"The poor horse continued to bleed.
""You are like the mouse," added a neighbour, "who thought because he had dipped the end of his tail in the meal, that he owned and could run the mill."
""The Florentine method of shoeing horses," remarked Saint Peter gravely, "does not appear to be invariably successful. I think that we had better recur to mine." And with this he put the hoof to the ankle, and _presto_! the miracle was wrought again. That is the story. In most cases, Signore, _un pazzo gitta una pietra nel pozzo_-a fool rolls a rock into a well which it requires a hundred wise men to get out again. This time a single sage sufficed. But for that you must have the Lord at your back, as Saint Peter had."
"Why do they say, as foolish as a crawfish or lobster?" I inquired.
"Because, Signore, the _granchio_, be he lobster or crawfish, carries his head in the _sca.r.s.ella_, which is a hole in his belly. Men who have their brains in their bellies-or gluttons-are generally foolish. But what is the use of boasting of our wisdom? He who has neither poor men nor fools among his relations was born of the lightning or of thunder."
There is another story current among the people, though it is in print, but as it is a merry one, belonging truly enough to the folk-lore of Florence, I give it as it runs:
"You have heard of Piovano Arlotto, who made this our town so lively long ago. It was rich then, indeed. There are more flowers than florins in Florence now: _ogni fior non fa frutto_-all flowers do not bear fruit.
"Well, it happened one day that Piovano, having heard a good story from Piero di Cosimo de" Medicis, answered with another. Now the tale which Messer Piero di Cosimo told was this:
"Once there lived in Florence a poor shoemaker, who went every morning to the Church of San Michele Berteldi-some say it was at San Bartolommeo, and maybe at both, for a good story or a big lie is at home anywhere.
"Well, he used to pray before a John the Baptist in wood, or it may have been cast in plaster, or moulded in wax, which was on the altar. One morning he prayed scalding hot, and the _chierico_-a boy who waits on the priest, who was a young rascal, like all of his kind-overheard him say: "Oh, Saint John, I pray thee make known to me two things. One is whether my wife is good and true to me, and the other what will become of my only son."
"Then the ma.s.s-boy, who had hidden himself behind the altar, replied in a soft, slow, strange voice: "Know, my son, that because thou hast long been so devout to me, thou shalt be listened unto. Return hither to-morrow, and thou wilt be answered; and now go in peace."
"And the shoemaker, having heard this, verily believed that Saint John had spoken to him, and went his way with great rejoicing. So, bright and early the next morning, he was in the church, and said: "Saint John, I await thy reply."
"Then the ma.s.s-boy, who was hidden as before, replied: "Oh, my son, I am sorry to say that thy wife is no better than she should be-_ha fatto fallo con piu d"uno_-and everybody in Florence except thee knows it."
""And my son?" gasped the shoemaker.
""_He will be hung_," replied the voice.
"The shoemaker rose and departed abruptly. In the middle of the church he paused, and, without a sign of the cross, and putting on his cap, he cried: "What sort of a Saint John are you, anyhow?"
""Saint John the Baptist," replied the voice.
""_Sia col malanno e con la mala Pasque che Iddio ti dia_!-Then may the Lord give you a bad year and a miserable Easter-tide! You never utter aught save evil, and it was for thy evil tongue that Herod cut thy head off-and served thee right! I do not believe a word of all which thou hast told me. I have been coming here every day for twenty-five years, and never asked thee for anything before; but I will make one more vow to thee, and that is-never to see thy face again."
"And when Messer Cosimo had ended, Piovano Arlotto replied:
""One good turn deserves another. It is not many years ago since a poor _fa.r.s.ettajo_, or doublet-maker, lived in Florence, his shop being close to the Oratorio di Orto San Michele, {126} and every morning he went to worship in the church, and lit a candle before a picture representing Christ as a child disputing with the Doctors, while his mother enters seeking him.
""And after he had done this daily for more than twenty-five years, it happened that his little son, while looking on at a game of ball, had a tile fall on his head, which wounded him terribly. The doctors being called in, despaired.
""The next morning the poor tailor went to his devotions in Or" San Michele, bearing this time, instead of a farthing taper, a great wax-candle; and kneeling, he spoke thus: "_Dolce Signor mio Gesu Cristo_, I beg thee to restore my son to health. Thou knowest that I have worshipped thee here for twenty-five years, and never asked for anything before, and thou thyself can best bear witness to it. This my son is all my happiness on earth, and he was also most devoted to thee. Should he be taken away, I would die in despair, and so I commend myself to three!"
""Then he departed, and coming home, learned that his son had died.
""The next morning, in grief and anger, he entered Orto San Michele, and, without any candle, he went directly to the picture, and, without kneeling, broke forth in these words: "_Io ti disgrazio_-I dislike, disown, and despise thee, and will return here no more. Five-and-twenty years have I worshipped thee and never asked for anything before, and now thou dost refuse me my request. If I had only gone to the great crucifix there, I daresay I should have got all I wanted; but this is what comes of trusting to a mere child, for, as the proverb says, _Chi s"impaccia con fanciulli_, _con fanciulli si ritrova_-he who troubles himself with children will himself be treated as a child.""
It is worth remarking, as regards the tone and character of this tale, that such freedom was commonest when people were most devout. The most sceptical critics generally agree that these stories of Piovano Arlotto are authentic, having been dictated by him, and that he had a very exceptional character in his age for morality, honesty, and truth. He himself declared, without being contradicted, that he was the only priest of whom he knew who did not keep a mistress; and yet this story is simply an average specimen of the two hundred connected with his name, and that they in turn are identical in character with all the popular wit and humour of the time.
Regarding the image of the Holy Blacksmith, Saint Eligius or Eloi, the authors of "Walks in Florence" say that it is attributed to Nanni di Banco, and is meagre and stiff, but has dignity, which accords admirably with the character of most saints, or their ideals. It is evident that the _bon roi_ Dagobert was considered as the type of all that was free and easy-
"Le bon roi Dagobert Mettait son culotte a l"envers."
Therefore he is contrasted with the very dignified Saint Eloy, who was (like the breeches) quite the reverse, declining to lend the monarch two sous, which Dagobert had ascertained were in the holy man"s possession.
"The bas-relief below," continue the critics cited, "is more certainly by the hand of Nanni. It records a miracle of Saint Eloy, who one day, when shoeing a restive horse which was possessed by a demon, and was kicking and plunging, cut off the animal"s leg to fasten the shoe, and having completed his task, made the sign of the cross and restored the severed limb." I regret to say that this was written without careful reference to the original. It was not the _leg_ of the horse which was severed, nor a limb, but only the hoof at the pastern joint.
There is yet another explanation of this bas-relief, which I have somewhere read, but cannot now recall-more"s the pity, because it is the true one, as I remember, and one accounting for the presence of the female saint who is standing by, evidently invisibly. Perhaps some reader who knows Number Four will send it to me for a next edition.
It is worth noting that there is in Innsbruck, on the left bank of the Inn, a blacksmith"s shop, on the front of which is a very interesting bas-relief of the fourteenth or fifteenth century, representing Saint Peter or Eligius with the horse in a smithy.
There is another statue on the exterior of this church, that of Saint Philip, by the sculptor Nanni de Banco, concerning which and whom I find an anecdote in the _Facetie Diverse_, A.D. 1636:
"Now, it befell in adorning the church of Or" San Michele in Florence, that _I Consoli d"Arte_ (Art Directors of Florence) wanting a certain statue, wished to have it executed by Donatello, a most excellent sculptor; but as he asked fifty _scudi_, which was indeed a very moderate price for such statues as he made, they, thinking it too dear, refused him, and gave it to a sculptor _mediocre e mulo_-indifferent and mongrel-who had been a pupil of Donatello; nor did they ask him the price, supposing it would be, of course, less.
Who, having done his best, asked for the work eighty scudi. Then the Directors in anger explained to him that Donatello, a first-cla.s.s sculptor, had only asked fifty; but as he refused to abate a single _quattrino_, saying that he would rather keep the statue, the question was referred to Donatello himself, who at once said they should pay the man _seventy_ scudi. But when they reminded him that he himself had only asked fifty, he very courteously replied, "Certainly, and being a master of the art, I should have executed it in less than a month, but that poor fellow, who was hardly fit to be my pupil, has been more than half a year making it."
"By which shrewd argument he not only reproached them for their meanness and his rival for incapacity, but also vindicated himself as an artist."
This is the story as popularly known. In it Nanni is called Giovanni, and it is not true that he was an unworthy, inferior sculptor, for he was truly great. There is another legend of Or" San Michele, which is thus given by Pascarel, who, however, like most writers on Florence, is so extravagantly splendid or "gushing" in his description of everything, that untravelled readers who peruse his pages in good faith must needs believe that in every church and palazzo there is a degree of picturesque magnificence, compared to which the Pandemonium of Milton, or even the Celestial City itself as seen by Saint John, is a mere cheap Dissenting chapel. According to him, Or" San Michele is by right "a world"s wonder, and a gift so perfect to the whole world, that, pa.s.sing it, one should need say (or be _compelled_ to p.r.o.nounce) a prayer for Taddeo"s soul."
Which is like the dentist in Paris, who proclaimed in 1847 that it was-
"Presque une crime De ne pas crier, "_Vive_ Fattet!""
The legend, as told by this writer, and cited by Hare, is as follows:
"Surely nowhere in the world is the rugged, changeless, mountain force of hewn stone piled against the sky, and the luxuriant, dream-like poetic delicacy of stone carven and shaped into leaf.a.ge and loveliness, more perfectly blended and made one than where San Michele rises out of the dim, many-coloured, twisting streets, in its ma.s.s of ebon darkness and of silvery light.
"The other day, under the walls of it, I stood and looked at its Saint George, where he leans upon his shield, so calm, so young, with his bared head and his quiet eyes.
""That is our Donatello"s," said a Florentine beside me-a man of the people, who drove a horse for hire in the public ways, and who paused, cracking his whip, to tell this tale to me. "Donatello did that, and it killed him. Do you not know? When he had done that Saint George he showed it to his master. And the master said, "It wants one thing only." Now this saying our Donatello took gravely to heart, chiefly because his master would never explain where the fault lay; and so much did it hurt him, that he fell ill of it, and came nigh to death. Then he called his master to him. "Dear and great one, do tell me before I die," he said, "what is the one thing my statue lacks?" The master smiled and said: "Only speech." "Then I die happy," said our Donatello. And he-died-indeed, that hour."
"Now I cannot say that the pretty story is true-it is not in the least true; Donatello died when he was eighty-three, in the Street of the Melon, and it was he himself who cried, "Speak then-speak!" to his statue, as it was carried through the city. But whether true or false, this fact is surely true, that it is well-n.o.bly and purely well-with a people when the men amongst it who ply for hire on its public ways think caressingly of a sculptor dead five hundred years ago, and tell such a tale, standing idly in the noonday sun, feeling the beauty and the pathos of it all."
Truly, in a town half of whose income is derived from art-hunting tourists, and where every vagabond offers himself, in consequence, as a cicerone, it is no sign that "all is well-n.o.bly and purely well-with a people," because a coachman who had been asked which was Donatello"s Saint George by about five hundred English "fares," and nearly as many American young ladies-of whom many of the latter told him all they knew about it-should have picked up such a tale. In fact, while I have been amazed at the _incredible_ amount of legend, superst.i.tious traditions, and incantations existing among the people, I have been struck by their great ignorance of art, and all pertaining to it; of which, were it worth while, I could cite convincing and amusing instances.
"But as regards a vast proportion of the "sweet and light" writing on the Renaissance and on Italy which is at present fashionable," writes Flaxius, "I am reminded of the "esthetic axe"ems" of an American writer, the first of which were:
""Art is a big thing. Always bust into teers wen you see a pictur."
""Bildins and churches arn"t of no account unless they drive you clean out of your census.""
THE WITCH OF THE ARNO