There is a simplicity and directness in this tradition, as here told, which proves the faith of the narrator. Washington Irving found that the good people of East Cheap had become so familiar with Shakespearian comedy as to verily believe that Falstaff and Prince Hal and Dame Quickly had all lived, and still haunted the scenes of their former revels; and in like manner the Florentine has followed the traditions of olden time so closely and lovingly, that all the magnates of the olden time live for him literally at the present day. This is in a great measure due to the fact that statues of all the celebrities of the past are in the most public places, and that there are many common traditions to the effect that all statues at certain times walk about or are animated.
One of the commonest halfpenny orsoldopamphlets to be found on the stand of all open-air dealers in ballads—as, for instance, in the Uffizzi—is a collection of poems on the statues around that building, which of itself indicates the interest in the past, and the knowledge of poets and artists possessed by the common people. For the poorest of them are not only familiar with the names, and more or less with the works, of Orcagna, Buonarotti, Dante, Giotto, Da Vinci, Raffaelle, Galileo, Machiavelli,and many more, but these by their counterfeit presentments have entered into their lives and live. Men who are so impressioned make but one bold step over the border into the fairyland of faith while the more cultured are discussing it.
I do not, with some writers, believe that a familiarity with a few names of men whose statues are always before them, and from whose works the town half lives, indicates an indescribably high culture or more refined nature in a man, but I think it is very natural for him to make legends on them. There are three other incantations given in another chapter, the object of which, like this to Dante, is to become a poet.
“From which we learn that in the fairy faith,” writes Flaxius, with ever-ready pen, “that poets risen to spirits still inspire, even in person, neophytes to song.
“‘Life is a slate of action, and the storeOf all events is aggregated thereThat variegate the eternal universe;Death is a gate of dreariness and gloom,That leads to azure isles and beaming skies . . .Therefore, O spirit, fearlessly bear on.’”
“‘Life is a slate of action, and the storeOf all events is aggregated thereThat variegate the eternal universe;Death is a gate of dreariness and gloom,That leads to azure isles and beaming skies . . .Therefore, O spirit, fearlessly bear on.’”
“‘Now when ye moone like a golden flowre,In ye sky above doth bloome,Ile lett doune a basket in that houre,And pull ye upp to my roome,And give mee a kisse if ’tis yes,’ he cryed;Ye mayden would nothing refuse;But held upp hir lippes—Oh I would I had beeneJust thenn in that friar’s shoos.”
“‘Now when ye moone like a golden flowre,In ye sky above doth bloome,Ile lett doune a basket in that houre,And pull ye upp to my roome,And give mee a kisse if ’tis yes,’ he cryed;Ye mayden would nothing refuse;But held upp hir lippes—Oh I would I had beeneJust thenn in that friar’s shoos.”
If we pass the Porta Romana, and keep on for three miles, we shall arrive at the old Carthusian convent of La Certosa in Val d’Ema. Soon after passing “the village of Galluzzo, where the stream is crossed, we come to an ancient gateway surmounted by a statue of Saint Laurence,through which no female could enterexcept by permission of the archbishop, and out which no monk could pass.” At least, it is so stated in a justly famous English guide-book, though it does not explain how any “female” could enter the saint, nor whether the female in question belonged to the human species, or was fish, flesh, or red-herring. I should, however, incline to believe the latter is meant, as “herring” is a popular synonym for a loose fish.
The Certosa was designed and built in the old Italian Gothic style by Andrea Orcagna, it having been founded in the middle of the fourteenth century by Niccolò Acciajuoli, who was of a great Florentine family, from whom a portion of the Lung Arno is named. The building is on a picturesque hill, 400 feet above the union of the brooks called the Ema and the Greve, the whole forminga charming view of a castled monastery of the Middle Ages.
There is always, among the few monks who have been allowed to remain, an English or Irish brother, to act as cicerone to British or American visitors, and show them the interesting tombs in the crypt or subterranean church, and the beautiful chapels and celebrated frescoes in the church. These were painted by Poccetti, and I am told that among them there is one which commemorates or was suggested by the following legend, which I leave the reader to verify, not having done so myself, though I have visited the convent, which institution is, however, popularly more distinguished—like many other monasteries—as a distillery of holy cordial than for aught else:
Al Convento della Certosa.
“There was in this convent a friar called Il Beato Dyonisio, who was so holy and such a marvellous doctor of medicine, that he was known as the Frate Miraculoso or Miraculous Brother.
“And when any of the fraternity fell ill, this good medico would go to them and say, ‘Truly thou hast great need of a powerful remedy, O my brother, and may it heal and purify thy soul as well as thy body!’[67]And it always befell that when he had uttered this conjuration that the patient recovered; and this was specially the case if after it they confessed their sins with great devoutness.
“Brother Dyonisio tasted no food save bread and water; he slept on the bare floor of his cell, in which there was no object to be seen save a scourge with great knots; he never took off his garments, and was always ready to attend any one taken ill.
“The other brothers of the convent were, however, all jolly monks, being of the kind who wear the tunic as a tonic to give them a better—or bitter—relish for secular delights, holding that it is far preferable to have a great deal of pleasure for a little penitence thanper poco piacer gran penitenza—muchpenitence for very little pleasure. In short, they were just at the other end of the rope away from Brother Dyonisio, inasmuch as they ate chickens,bisteccheor beef-steaks, and drank the best wine, even on fast-days—giorni di vigiglia—and slept in the best of beds; yes, living like lords, and never bothering themselves with any kind of penance, as all friars should do.
“Now there was among these monks one who was a greatbestemmiatore, a man of evil words and wicked ways, who had led a criminal life in the world, and only taken refuge in the disguise of a monk in the convent to escape the hand of justice. Brother Dyonisio knew all this, but said nothing; nay, he even exorcised away a devil whom he saw was always invisibly at the sinner’s elbow, awaiting a chance to catch him by the hair; but the Beato Dyonisio was too much for him, and kept the devil ever far away.
“And this was the way he did it:
“It happened one evening that thisfinto frate, or mock monk or feigned friar, took it into his head, out of pure mischief, and because it was specially forbidden, to introduce adonna di mala vita, or a girl of no holy life, into the convent to grace a festival, and so arranged with divers other scapegraces that the damsel should be drawn up in a basket.
“And sure enough there came next morning to the outer gate a fresh and jolly black-eyedcontadina, who asked the mock monk whether he would give her anything in charity. And thefinto frateanswering sang:
“‘You shall have the best of meat,Anything you like to eat,Cutlets, macaroni, chickens,Every kind of dainty pickings.Pasticcie and fegatelli,Salamé and mortadelle,With good wine, if you are clever,For a very trifling favour!’
“‘You shall have the best of meat,Anything you like to eat,Cutlets, macaroni, chickens,Every kind of dainty pickings.Pasticcie and fegatelli,Salamé and mortadelle,With good wine, if you are clever,For a very trifling favour!’
“To which the girl replied:
“‘Here I am, as here you see!What would’st thou, holy man, with me?’
“‘Here I am, as here you see!What would’st thou, holy man, with me?’
“The friar answered:
“‘When thou hear’st the hoots and howlsAt midnight of the dogs and owls,And when all men are sunk in sleep,And only witches watch do keep,Come ’neath the window unto me,And there thou wilt a basket seeHung by a rope as from a shelf,And in that basket stow thyself,And I alone will draw thee up,Then with us thou shalt gaily sup.’
“‘When thou hear’st the hoots and howlsAt midnight of the dogs and owls,And when all men are sunk in sleep,And only witches watch do keep,Come ’neath the window unto me,And there thou wilt a basket seeHung by a rope as from a shelf,And in that basket stow thyself,And I alone will draw thee up,Then with us thou shalt gaily sup.’
“But the girl replied, as if in fear:
“‘But if the rope should break away,Oh, then there’d be the devil to pay,Oh, holy father, first for thee—But most especially for me!For if by evil luck I’d cracked yourConnecting cord, my limbs I’d fracture!’
“‘But if the rope should break away,Oh, then there’d be the devil to pay,Oh, holy father, first for thee—But most especially for me!For if by evil luck I’d cracked yourConnecting cord, my limbs I’d fracture!’
“The friar sang:
“‘The rope is good, as it is long,The basket’s tough, my arms are strong,Have thou no fear upon that score,T’as hoisted many a maid before;For often such a basket-fullDid I into a convent pull,And many more I trust will IDraw safely up before I die.’
“‘The rope is good, as it is long,The basket’s tough, my arms are strong,Have thou no fear upon that score,T’as hoisted many a maid before;For often such a basket-fullDid I into a convent pull,And many more I trust will IDraw safely up before I die.’
“And at midnight the girl was there walking beneath the windows awaiting the hour to rise—Ascensionem expectans—truly not to heaven, nor from any great liking for the monks, but for a great fondness for roast-chickens and good wine, having in her mind’s eye such a supper as she had never before enjoyed, and something to carry home with her.
“So at last there was a rustling sound above, as a window softly opened, and a great basket came vibrating down below; and the damsel, well assured, got into it like a hen into her nest, while the lusty friar above began to draw like an artist.
“Now theBeato frateDyonisio, knowing all that passed round about by virtue of his holy omniscience, determined to make manifest to the monks that things not adapted to piety led them into the path of eternal punishment.
“Therefore, just as the basket-full of girl touched the window of the convent, it happened by the virtue of the holy Dyonisio that the rope broke and the damsel came with acapi tombolasomerset or first-class tumble into the street; but as she, poor soul, had only sinned for a supper, which she greatly needed and seldom got, she was quit for a good fright, since no other harm happened to her.
“But it was far otherwise with the wicked monk, who had only come into that holy monastery to stir up sin; for he, leaning too far over at the instant, fell with an awful howl to the ground, where he roared so with pain that all the other monks came running to see what was the matter. And they found him indeed, more dead than alive, terribly bruised, yet in greater agony of mind than of body, saying that Satan had tempted him, and that he would fain confess to the Beato Dyonisio, who alone could save him.
“Then the good monk tended him, and so exhorted him that he left his evil ways and became a worthy servant of God, and the devil ceased to tempt him. And in due time Brother Dyonisio died, and as a saint they interred him in the crypt under the convent, and the morning after his burial a beautiful flower was found growing from his tomb, and so they sainted him.
“The fall of the girl was a scandal and cause of laughter for all Florence, so that from that day the monks never ventured more to draw up damsels in baskets.”
This story is so widely spread in many forms, that the reader can hardly have failed to have heard it; in fact, there are few colleges where it has not happened that a basket has not been used for such smuggling. One of the most amusing instances is of a damsel in New Haven, or Cambridge, Massachusetts, who was very forgetful. One day she said to a friend, “You have no idea how wicked some girls are. The other morning early—I mean late at night—I was going by the college when I saw a girl being drawn up in a basket by some students, when all at once the rope broke—and down I came.”
In Germany, as in the East, the tale is told of a wooer who is drawn up half-way in a basket and then let remain for everybody to behold. In Uhland’s Old Ballads there is one to this effect of Heinrich Corrade der Schreiber im Korbe. Tales on this theme at least need not be regarded as strictly traditional.
There is another little legend attached to La Certosa which owes its small interest to being told of a man whowas one of the Joe Millers of Italy in the days of the Medici. It is a curious fact that humorists do most abound and are most popular in great epochs of culture.
Domenico Barlacchi was abanditore—herald or public crier—of Florence, commonly known as Il Barlacchia, who lived in the time of Lorenzo de’ Medici, and who, beingmolto piacevole e faceto, or pleasing and facetious, as I am assured by an ancient yellow jest-book of 1636 now before me, became, like Piovano Arlotto and Gonella, one of the famous wits of his time. It is worth noting, though it will be no news to any folk-lorist, that in these flying leaves, or fleeting collections of facetiæ, there are many more indications of familiar old Florentine life than are to be gleaned from the formal histories which are most cited by writers who endeavour to illustrate it.
“One morning Barlacchia, with other boon companions, went to La Certosa, three miles distant from Florence,[71]where, having heard mass, they were taken over the convent by one of the friars, who showed them the convent and cells. Of which Barlacchia said ’twas all very fine, but that he would like to see the wine-cellar—sentendosi egli hauer sete—as he felt great thirst sadly stealing over him.“To which the friar replied that he would gladly show them that part of the convent, but that unfortunately the Decano who kept the keys was absent. [Decano, dean or deacon, may be rendered roughly in English as a dog, or literally of a dog or currish.] To which Barlacchia replied, ‘Truly I am sorry for it, and I wish you were allde’ canior dogs!’
“One morning Barlacchia, with other boon companions, went to La Certosa, three miles distant from Florence,[71]where, having heard mass, they were taken over the convent by one of the friars, who showed them the convent and cells. Of which Barlacchia said ’twas all very fine, but that he would like to see the wine-cellar—sentendosi egli hauer sete—as he felt great thirst sadly stealing over him.
“To which the friar replied that he would gladly show them that part of the convent, but that unfortunately the Decano who kept the keys was absent. [Decano, dean or deacon, may be rendered roughly in English as a dog, or literally of a dog or currish.] To which Barlacchia replied, ‘Truly I am sorry for it, and I wish you were allde’ canior dogs!’
Times have changed, and whether this tale brought about the reform I cannot say, but it is certain that the good monks at present, without waiting to be asked, generally offer a glass of their famous cordial to visitors. Tastes may differ, but to mine, when it is old, the green Certosa, though far cheaper, is superior to Chartreuse.
Another tale of Barlacchia, which has a certain theological affinity with this story, is as follows:
“A great illness once befell Barlacchia, so that it was rumoured all over Florence that he was dead, and great was the grieving thereover. But having recovered, by the grace of God, he went from his house to the palace of the Grand Duke, who said to him:“‘Ha! art thou alive, Barlacchia? We all heard that thou wert dead.’“‘Signore, it is true,’ was his reply. ‘I was indeed in the other world, but they sent me back again, and that for a mere trifle, which you forgot to give me.’“‘And what was that?’ asked the Duke.“‘I knocked,’ resumed Barlacchia, ‘at the gate of heaven, and they asked me who I was, what I had done in the world, and whether I had left any landed property. To which I replied no, never having begged for anything. So they sent me off, saying that they did not want any such poor devils about them—non volevano là simile dapochi. And therefore, illustrious Signore, I make so bold as to ask that you would kindly give me some small estate, so that another time I may not be turned away.’“Which so pleased the magnificent and liberal Lorenzo that he bestowed on Barlacchia apodereor farm.“Now for a long time after this illness, Barlacchia was very pale and haggard, so that everybody who met him (and he was well known to everybody) said, ‘Barlacchia,mind the rules’—meaning the rules of health; or else, ‘Barlacchia, look to yourself;’ orregolati! orguardatevi!—till at last he became tired with answering them. So he got several small wooden rules or rulers, such as writers use to draw lines, and hung them by a cord to his neck, and with them a little mirror, and when any one said ‘Regolati’—‘mind the rules,’ he made no reply, but looked at the sticks, and when they cried ‘Guardatevi!’ he regarded himself in the mirror, and so they were answered.”
“A great illness once befell Barlacchia, so that it was rumoured all over Florence that he was dead, and great was the grieving thereover. But having recovered, by the grace of God, he went from his house to the palace of the Grand Duke, who said to him:
“‘Ha! art thou alive, Barlacchia? We all heard that thou wert dead.’
“‘Signore, it is true,’ was his reply. ‘I was indeed in the other world, but they sent me back again, and that for a mere trifle, which you forgot to give me.’
“‘And what was that?’ asked the Duke.
“‘I knocked,’ resumed Barlacchia, ‘at the gate of heaven, and they asked me who I was, what I had done in the world, and whether I had left any landed property. To which I replied no, never having begged for anything. So they sent me off, saying that they did not want any such poor devils about them—non volevano là simile dapochi. And therefore, illustrious Signore, I make so bold as to ask that you would kindly give me some small estate, so that another time I may not be turned away.’
“Which so pleased the magnificent and liberal Lorenzo that he bestowed on Barlacchia apodereor farm.
“Now for a long time after this illness, Barlacchia was very pale and haggard, so that everybody who met him (and he was well known to everybody) said, ‘Barlacchia,mind the rules’—meaning the rules of health; or else, ‘Barlacchia, look to yourself;’ orregolati! orguardatevi!—till at last he became tired with answering them. So he got several small wooden rules or rulers, such as writers use to draw lines, and hung them by a cord to his neck, and with them a little mirror, and when any one said ‘Regolati’—‘mind the rules,’ he made no reply, but looked at the sticks, and when they cried ‘Guardatevi!’ he regarded himself in the mirror, and so they were answered.”
This agrees with the sketch of Lorenzo as given by Oscar Browning in his admirable “Age of the Condottieri,” a short history of Mediæval Italy from 1409 to 1530:
“Lorenzo was a bad man of business; he spent such large sums on himself that he deserved the appellation of theMagnificent. He reduced himself to poverty by his extravagance; he alienated his fellow-citizens by his lust . . . and was shameless in the promotion of his private favourites.”
“Lorenzo was a bad man of business; he spent such large sums on himself that he deserved the appellation of theMagnificent. He reduced himself to poverty by his extravagance; he alienated his fellow-citizens by his lust . . . and was shameless in the promotion of his private favourites.”
Yet with all this he was popular, and left a legendary fame in which generosity rivals a love of adventure. I have collected many traditions never as yet published relating to him, and in all he appears as abon prince.
“But verily when I consider that what made a gallant lord four hundred years ago would be looked after now by the Lord Chancellor and the law courts with a sharp stick, I must needs,” writes Flaxius, “exclaim with Spenser sweet:
“‘Me seemes the world is run quite out of square,For that which all men once did Vertue call,Is now called Vice, and that which Vice was hightIs now hight Vertue, and so used of all;Right now is wrong, and wrong that was, is right,As all things else in time are changed quight.’”
“‘Me seemes the world is run quite out of square,For that which all men once did Vertue call,Is now called Vice, and that which Vice was hightIs now hight Vertue, and so used of all;Right now is wrong, and wrong that was, is right,As all things else in time are changed quight.’”
“I stood upon a bridge and heardThe water rushing by,And as I thought, to every wordThe water made reply.I looked into the deep river,I looked so still and long,Until I saw the elfin shadesPass by in many a throng.They came and went like starry dreams,For ever moving on,As darkness takes the starry beamsUnnoted till they’re gone.”
“I stood upon a bridge and heardThe water rushing by,And as I thought, to every wordThe water made reply.
I looked into the deep river,I looked so still and long,Until I saw the elfin shadesPass by in many a throng.
They came and went like starry dreams,For ever moving on,As darkness takes the starry beamsUnnoted till they’re gone.”
There is something in a bridge, and especially in an old one, which has been time-worn and mossed into harmony with surrounding nature, which has always seemed peculiarly poetical or strange to men. Hence so many legends of devil’s bridges, and it is rather amusing when we reflect how, as Pontifex, he is thus identified with the head of the Church. Thus I once, when attending law lectures in Heidelberg in 1847, heard Professor Mittermaier say, that those who used the saying of “the divine right of kings” as an argument reminded him of the peasants who assumed that every old bridge was built by the devil. It is, however, simply the arch, which in any form is always graceful, and the stream passing through it like a living thing, which forms the artistic attraction or charm of such structures. I have mentioned in my “Memoirs” that Ralph Waldo Emerson was once impressed by a remark, the first time I met him, to the effect that a vase in a room had the effect of a bridgein a landscape—at least, he recalled it at once when I met him twenty years later.
The most distinguished bridge, from a legendary point of view, in Europe, was that of Saint John Nepomuc in Prague—recently washed away owing to stupid neglect; the government of the city probably not supporting, like the king in the opera-bouffe of “Barbe Bleu,” a commissioner of bridges. The most picturesque work of the kind which I recall is that of the Ponte Maddalena—also a devil’s bridge—at the Bagni di Lucca. That Florence is not wanting in legends for its bridges appears from the following:
The Spirit of the Ponte Vecchio or Old Bridge.
“He who passes after midnight on the Ponte Vecchio can always see a form which acts as guard, sometimes looking like a beggar, sometimes like aguardia di sicurezza, or one of the regular watchmen, and indeed appearing in many varied forms, but generally as that of a watchman, and always leaning on the bridge.
“And if the passer-by asks him any such questions as these: ‘Chi siei?’—‘Cosa fai?’—‘Dove abiti?’—‘Ma vien’ con me?’ That is: ‘Who are you?’—‘What dost thou do?’—‘Where is your home?’—‘Wilt with me come?’—he seems unable to utter anything; but if you ask him, ‘Who am I?’ it seems to delight him, and he bursts into a peal of laughter which is marvellously loud and ringing, so that the people in the shops waking up cry, ‘There is the goblin of the Ponte Vecchio at his jests again!’ For he is a merry sprite, and then they go to sleep, feeling peaceably assured that he will watch over them as of yore.
“And this he really does for those who are faithful unto him. And those who believe in spirits should say sincerely:
“‘Spirito del Ponte Vecchio,Guardami la mia bottega!Guardami dagli ladroni!Guardami anche dalla strega!’“‘Spirit of the ancient bridge!Guard my shop and all my riches,From the thieves who prowl by night,And especially from witches!’
“‘Spirito del Ponte Vecchio,Guardami la mia bottega!Guardami dagli ladroni!Guardami anche dalla strega!’
“‘Spirit of the ancient bridge!Guard my shop and all my riches,From the thieves who prowl by night,And especially from witches!’
“Then the goblin ever keeps guard for them. And should it ever come to pass that thieves break into a shop which he protects, he lets them work away till they are about to leave, when he begins to scream ‘Al ladro!al ladro!’ and follows them till they are taken.
“But when the police have taken the thief, and he is brought up to be interrogated, and there is a call for the individual who was witness (quando le guardie vanno per interrogare l’individuo che si e trovato presente), lo and behold he has always disappeared.
“And at times, when the weather is bad, he prowls about the bridge in the form of a cat or of a he-goat, and should any very profane, abusive rascal (bestemmiatore) come along, the spirit as a goat will go before, running nimbly, when all at once the latter sinks into the earth, from which flames play forth, to the great terror of the sinner, while the goblin vanishes laughing.”
I have very little doubt that this guardian spirit of the bridge is the same as Teramo,i.e., Hermes Mercury, who is believed in the Toscana Romana to betray thieves when they commit murder. But Mercury was also a classic guardian of bridges.
This merry goblin of the Ponte Vecchio has a colleague not far away in theSpirito del Ponte alla Carraia, the legend of which is as follows. And here I would note, once for all, that in almost every case these tales were written out for me in order to secure the greater accuracy, which did not however always ensure it, since even Miss Roma Lister, who is to the manor or manner born, often had with me great trouble in deciphering the script. For verily it seems to be a decree of destiny that everything traditional shall be involved, when not in Egyptian or Himaritic, or Carthaginian or Norse-Runic, at least in some diabolical dialect, so anxious is the Spirit of the past to hide from man the things long passed away.
Al Ponte alla Carraia.
“By the Arno, or under the Bridge alla Carraia, there lived once a certain Marocchio,[77a]abestemmiatore, or blasphemer, for he cursed bitterly when he gained but little, being truly amarocchio, much attached to money. Even in dying he still swore. And Marocchio had sold himself to the devil, and hidden his money under a stone in the arch of the bridge. Yet though he had very poor relations and friends, he confided nothing to them, and leftniente a nessuno, ‘nothing to nobody.’ Whence it came that after his death he had no rest or peace, because his treasure remained undiscovered.
“Yet where the money lay concealed there was seen every night the form of a goat which cast forth flames, and running along before those who passed by, suddenly sunk into the ground, disappearing in a great flash of fire.
“And when therenaiolior sand-diggers,[77b]thinking it was a real goat, would catch it by the hair, it cast forth fire, so that many of them died of fright. And it often overthrew their boats and made all the mischief possible.
“Then certain people thinking that all this indicated a hidden treasure, sought to find it, but in vain; till at last one who waspiù furbo, or shrewder than the rest, observed that one day, when the wind was worse than usual, raising skirts and carrying away caps and hats, there was a goat in all the hurly-burly, and that this animal vanished at a certain spot. ‘There I ween,’ he said, ‘lies money hid!’ And knowing that midnight is the proper time or occasion (cagione di nascosto tesoro) for buried hoards, he came at the hour, and finding the habitual goat (il solito chaprone), he addressed him thus:
“‘If thou art a blessed soul, then go thy way in peace, and God be with thee. But if thou sufferest from buried treasure, then teach me how I, without any fear, may take thy store, then thou mayst go in peace! And if thou art in torment for a treasure, show me the spot, and I will take it home, and then thou’lt be at peace and grieve no more.’
“Then the goat jumped on the spot where the money was hidden and sank as usual out of sight in fire.
“So the next day the young man went there and dug till he discovered the gold, and the spirit of Marocchio was relieved. But to this hour the goat is seen now and then walking in his old haunt, where he sinks into the ground at the same place.”
The legend of a goat haunting a bridge is probably derived from the custom of sacrificing an animal to new buildings or erections. These were originally human sacrifices, for which, in later times, the animals were substituted. Hence the legends of the devil having been defrauded out of a promised soul by driving a goat or cat over the bridge as a first crosser. The spirits of the Ponte Vecchio and Ponte alla Carraia clearly indicate this origin.
The next legend on this subject is that of the Ponte alle Grazie, which was built by Capo, the fellow-pupil of Arnolfo, under the direction of Rubaconte, who filled the office of Podestà in 1235. Five hundred years are quite time enough to attract traditions in a country where they spring up in five; and when I inquired whether there was any special story attached to the Ponte alle Grazie, I was soon supplied with the following:
Le Ponte alle Grazie.
“When one passes under a bridge, or in halls of great palaces, or the vault of a church, or among high rocks, if he calls aloud, he will hear what is called theechoof his voice.
“Yet it is really not his own voice which he hears, but the mocking voices of spirits, the reason being that they are confined to these places, and therefore we do not hear them in the open air, where they are free. But we can hear them clearly in great places enclosed, as, for instance, under vaults, and far oftener in the country, because in limited spaces their voices are confined and not lost. And these are the voices of people who were merry and jovial while on earth, and who now take delighta rifare il verso, to re-echo a strain.
“But under the Ponte alle Grazie we hear the cry of the spirit of a girl. She was very beautiful, and had grown up from infancy in constant companionship with a youth of the neighbourhood, and so from liking as children they went on to loving at a more advanced age, with greater fondness and with deeper passion.
“And it went so far that at last the girl found herself with child, and then she was in great trouble, not knowing how to hide this from her parents.Sta beccata da una serpe, as the proverb is; ‘she had been stung by a serpent,’ and now began to feel the poison. But the youth was faithful and true, and promised to marry her as soon as he could possibly arrange matters. So she was quieted for a time.
“But she had a vilely false friend, and a most intimate one, in a girl who, being a witch, or of that kind, hated her bitterly at heart, albeit she knew wellportare bene la maschera, how to wear the mask.
“Now the poor girl told this false friend that she wasenceinte, and that her lover would marry her; and the dear friend took her, as the saying is, a trip to Volterra, during which a man was treated like a prince and robbed or murdered at the end. For she insinuated that the marriage might fail, and meantime she, the friend, would consult witches andfate, who would get her out of her troubles and make all right as sure as the Angelus. And the false friend went to the witches, but she took them a lock of hair from the head of the lover to conjure away his love and work harm. And knowing what the bridal dress would be, she made herself one like it in every detail. And she so directed that the bride on the wedding morning shut herself up in a room and see no one till she should be sent for.
“The bride-to-be passed the morning in great anxiety, and while waiting there received a large bouquet of orange-flowers as a gift from her friend. And these she had perfumed with a witch-powder. And the bride having inhaled the scent, fell into a deep sleep, or rather trance, during which she was delivered of a babe, and knew nothing of it. Now the people in the house hearing the child cry, ran into the room, and some one ran to the bridegroom, who was just going to be married to the false friend, who had by aid of the witches put on a face and a false seeming, the very counterpart of her he loved.
“Then the unfortunate girl hearing that her betrothed wasbeing married, and maddened by shame and grief, rushed in her bride’s dress through the streets, and coming to the Bridge delle Grazie, the river being high, threw herself into it and was drowned; still holding the bouquet of orange-blossoms in her hand, she was carried on the torrent into death.
“Then the young man, who had discovered the cheat, and whose heart was broken, said, ‘As we were one in life, so we will be in death,’ and threw himself into the Arno from the same place whence she had plunged, and like her was drowned. And the echo from the bridge is the sound of their voices, or of hers. Perhaps she answers to the girls and he to the men; anyhow they are always there, like the hymns in a church.”
There is a special interest in the first two paragraphs of this story, as indicating how a person who believes in spirits, and is quite ignorant of natural philosophy, explains phenomena. It is precisely in this manner that most early science was confused with superstition; and there is more of it still existing than even the learned are aware of.
I know not whether echoes are more remarkable in and about Florence than elsewhere, but they are certainly specially noticed in the local folk-lore, and there are among the witches invocations to echoes, voices of the wind, and similar sounds. One of the most remarkable echoes which I ever heard is in the well of the Villa Guicciardini, now belonging to Sir John Edgar. It is very accurate in repeating every sound in a manner so suggestive of a mocking goblin, that one can easily believe that a peasant would never doubt that it was caused by another being. It renders laughter again with a singularly strange and original effect. Even when standing by or talking near this mystic fount, the echo from time to time cast back scraps of phrases and murmurs, as if joining in the conversation. It is worth observing (videthe story of the Three Horns) that this villa once belonged to—and is, as a matter of course, haunted by the ghost of—Messer Guicciardini, the great writer, whowas himself a faithful echo of the history of his country, and of the wisdom of the ancients. Thus into things do things repeat themselves, and souls still live in what surrounded them. I have not seen this mystic well noticed in any of the Florentine guide-books of any kind, but its goblin is as well worthy an interview as many better known characters. Yea, it may be that he is the soul of Guicciardini himself, but when I was there I forgot to ask him if it were so?
I can, however, inform the reader as to the incantation which is needed to call to the spirit of the well to settle this question. Take a copy of his “Maxims” and read them through; then drink off one glass of wine to the health of the author, and, bending over the well, distinctly cry—“Sei Messer Guicciardini, di cosi?”—strongly accentuating the last syllable. And if the reply be in the affirmative, you may draw your own conclusions. For those who are not Italianate, it will do quite as well if they cry, “Guicciardini? No or yes?” For even this echo is not equal to the Irish one, which to “How do you do?” replied, “Pretty well, I thank you!”
There is a very good story of the Ponte alle Grazie, anciently known as the Rubaconte, from the Podestà in whose year of office it was built, told originally by Sachetti in hisNovelleand Manni,Veglie Piacevoli, who drew it indeed from Venetian or Neapolitan-Oriental sources, and which is best told by Leader Scott in “The Echoes of Old Florence.” It still lives among the people, and is briefly as follows, in another form:
The Origin of the Ponte alle Grazie.
“There was once in Florence a Podestà or chief magistrate named Rubaconte, and he had been chosen in the year 1236, nor had he been long in office when a man called Bagnai, because he kept a public bath, was brought before him on the charge of murder.
“And Bagnai, telling his tale, said: ‘This is the very truth—ne favola ne canzone di tavola—for I was crossing the river on the little bridge with a hand-rail by the Palazzo Mozzi, when there came riding over it a company of gentlemen. And it befell that I was knocked over the bridge, and fell on a man below who was washing his feet in the Arno, and lo! the man was killed by my dropping on him.’
“Now to the Podestà this was neither eggs nor milk, as the saying is, and he could at first no more conclude on it than if one had asked him, ‘Chi nacque prima—l’uovo o la gallina?’ ‘Which was born first—the hen or the egg?’ For on one side thebagnajolowas innocent, and on the other the dead man’s relations cried for vengeance. But after going from one side of his brain to the other for five minutes, he saw ‘from here to the mountain,’ and said:
“‘Now I have listened to ye both, and this is a case where one must—
“‘Non giudicar per legge ni per carte,Se non ascolti l’un e l’altra parte.’“‘Judge not by law-books nor by chart,But look with care to either part.’
“‘Non giudicar per legge ni per carte,Se non ascolti l’un e l’altra parte.’
“‘Judge not by law-books nor by chart,But look with care to either part.’
“‘And as it is said, “Berta must drink from her own bottle,” so I decree that thebagnaioshall go and wash his feet in the Arno, sitting in the same place, and that he who is the first of his accusers shall fall from the bridge on his neck, and so kill him.’
“And truly this settled the question, and it was agreed that the Podestà waspiu savio de gli statuti—wiser even than the law itself.
“But then Rubaconte did an even wiser thing, for he determined to have a new bridge built in place of the old one, and hence came the Ponte alle Grazie, ‘of which he himself laid the first foundation-stone, and carried the first basket of mortar, with all due civic ceremony, in 1236.’[82]
“But as it is said, ‘he who has drunk once will drink again,’ it came to pass that Bagnai had to appear once more as accused before the Podestà. One day he met a man whose donkey had fallen and could not rise. ’Twas on the Ponte Vecchio.
“The owner seized the donkey by the head, Bagnai caught him by the tail, and pulled so hard that the tail came off!
“Then the contadino orasinaiohad Bagnai brought before the Podestà, and claimed damages for his injured animal. And Rubaconte decided that Bagnai should keep the ass in his stable, and feed him well—until the tail had grown again.
“As may be supposed, theasinaiopreferred to keep his ass himself, and go no farther in the case.”
This ancient tale recalls that of Zito, the German magician conjuror, whose leg was pulled off. It is pretty evident that the donkey’s tail had been glued on for the occasion.
I may here add something relative to the folk-lore of bridges, which is not without interest. I once asked a witch in Florence if such a being as a spirit of the water or one of bridges and streams existed; and she replied:
“Yes, there is a spirit of the water as there is of fire, and everything else. They are rarely seen, but you can make them appear.How? Oh, easily enough, but you must remember that they are capricious, and appear in many delusive forms.[83]
“And this is the way to see them. You must go at twilight and look over a bridge, or it will do if it be in the daytime in the woods at a smooth stream or a dark pool—che sia un poco oscuro—and pronounce the incantation, and throw a handful or a few drops of its water into the water itself. And then you must look long and patiently, always thinking of it for several days, when,poco à poco, you will see dim shapes passing by in the water, at first one or two, then more and more, and if you remain quiet they will come in great numbers, and show you what you want to know. But if you tell any one what you have seen, they will never appear again, and it will be well for you should nothing worse happen.
“There was a young man at Civitella in the Romagna Toscana, and he was in great need of money. He had lost an uncle who was believed to have left a treasure buried somewhere, but no one knew where it was. Now this nephew was a reserved, solitary youth, always by himself in lone places,among ruins or in the woods—un poco streghon—a bit of a wizard, and he learned this secret of looking into streams or lakes, till at last, whenever he pleased, he could see swarms of all kinds of figures sweeping along in the water.
“And one evening he thus saw, as in a glass, the form of his uncle who had died, and in surprise he called out ‘Zio mio!’—‘My uncle!’ Then the uncle stopped, and the youth said, ‘Didst thou but know how I am suffering from poverty!’ When he at once beheld in the water his home and the wood near it, and a path, and the form of his uncle passed along the path to a lonely place where there was a great stone. Then the uncle pointed to the stone and vanished. The next day the young man went there, and under the stone he found a great bag of gold—and I hope that the same may happen to all of us!
“‘He who has sheep has wool in store;He who has mills hath plenty of flour;He who hath land hath these at call;He who has money has got them all.’”
“‘He who has sheep has wool in store;He who has mills hath plenty of flour;He who hath land hath these at call;He who has money has got them all.’”
“She never told her love—oh no!For she was mild and meek,And his for her he dared not show,Because he hadn’t the cheek.’Tis pity this should e’er be past,For, to judge by what all men say,’Twere best such difference should lastUnto our dying day.”
“She never told her love—oh no!For she was mild and meek,And his for her he dared not show,Because he hadn’t the cheek.’Tis pity this should e’er be past,For, to judge by what all men say,’Twere best such difference should lastUnto our dying day.”
All who have visited Florence have noticed the Church of Santa Lucia in the Via de’ Bardi, from the figure of the patron with two angels over the door in Lucca della Robbia ware. Of this place of worship there is in a jest-book a droll story, which the reader may recall when he enters the building.
“A young Florentine once fell desperately in love with a beautiful lady of unsullied character and ready wit, and so followed her about wherever she went; but he being sadly lacking in wit and sense, at all four corners, never got the nearer to her acquaintance, though he told all his friends how irresistible he would be, and what a conquest he would make, if he could only once get a chance to speak to her. Yet as this lady prized ready wit and graceful address in a man above all things, it will be seen that his chance was thin as a strip of paper.“But onefestathe lady went to the Church of Santa Lucia in the Via dei Bardi, and one of the friends of the slow-witted one said to him, ‘Now is the lucky hour and blooming chance for you. Go up and speak to her when she approaches the font to take holy water.’“Now the lover had prepared a fine speech for the lady, which he had indeed already rehearsed many times to his friends with great applause; but when it came to utter it to the lady a great and awful fear fell on him, the words vanished—vanished from his memory, and he was dumb as a dead ass. Then his friend poking him in the ribs, whispered in his ear, ‘But saysomething, man, no matter what!’“So with a gasp he brought out at last, ‘Signora, I would fain be your humble servant.’“To which the lady, smiling, replied, ‘Well, I have already in my house plenty of humble servants, and indeed only too many to sweep the rooms and wash the dishes, and there is really no place for another. . . .’“And the young man turned aside with sickness in his heart. His wooing for that holiday was o’er.”
“A young Florentine once fell desperately in love with a beautiful lady of unsullied character and ready wit, and so followed her about wherever she went; but he being sadly lacking in wit and sense, at all four corners, never got the nearer to her acquaintance, though he told all his friends how irresistible he would be, and what a conquest he would make, if he could only once get a chance to speak to her. Yet as this lady prized ready wit and graceful address in a man above all things, it will be seen that his chance was thin as a strip of paper.
“But onefestathe lady went to the Church of Santa Lucia in the Via dei Bardi, and one of the friends of the slow-witted one said to him, ‘Now is the lucky hour and blooming chance for you. Go up and speak to her when she approaches the font to take holy water.’
“Now the lover had prepared a fine speech for the lady, which he had indeed already rehearsed many times to his friends with great applause; but when it came to utter it to the lady a great and awful fear fell on him, the words vanished—vanished from his memory, and he was dumb as a dead ass. Then his friend poking him in the ribs, whispered in his ear, ‘But saysomething, man, no matter what!’
“So with a gasp he brought out at last, ‘Signora, I would fain be your humble servant.’
“To which the lady, smiling, replied, ‘Well, I have already in my house plenty of humble servants, and indeed only too many to sweep the rooms and wash the dishes, and there is really no place for another. . . .’
“And the young man turned aside with sickness in his heart. His wooing for that holiday was o’er.”
This may be matched with the story of a bashful New England lover of the olden time, for there are none such now-a-days:—
“I don’t know how I ever got courage to do it; but one evening I went courting Miss Almira Chapin.“And when she came in, I sat for half-an-hour, and dared not say a word. At last I made a desperate dash and got out, ‘Things are looking very green out of doors, Miss Almira.’“And she answered, ‘Seems to me they’re looking a great deal greenerindoors this evening.’“That extinguished me, and I retreated. And when I was outside I burst into tears.”
“I don’t know how I ever got courage to do it; but one evening I went courting Miss Almira Chapin.
“And when she came in, I sat for half-an-hour, and dared not say a word. At last I made a desperate dash and got out, ‘Things are looking very green out of doors, Miss Almira.’
“And she answered, ‘Seems to me they’re looking a great deal greenerindoors this evening.’
“That extinguished me, and I retreated. And when I was outside I burst into tears.”
“One day Good Luck came to my home,I begged of her to stay.‘There’s no one loves you more than I,Oh, rest with me for aye,’‘It may not be; it may not be,I rest with no one long,’ said she.”—“Witch Ballads,” byC. G. Leland.
“One day Good Luck came to my home,I begged of her to stay.‘There’s no one loves you more than I,Oh, rest with me for aye,’‘It may not be; it may not be,I rest with no one long,’ said she.”
—“Witch Ballads,” byC. G. Leland.
The manner in which many of the gods in exile still live in Italy is very fully illustrated by the following story:
“It is a hard thing sometimes now-a-days for a family to pass for noble if they are poor, or only poor relations. But it was easy in the old time, Signore Carlo, easy as drinking good Chianti. A signore had only to put his shield with something carved on it over his window, and he was all right. He was noblesenza dubbio.
“Now the nobles had their own noble stories as to what these noble pictures in stone meant, but the ignoble people often had another story just as good. Coarse woollen cloth wears as well as silk. Now you may see on an old palazzo in the Via de’ Cerchi, and indeed in several other places, a shield with three rings. But people call them three wheels. And this is the story about the three wheels.”
La Fortuna.
“There was a man,tanto buono, as good as could be, who lived in squalid misery. He had a wife and two children, one blind and anotherstorpiaor crippled, and so ugly, both—non si dice—beyond telling!
“This poor man in despair often wept, and then he would repeat:
“‘The wheel of Fortune turns, they say,But for me it turns the other way;I work with good-will, but do what I may,I have only bad luck from day to day.’
“‘The wheel of Fortune turns, they say,But for me it turns the other way;I work with good-will, but do what I may,I have only bad luck from day to day.’
“‘Yes, little to eat and less to wear, and two poor girls, one blind and one lame. People say that Fortune is blind herself, and cannot walk, but she does not bless those who are like her, that is sure!’ And so he wailed and wept, till it was time to go forth to seek work to gain their daily bread. And a hard time he had of it.
“Now it happened that very late one night, or very early one morning, as one may say, between dark and dawn, he went to the forest to cut wood. When having called to Fortune as was his wont—Ai! what was his surprise to see—tutta ad un tratto—all at once, before his eyes, a gleam of light, and raising his head, he beheld a lady of enchanting beauty passing along rapidly, and yet not walking—on a rolling ball—e ciondolava le gambe—moving her limbs—I cannot say feet, for she had none. In place of them were two wheels, and these wheels, as they turned, threw off flowers from which there came delicious perfume.
“The poor man uttered a sigh of relief seeing this, and said:
“‘Beautiful lady, believe me when I say that I have invoked thee every day. Thou art the Lady of the Wheels of Fortune, and had I known how beautiful thou art, I would have worshipped thee for thy beauty alone. Even thy very name is beautiful to utter, though I have never been able to couple it with mine, for one may see that I am not one of the fortunate. Yet, though thou art mine enemy, give me, I pray, just a little of the luck which flies from thy wheel!
“‘Yet do not believe, I pray, that I am envious of those who are thy favourites, nor that because thou art my enemy that I am thine, for if thou dost not deem that I am worthy, assuredly I do not deserve thy grace, nor will I, like many, say that Fortune is not beautiful, for having seen thee, I can now praise thee more than ever.’
“‘I do not cast my favours always on those who deserve them,’ replied Fortune, ‘yet this time my wheel shall assist thee. But tell me, thou man of honesty and without envy, which wouldst thou prefer—to be fortunate in all things thyself alone, or to give instead as much good luck totwomen as miserable as thou art? If thou wilt gain the prize forthyself alone, turn and pluck one of these flowers! If for others, then take two.’
“The poor man replied: ‘It is far better, lady, to raise two families to prosperity than one. As for me, I can work, and I thank God and thee that I can do so much good to so many, although I do not profit by it myself;’ and saying this, he advanced and plucked two flowers.
“Fortune smiled. ‘Thou must have heard,’ she said, ‘that where I spend, I am lavish and extravagant, and assuredly thou knowest the saying that “Three is the lucky number,” or nine. Now I make it a rule that when I relieve families, I always do it by threes—la spando à tre famiglie—so do thou go and pluck a flower for thyself!’
“Then the poor man, hearing this, went to the wheels, and let them turn till a very large fine flower came forth, and seized it, whereat Fortune smiled, and said:
“‘I always favour the bold. Now go and sit on yonder bench till some one comes.’ And saying this, she vanished.
“There came two very poor woodcutters whom he knew well. One had two sons, another a son and a daughter, and one and all were as poor and miserable as could be.
“‘What has come over thee, that thou art looking so handsome and young,’ said one amazed, as he came up.
“‘And what fine clothes!’ remarked the second.
“‘It shall be so anon for ye both,’ replied the favourite of Fortune; ‘only take these flowers and guard them well.’
“Si, Signore, they sat down on the bench three beggars, and they rose three fine cavaliers, in velvet and satin, with gold-mounted swords, and found their horses and attendants waiting. And when they got home, they did not know their wives or children, nor were they known unto them, and it was an hour before all was got right. Then all went with them as if it were oiled. The first man found a great treasure the very first day in his cellar—in fine, they all grew rich, and the three sons married the three girls, and they all put the three wheels on theirscudi. One of the wheels is the ball on which Fortune rolled along, and the other two are her feet; or else the three men each took a wheel to himself. Anyhow, there they are, pick and choose, Signore—chi ha piú cervello,l’usi!—let him who has brains, brain!
“Now, it is a saying thatogni fior non fa frutto—every blossom doth not bear a fruit—but the flowers of Fortune bear fruit enough to make up for the short crop elsewhere.
“But there is some sense and use in such stories as these, Signore, after all; for a poor devil who half believes—and very often quite believes in them—gets a great deal of hope and comfort out of them. They make him trust that luck or fairies or something will give him a good turn yet some day—chi sa?—and so he hopes, and truly, as they say that no pretty girl is ever quite poor, so no man who hopes is ever really broken—grazie,Signore! I hope to tell you another story before long.”