Legends Of Florence Part 27

"He found such strange enchantment there, In that garden sweet and rare, Where night and day The nightingales still sing their roundelay, And plashing fountains 'neath the verdure play, That for his life he could not thence away; And even yet, though he hath long been dead, 'Tis said his spirit haunts the pleasant shade."

-_The Ring of Charlemagne_.

A great showman, as I have heard, once declared that in establishing a menagerie, one should have the indispensable lion, an _obligato_ elephant, a requisite tiger, an essential camel, and imperative monkeys.

One of the "indispensable lions" of Florence is the Boboli Gardens, joining the Pitti Palace, which, from their careful preservation in their original condition, give an admirable idea of what gardens were like in an age when far more was thought of them than now as places of habitual resort and enjoyment, and when they entered into all literature and life.

Abraham a Santa Clara once wrote a discourse against gardens, as making life too happy or simple, basing his idea on the fact that sin originated in the Garden of Eden.

The Boboli Gardens were planned by Il Tribolo for Cosimo di Medici. The ground which they occupy is greatly varied, rising high in some places, from which very beautiful views of Florence, with its "walls and churches, palaces and towers," may be seen. Of their many attractions the guide-book remarks poetically in very nearly the following words:-

"Its long-embowered walks, like lengthened arbours, Are well adapted to the summer's sun; While statues, terraces, and vases add Still more unto its splendour. All around We see attractive statues, and of these A number really are restored antiques, And many by good artists; best of all Are four by mighty Michel Angelo, Made for the second Julius, and meant To decorate his tomb. You see them at The angles of the grotto opposite The entrance to the gardens. Of this grot The famous Redi sang in verse grotesque:

"Ye satyrs, in a trice Leave your low jests and verses rough and hobbly, And bring me a good fragment of the ice Kept in the grotto of the Garden Boboli.

With nicks and picks Of hammers and sticks, Disintegrate it And separate it, Break it and split it, Splinter and slit it!

Till at the end 'tis fairly ground and rolled Into the finest powder, freezing cold."

There are also, among the things worth seeing, the Venus by Giovanni of Boulogne (called di Bologna); the Apollo and Ceres by Baccio Bandinelli; the group of Paris carrying off Helen by V. de' Rossi, and the old Roman fountain-bath and obelisk. The trees and flowers, shrubbery and _boschetti_, are charming; and if the reader often visits them, long sitting in the sylvan shade on sunny days, he will not fail to feel that strange enchantment which seems to haunt certain places, and people them with dreams, if not with elves.

The fascination of these dark arbours old, and of the antique gardens, has been recognised by many authors, and there are, I suppose, few visitors to Florence who have not felt it and recalled it years after in distant lands as one recalls a dream. Therefore, I read with interest or sympathy the following, which, though amounting to nothing as a legend, is still valuable as setting forth the fascination of the place, and how it dates even from him who gave the Boboli Gardens their name:

IL GIARDINO BOBOLI.

"The Boboli Garden is the most beautiful in Europe.

"Boboli was the name of the farmer who cultivated the land before it was bought by Cosimo de' Medici and his wife Eleanora.

"After he had sold the property he remained buried in grief, because he had an attachment for it such as some form for a dog or a cat. And so great was his love for it that it never left his mind, nor could he ever say amen to it; for on whatever subject he might discourse, it always came in like one who will not be kept out, and his refrain was, 'Well, you'll see that my place will become _il nido degli amori_ (the nest of loves), and I myself after my death will never be absent from it.' His friends tried to dissuade him from thinking so much of it, saying that he would end by being lunatic, but he persevered in it till he died.

"And it really came to pa.s.s as he said; for soon after his death, and ever since, many have on moonlight nights seen his spirit occupied in working in the gardens."

The story is a pretty one, and it is strangely paralleled by one narrated in my own Memoirs of the old Penington mansion in Philadelphia, the gardens of which were haunted by a gentle ghost, a lady who had lived there in her life, and who was, after her death, often seen watering the flowers in them by moonlight. And thus do-

"printless footsteps fall By the spots they loved before."

The second legend which I recovered, relating to the Boboli Gardens, is as follows:

LE DUE STATUE E LA NINFA.

"There are in the Boboli Gardens two statues of two imprisoned kings, and it is said that every night a beautiful fairy of the grotto clad in white rises from the water, emerging perfectly dry, and converses with the captive kings for one hour, going alternately from one to the other, as if bearing mutual messages, and then returns to the grotto, gliding over the ground without touching the gra.s.s with her feet, and after this vanishes in the water."

"This tale is, as I conceive," writes the observant Flaxius, "an allegory, or, as Petrus Berchorius would have called it, a _moralisation_, the marrow whereof is as follows: The two captive kings are Labour and Capital, who have, indeed, been long enchained, evil tongues telling each that the other was his deadly foe, while the fairy is Wise Reform, who pa.s.ses her time in consoling and reconciling them.

And it shall come to pa.s.s that when the go-betweens or brokering mischief-makers are silenced, then the kings will be free and allied."

"Then indeed, as you may see, All the world will happy be!"

_Vivat Sequenz_! Now for the next story.

HOW LA VIA DELLA MOSCA GOT ITS NAME

"Puer-abige Muscas!"

-_Cicero de Orat._, 60.

The following story contains no new or original elements, as it is only an ordinary tale of transformation by witchcraft, but as it accounts for the origin of the name of a street in Florence I give it place:-

LA VIA DELLA MOSCA.

"This is the way that the Via della Mosca, or the Street of the Fly, got its name. There once dwelt in it, in a very old house, a family which, while of rank, were not very wealthy, and therefore lived in a retired manner. There were father, mother, and one daughter, who was wonderfully beautiful-_un vero occhio di sole_.

"And as the sun hath its shadow, so there was a living darkness in this family in a _donna di servizio_, a servant woman who had been many years with them, who had a daughter of her own, who was also a beauty of a kind, but as dark as the other was fair; the two were like day and night, and as they differed in face, so were they unlike in soul. For the young signora had not a fault in her; she would not have caused any one pain even to have her own way or please her vanity, and they say the devil will drop dead whenever he shall meet with such a woman as _that_.

However, he never met with this young lady, I suppose, because he is living yet. And the young lady was so gentle of heart that she never said an ill word of any one, while the maid and her mother never opened their mouths save for gossip and slander. And she was so occupied with constant charity, and caring for poor children, and finding work for poor people, that she never thought about her own beauty at all, and when people told her that _chi nasce bella_, _nasce maritata_ (Whoever is born pretty is born to be married), she would reply, 'Pretty or ugly, there are things more important in life than weddings.'

"And so far did she carry this, that she gave no heed at all to a very gallant and handsome yet good-hearted honourable wealthy young gentleman who lived in a palazzo opposite, and who, from watching and admiring her, had ended by falling desperately in love. So he made a proposal of marriage to her through her parents, but she replied (having had her mind, in truth, on other things) that she was too much taken up with other duties to properly care for a husband, and that her dowry was not sufficient to correspond to his wealth, however generous he might be in dispensing with one. And as she was as firm and determined as she was gentle and good, she resolutely kept him at arm's length. But firmness is nothing against fate, and he 'who runs away with nimble feet, in the war of love at last will beat.' {189}

"Now, if she was indifferent to the young signore, the dark maid-servant was not, for she had fallen as much in love with him as an evil, selfish nature would permit her, and she planned and plotted with her mother by night and by day to bring about what she desired. Now, the old woman, unknown to all, was a witch, as all wicked women really are-they rot away with vanity and self-will and evil feelings till their hearts are like tinder or gunpowder, and then some day comes a spark of the devil's fire, and they flash out into witches of some kind.

"The young signore had a great love for boating on the Arno, which was a deeper river in those days; he would often pa.s.s half the night in his boat. Now, the mother and daughter so contrived it that the young signorina should return very late on a certain night from visiting the poor, accompanied by the old woman. And when just in the middle of the Ponte Vecchio the mother gave a whistle, and lo! there came a sudden and terrible blast of wind, which lifted up the young lady and whirled her over the bridge into the rushing river underneath.

"But, as fate would have it, the young man was in his boat just below, and fortune fell down to him, as it were, from heaven; for seeing a form float or flit past him in the water and the darkness, he caught at it and drew it into the boat, and truly Pilate's wife was not so astonished when the roast capon rose up in the dish and crowed as was this boatman at finding what he had fished up out of the stream.

"There is a saying of a very unlucky contrary sort of man that _casco in Arno ed a.r.s.e_ (He fell in the Arno and burnt himself). But in this case, by luck, the falling of the young lady into the river caused her heart to burn with love, for so bravely and courteously and kindly did the young signore behave, conveying her promptly home without a sign of love-making or hint of the past, that she began to reconsider her refusal, and the end thereof was a betrothal, by which the mother and daughter were maddened to think that they had only hastened and aided what they had tried to prevent.

"Now, it is true that bad people put ten times as much strong will and hard work into their evil acts as good folk do into better deeds, because the latter think their cause will help itself along, while the sinners know perfectly well that they must help themselves or lose. So the witch only persevered the more, and at last she hit on this plan. With much devilish ado she enchanted a comb of thorns, so that whoever was combed with it would turn into a fly, and must remain one till the witch bade the victim a.s.sume his or her usual form.

"Then on the bridal morn the old woman offered to comb out the long golden locks of the young lady, and she did so, no other person being present, so she began her incantation:

"'Earthly beauty fade away, Maiden's form no longer stay, For a fly thou shalt become, And as a busy insect hum, _Hum-hum-brum-brum_!

_Buzz-uz-uz_ about the room!

"'Ope thine eyes and spread thy wings, Pa.s.s away to insect things.

Now the world will hate thee more Than it ever loved before When it hears thy ceaseless hum, _Buzz-uz-uz_ about the room!'

"And hearing this, the bride sank into a deep sleep, during which she changed into a fly, and so soared up to the ceiling and about the room, buzzing indeed.

"Now, with all her cleverness, the witch had missed a st.i.tch in her sorcery, for she had not combed hard enough to _draw blood_, being afraid to wake the maid; hence it came to pa.s.s that instead of a small common fly she became a very large and exquisitely beautiful one, with a head like gold, a silver body, and beautiful blue and silver wings like her bridal dress. And she was not confined to buzzing, for she had the power to sing one verse. However, when the change took place, the old woman rushed from the room screaming like mad, declaring that her young mistress was a witch who had turned into a fly as soon as she had touched her with a consecrated comb which had been dipped in holy water, and to this she added many lies, as that a witch to avoid the holy sacrament of marriage always changed her form, and that she had always suspected the signorina of being a witch ever since she had seen her fly in the wind over the Arno to the young signore.

"But when they went to look at the fly, and found it so large and beautiful, they were amazed, nor were they less astonished when they heard it begin to buzz with a most entrancing strangely sweet sound, and then sing:-

"'Be ye not amazed that I Am enchanted as a fly, Evil witchcraft was around me, Evil witches' spells have bound me: Now I am a fly I know, But woe to her who made me so!'

"And when the young signore stretched out his hand, the fly came buzzing with joy and lighted like a bird on his finger, and this she did with great joy whenever any of the poor whom she had befriended came to see her, and so she behaved to all whom she had loved. And when it was observed that the fly had no fear of holy things, but seemed to love them, all believed in her song.

"Till one day the young signore, calling all the family and friends together, said: 'This is certainly true, that she who was to have been my wife is here, turned into a fly. And as for her being a witch, ye can all see that she fears neither holy water nor a crucifix. But I believe that these women here, her nurse and daughter, have filled our ears with lies, and that the nurse herself is the sorceress who hath done the evil deed. Now, I propose that we take all three, the fly, the mother, and daughter, and hang the room with verbena, which I have provided, and sprinkle the three with much holy water, all of us making the _castagna_ and _jettatura_, and see what will come of it.'