make nothing of it.

The doctor looked steadily for some time at the patient, who appeared to be in such utter prostration and misery as might have moved the hardest heart. By him sat his wife, pretending to weep, but counting to herself with pleasure the time which would pass before her husband should die—giving now and then a suspicious glance at the new-comer.

Then Virgilio said to the wife:

“Signora, I beg you to leave the room for a while. I must be alone with this man!”

Whereupon she, with a great show of tears and passion, declared she would not leave the room, because her husband might die at any minute, and she could never forgive herself were she to be absent, and so on. To which Virgilio angrily replied, that she might depart in peace, with the assurance that her husband would be cured. So she went out, cursing him in her heart, if there was a chance that he could do as he declared.

Then Virgilio took a mirror which he had brought with him, and placing it before the eyes of the invalid, bade him look at it as steadily and as long as he could. The young man did so, and then said, as if in despair:

“For me there is no remedy, O doctor, for what you show me is worse than my disorder, as I supposed it to be. Truly I see death, and not myself.”

“Courage!” replied Virgilio. “You shall be cured.”

“Cure me,” he answered, “and you shall have all that I possess.”

“Nay, I will cure you first,” said Virgilio, “and then settle on easier terms.”

The patient looked steadily at the mirror. Virgilio rapped thrice with a wand, when there suddenly leaped from the bed a mouse, which uttered three horrible, piercing screams. The doctor bade the invalid continue to look steadily at himself in the mirror, and for his life not to cease doing so. Without turning round, the doctor ordered the mouse to enter the bed and lick up and bring away with her on her tongue all the water which the wife had sprinkled on the clothes. And this done, he bade her bring again out of the bed all the powder which she had placed there. Which being effected, he ordered the mouse to make of it a pellet, and devour it; but here she resisted, for to do that meant death to her and a cure to the invalid.