“Now by two-headed Janus!
Nature hath formed strange fellows in her time!”Shakespeare.“There were in Rome many temples of Janus, some unto him as bifrons, or double-faced. Caylus has published pictures of Greek vases on which are seen two heads thus united, the one of an elderly man, the other of a young woman.”—Dizionario Mitologico.
There was once in Florence, in the Tower della Zeccha, a statue of great antiquity, and it had only one body, or bust, but two heads; and one of these was of a man and the other of a woman, a thing marvellous to behold.
And Virgil, seeing this when it was first found in digging amid old ruins, had it placed upright and said:
“Behold two beings who form but a single person! I will conjure the image; it shall be a charm to do good; it shall teach a lesson to all.”
Thus he conjured:
“Statua da due faccie
Due, e un corpo solo,
Due faccie ed avete
Un sol cervello. Siete
Due esseri l’ uno per altro,
Dovete essere marito e moglie,
Dovete peccare con un sol pensiero.“Avete bene quattro occhi
Ma una sol vista,
Come tutti i mariti,
E moglie dorebbere essere,
E dovete fare la buona fortuna
Di tutti gli inamorati.”“Statue gifted with two faces,
Two and yet a single body!
Two and but one brain—then art thou
Two intended for each other—
Two who should be wife and husband,
Acting by the same reflection.“Unto you four eyes are given,
And but a single sight—ye are then
What indeed all wives and husbands
Ought to be if they’d be happy;
Therefore shalt thou bring good fortune
Unto all devoted lovers!”
Then Virgil touched the statue with his rod, and it replied:
“Tutti quelli che mi pregherano.
Di cuore sincera, amanti o sposi,
Tutti quelli saranno felice!”“All of those who’ll come here to adore me,
Be they lovers, be they married couples,
I will ever make them truly happy.”
The conception of a head with two faces, one male and the other female, is still very common in Italy. In the cloister of Santa Maria Novella in Florence the portraits of a husband and wife are thus united on a marble monumental tablet. And in Baveno, among the many graffiti or sketches and scrawls made by children on the walls on or near the church, there is one which is evidently traditional, representing Janus. This double-headed deity was continued in the Baphomet of the Knights Templars.
In the older legends are two tales declaring that Virgil made and enchanted two statues. This appears to be a variation of the story of Janus.
VIRGIL AND HIS COURTIERS.
“Virgilius also made a belfry.”—The Wonderful History of Virgilius the Sorcerer of Rome.“To be a crow and seem a swan,
To look all truth, possessing none,
To appear a saint by every act,
And be a devil meanwhile at heart,
To prove that black is white, in sooth,
And cover up the false with truth;
And be a living lie, in short—
Such are the lives men lead at court.”Old Italian saying cited by Francesco Panico in his “Poetiche Dicerie” (1643); article, Courtiers.“Above all lying is the lie as practised by evil courtiers, it being falsehood par excellence. For they are the arch architects, the cleverest of artists at forming lies, pre-eminent in cooking, seasoning, serving them with the honey of flattery or the vinegar of reproof.”—Francesco Panico (1643).
On a time Virgilio remained for many weeks alone at home, and never went to court. And during this retirement he made seven bells of gold, and on every one there was engraved a name or word.
On the first there was “Bugiardo” (or lying), on the second “Chiacchiera” (or tattling gossip), on the third “Malignità” (or evil spite), on the fourth “Chalugna” (or calumny), on the fifth “Maldicenza” (or vituperation), on the sixth “Invidia” (or envy), and on the seventh “Bassezza” (or vileness).
And these he hung up in a draught of air, so that as they swung in the breeze they rang and tinkled, first one alone, and then all.
One day the Emperor sent a messenger to Virgilio, asking him why he never came to court as of old. And Virgilio wrote in reply:
“My dear Emperor,“It is no longer necessary that I should come to court to learn all that is said there. For where I am at home I hear all day long the voices of Falsehood, Tattling, Evil Spite, Calumny, Vituperation, Envy, and Vileness.”
And then he showed the bells to the messenger. The Emperor, when he had read the letter and heard all, laughed heartily, and said:
“So Virgilio keeps a court of his own! Yes, and a finer one than mine, for all his courtiers are clad in gold.”
VIRGIL AND THE THREE SHEPHERDS.
A Legend of the Monte Sybilla, near Rome.
“And, warrior, I could tell to thee
The words which split Eildon Hill in three,
And bridled the Tweed with a curb of stone;
But to speak them were a deadly sin,
And for having but thought them my heart within
A treble penance must be done.”—Scott.
Miss Roma Lister, when residing in Florence, having written to her old nurse Maria, in Rome, asking her if she knew, or could find, any tales of Virgil, received after a while the following letter, written out by her son, who has evidently been well educated, to judge by his style and admirable handwriting:
“Rome, January 28, 1897.
“Mia buona Signorina,“I have been seeking for some old person, a native of the Castelli Romani, who knew something relative to the magician Virgil, and I found in a street of the new quarters of Rome an old acquaintance, a man who is more than eighty years of age; and on asking him for what I wanted, he, after some reflection, recalled the following story:“‘I was a small boy when my parents told me that in the Montagna della Sibilla there was once an old man who was indeed so very old that the most ancient people had ever known him as appearing of the same age, and he was called the magician Virgilio.“‘One day three shepherds were in a cabin at the foot of the mountain, when the magician entered, and they were at first afraid of him, knowing his reputation. But he calmed them by saying that he never did harm to anyone, and that he had come down from the mountain to beg a favour from them.“‘“There is,” he continued, “half-way up the mountain, a grotto, in which there is a great serpent which keeps me from entering. Therefore I beg you do me the kindness to capture it.”“‘The shepherds replied that they would do so, thinking that he wanted them to kill the snake, but he explained to them that he wished to have it taken in a very large bottle (grandissimo boccione) [165] by means of certain herbs which he had provided.“‘And the next day he came with the bottle and certain herbs which were strange to them, and certainly not grown in the country. And he said:“‘“Go to the grotto, and lay the bottle down with its mouth towards the cavern, and when the serpent shall smell the herbs he will enter the bottle. Then do ye close it quickly and bring it to me. And all of this must be done without a word being spoken, else ye will meet with disaster.”“‘So the three shepherds went their way, and after a time came to the grotto, which they entered, and did as the magician had ordered. Then, after a quarter of an hour, the serpent, smelling the herbs, came forth and entered the bottle. No sooner was he in it than one of the shepherds adroitly closed it, and cried unthinkingly:“‘“Now you’re caught!”“‘When all at once they felt the whole mountain shake, and heard an awful roar, and crashing timber round on every side, so that they fell on the ground half dead with fear. When they came to their senses each one found himself on the summit of a mountain, and the three peaks were far apart. It took them several days to return to their cabin, and all of them died a few days after.“‘From that time the magician Virgil was no more seen in the land.’“This is all which I could learn; should I hear more I will write at once to you.”
This is beyond question an imperfectly-told tale. What the sorcerer intended and effected was to divide a mountain into three peaks, as did Michael Scott, of whom legends are still left in Italy, as the reader may find by consulting the interesting work by the Rev. J. Wood Brown. [166] In the Italian tale the three shepherds who were together find themselves suddenly apart on the tops of three peaks, which clearly indicates the real aim of the narrative.
An old Indian woman, widow of an Indian governor, told me, as a thing unknown, that the three hills of Boston had been thus split by Glusgábe or Glooscap, the great Algonkin god. As this deity introduced culture to North America, it will be at once perceived that there was something truly weirdly, or strangely prophetic, in this act. As Glooscap was the first to lay out Boston—à la Trinité—he certainly ought to be regarded as the patron saint of that cultured city, and have at least a library, a lyceum, or a hotel named after him in the American Athens. The coincidence is very singular—Rome and Boston!
Eildon Hill, by which, as I have heard, Andrew Lang was born, is one of the picturesque places which attract legends and masters in folk-lore. Of it I have a strange souvenir. While in its vicinity I for three nights saw in a dream the Fairy Queen, and the “vision” was remarkably vivid, or so much so as to leave a strong or haunting impression on my waking hours. It was like a glimpse into elf-land. Of course it was simply the result of my recalling and thinking deeply on the legend of “True Thomas,” but the dream was very pleasant and sympathetic.
THE GOLDEN PINE-CONE.
“Quid sibi vult, illa Pinus, quàm semper statis diebus in deum matris intromittis sanctuarium?”—Arnobius, i. 5.
There was once a young man named Constanzo, who was blessed, as they say, in form and fortune, he being both fair in face and rich. Now, whether it was that what he had seen and learned of ladies at court had displeased him, is not recorded or remembered, but one thing is certain, that he had made up his mind to marry a poor girl, and so began to look about among humble folk at the maids, which indeed pleased many of them beyond belief, though it was taken ill by their parents, who had but small faith in such attentions.
But the one whom it displeased most of all was the mother of Constanzo, who, when he said that he would marry a poor girl, declared in a rage that he should do nothing of the kind, because she would allow no such person to come in the house. To which he replied that as he was of age, and the master, he would do as he pleased. Then there were ill words, for the mother had a bad temper and worse will, and had gone the worst way to work, because of all things her son could least endure being governed. And she was the more enraged because her son had hitherto always been docile and quiet, but she now found that she had driven him up to a height which he had not before dreamed of occupying and where he would now remain. But she vowed vengeance in her heart, saying: “Marry or not—this shall cost thee dear. Te lo farò pagare!”
Many months passed, and no more was said, when one day the young gentleman went to the chase with his friends, and impelled by some strange influence, took a road and went afar into a part of the country which was unknown to him. At noon they dismounted to rest, when, being very thirsty, Constanzo expressed a desire for water.
And just as he said it there came by a contadina, carrying two jars of water, cold and dripping, fresh from a fountain. And the young signor having drunk, observed that the girl was of enchanting or dazzling beauty, with a charming expression of innocence, which went to his heart.
“Constanza,” the girl replied.
“And I am Constanzo,” he cried; “and as our names so our hearts shall be—one made for the other!”
“But you are a rich lord, and I am a poor girl,” she slowly answered, “so it can never be.”
But as both had loved at sight, and sincerely, it was soon arranged, and the end was that the pair were married, and Constanza became a signora and went to live in the castle with her lord. His mother, who was more his enemy than ever, and ten times that of his wife, made no sign of anger, but professed love and devotion, expressing delight every day and oftener that her son had chosen so fair a wife, and one so worthy of him.
It came to pass that Constanza was about to become a mother, and at this time her husband was called to the wars, and that so far away that many days must pass before he could send a letter to his home. But his mother showed herself so kind, though she had death and revenge at her heart, that Constanzo was greatly relieved, and departed almost light of heart, for he was a brave man, as well as good, and such people borrow no trouble ere it is due.
But the old signora looked after him with bitterness, saying, “Thou shalt pay me, and the hour is not far off.” And when she saw his wife she murmured:
“Now revenge shall take its shape;
Truly thou canst not escape;
Be it death or be it dole,
I will sting thee to the soul.”
Then when the hour came that the countess was to be confined, the old woman told her that she herself alone would serve and attend to all—e che avrebbe fatto tutto da se. But going forth, she found a pine-tree and took from it a cone, which she in secret set to boil in water, singing to it:
“Bolli, bolli!
Senza posa.
Che nel letto
Vi é la sposa,
Un fanciullo
Alla luce mi dara,
E una pina diventera!“Bolli, bolli!
Mio decotto
Bolli, bolli!
Senza posa!
Il profumo
Che tu spandi,
Si spanda
In corpo alla
Alla sposa e il figlio,
Il figlio che fara
Pina d’ oro diventera!”“Boil and boil,
Rest defying!
In the bed
The wife is lying;
Soon her babe
The light will see,
But a pine-cone
It shall be!“Boil and boil,
And well digest!
Boil and boil,
And never rest!
May the perfume
Which you spread
Thrill the body
To the head,
And the child
Which we shall see,
A golden pine-cone
Let it be!”
And soon the countess gave birth to a beautiful daughter with golden hair, but the old woman promptly took the little one and bathed it in the water in which she had boiled the pine-cone, whereupon it became a golden pine-cone, and the poor mother was made to believe that this was her first-born; and the same was written to the father, who replied to his wife that, whatever might happen, he would ever remain as he had been.
The mother-in-law took the pine-cone and placed it on a mantelpiece, as such curious or odd things are generally disposed of. And when her son returned she contrived in so many ways and with craft to calumniate his wife that the poor lady was ere long imprisoned in a tower.
But a strange thing now happened, for every night the pine-cone, unseen by all, left like a living thing its place on the chimney-piece and wandered over the castle, returning at five o’clock to its place, but ever going just below the lady’s window, where it sang:
“O cara madre mia!
Luce degli occhi miei!
Cessa quel pianto,
E non farmi più soffrir!”“O mother, darling mother,
Light of my eyes, I pray
That thou wilt cease thy weeping,
So mine may pass away.”
Yet, after he had shut his wife up in the tower, Constanzo had not an instant’s peace of mind. Therefore, to be assured, he one day went to consult the great magician Virgil. And having told all that had happened, the wise man said:
“Thou hast imprisoned thy wife, she who is pure and true, in a tower, and all on the lying words and slanders of that vile witch your mother. And thou hast suffered bitterly, and well deserved it, as all do who are weak enough to believe evil reports of a single witness; for who is there who may not lie, especially among women, when they are jealous and full of revenge? Now do thou set free thy wife (and bid her come to me and I will teach her what to do).”
So the count obeyed.
Then the mother took the pine-cone and threw it up three times into the air, singing:
“Pina, mia bella pina!
Dei pini tu sei regina!
Dei pini sei prottetrice,
D’ un pino pianta la radice!
E torna una fanciulla bella
Come un occhio
Di sole in braccio
A tuo padre
Ed a tua madre!“Pine, the fairest ever seen,
Of all cones thou art the queen!
Guarding them in sun or shade,
And ’tis granted that, when planted,
Thou shalt be a charming maid,
Ever sweet and ever true
To thy sire and mother too.”
And this was done, and the cone forthwith grew up a fair maid, who was the joy of her parents’ life. But the people in a rage seized on the old witch, who was covered with a coat of pitch and burned alive in the public square.
This legend was gathered in and sent to me from Siena. As a narrative it is a fairy-tale of the most commonplace description, its incidents being found in many others. But so far as the pine-cone is concerned it is of great originality, and retains remarkable relics of old Latin lore. The pine-tree was a favourite of Cybele, and it was consecrated to Silvanus, who is still known and has a cult in the mountains of the Romagna Toscana. This rural deity often bore a pine-cone in his hand. Propertius also assigns the pine to Pan. The cone was pre-eminently a phallic emblem, therefore specially holy; in this sense it was placed on the staff borne by the specially initiated to Bacchus. It was incredibly popular as an amulet, on account of its supposed magical virtues, therefore no one object is more frequently produced in ancient art. A modern writer, observing this, and not being able to account for it, very feebly attributes it to the fact that the object is so common that it is naturally used for a model. “Artists,” he says, “in fact prefer to use what comes ready to hand, and to copy such plants as are ever under their eye.” So writes the great dilettante Caylus, forgetting that a thousand objects quite as suitable to decoration as the pine-cone, and quite as common, were not used at all.
The pine typified a new birth, according to Friedrich; this was because it was evergreen, and therefore sacred as immortal to Cybele. Thus Ovid (“Metamorphoses,” x. 103) writes, “Pinus grata deum matri.” The French Layard, in the new “Annales de l’Institut Archæologique,” vol. xix., has emphatically indicated the connection of the pine-cone with the cult of Venus, and as a reproductive symbol. It is in this sense clearly set forth in the Italian or Sienese legend, where the pine-cone planted in the earth grows up as the girl with golden locks. This is very probably indeed the relic of an old Roman mythical tale or poem.
The golden pine-cone appears in other tales. Wolf (“Zeitschrift für deutsche Mythologie,” vol. i., p. 297) says that in Franconia there were once three travelling Handwerksburschen, or craftsmen, who met with a beautiful lady, who when asked for alms gave to each a pine-cone from a tree. Two of them threw the gifts away, but the third found his changed to solid gold. In order to make an amulet which is kept in the house, pine-cones are often gilded in Italy. I have seen them here in Florence, and very pretty ornaments they make.
VIRGIL’S MAGIC LOOM.
“I heard a loom at work, and thus it spoke,
As though its clatter like a metre woke,
And echoed in my mind like an old song,
Rising while growing dimmer e’en like smoke.“And thus it spoke, ‘God is a loom like me,
His chiefest weaving is Humanity,
And man and woman are the warp and woof,
Which make a mingling light of mystery.’”The Loom: C. G. L.
Gega was a girl of fifteen years of age, and without parents or friends, with nothing in the world but eyes to weep and arms to work. Yet she had this luck, that an old woman who was a fellow-lodger in the place where she lived, [172] moved by compassion, took the girl to live with her, though all she had was a very small room, in which was a poor bed and a little loom, so crazy-looking and old that it seemed impossible to work with it.
Nunzia, [173] for such was the old woman’s name, took Gega indeed as a daughter, and taught her to weave, which was a good trade in those days, and in that place where few practised it. So it came to pass that they made money, which was laid by. [This was no great wonder, for the old loom had a strange enchantment in it, by which marvellous work could be produced.]
The old woman very often bade Gega take great care of the loom, and the girl could not understand why Nunzia thought so much of it, since it seemed to her to be like any other. [For it never appeared strange to her that when she wove the cloth seemed to almost come of itself—a great deal for a little thread—and that its quality or kind improved as she applied herself to work, for in her ignorance she believed that this was the way with all weaving.]
At last the old Mamma Nunzia died, and Gega, left alone, began to make acquaintances and friends with other girls who came to visit her. Among these was one named Ermelinda, who was at heart as treacherous and rapacious as she was shrewd, yet one withal who, what with her beauty and deceitful airs, knew how to flatter and persuade to perfection, so that she could make a simple girl like Gega believe that the moon was a pewter plate, or a black fly white.
Now, the first time that she and several others, who were all weavers, saw Gega at work, they were greatly amazed, for the cloth seemed to come of itself from a wretched old loom which appeared to be incapable of making anything, and it was so fine and even, and had such a gloss that it looked like silk.
“How wonderful! One would say it was silk!” cried a girl.
“Oh, I can make silk when I try,” answered Gega; and applying her will to it, she presently spun from cotton-thread a yard of what was certainly real silk stuff.
And seeing this, all present declared that Gega must be a witch.
“Nonsense,” she replied; “you could all do it if you tried as I do. As for being a witch, it is Ermelinda and not I who should be so, for she first said it was like silk, and made it so.”
Then Ermelinda saw that there was magic in the loom, of which Gega knew nothing, so she resolved to do all in her power to obtain it. And this she effected firstly by flattery, and giving the innocent girl extravagant ideas of her beauty, assuring her that she had an attractiveness which could not fail to win her a noble husband, and that, having laid by a large sum of money, she should live on it in style till married, and that in any case she could go back to her weaving. But that on which she laid most stress was that Gega should leave her old lodging and get rid of her dirty old furniture, and especially of that horrible, crazy old loom, persuading her that, if she ever should have occasion to weave again, she, with her talent, could do far better with a new loom, and probably gain thrice as much, all of which the simple girl believed, and so let her false friend dispose of everything, in doing which Ermelinda did not fail to keep the loom herself, declaring that nobody would buy it.
“Now,” said the latter, “I am content. Thou art very beautiful; all that thou needest is to be elegantly dressed, and have fine things about thee, to soon catch a fine husband.”
Gega assented to this, but was loth to part with her old loom, which she had promised Nunzia should never be neglected; but Ermelinda promised so faithfully to keep it carefully for her, that she was persuaded to let her have it. Then the young girl took a fine apartment, well furnished, and bought herself beautiful clothes, and, guided by her false friend, began to go to entertainments and make fashionable friends, and live as if she were rich.
Then Ermelinda, having obtained the old loom, went to work with it, in full hope that she too could spin silk out of cotton, but found out to her amazement and rage that she could do nothing of the kind—nay, she could not so much as weave common cloth from it; all that she got after hours of fruitless effort was a headache, and the conviction that she had thrown away all her time and trouble, which made her hate Gega all the more.
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.
“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”:
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:
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.”
“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.
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