There once lived in Florence in the days of King Long-Ago or Queen
Formerly a signore who went beyond all the men who ever sinned, in making
evil out of good and turning light into darkness. For, under cover of
being very devout and serving the saints, he well-nigh outdid many a
devil in making all about him unhappy. He had six children, three boys
and three girls, all as fine young folk as there were in Tuscany. For he
was severe in punishing and slow in rewarding, always reviling, never
giving a kind word. Once when his eldest son saved him from drowning at
the risk of his own life, he abused and struck the youth for tearing his
garment in so doing. And in his family there was ever the wolf at the
table with such a hunger that one could see it, {21a} while all save
himself went so sorrily clad that it was a shame to behold, and if anyone
made a jest or so much as smiled there came abuse and blows. And to
offend and grieve and insult was so deeply in him that it became a
disease.
However, evil weeds must fade as well as flowers; everything dies except
Death, and the longer time he takes to sharpen his scythe, the more
keenly will it cut. So it came to pass that one day this good man, but
very bad parent, came suddenly to his death-bed, while his children stood
round with eyes as dry as the Arno in August, which, though it may shine
here and there, never runs over. {21b}
Now, by chance there stood by the dying man the great magician Virgilio,
who indeed had much love and pity for these young people. And at the
same minute, but seen only by him, there came floating in, like a bit of
gold-leaf on a light feather, borne on the current of air, a certain
_folletto_, or devil, who had been drifting about in the world for a
thousand years, and in all that time had only learned more and more that
everything is naught, or nothing of much consequence, and that good or
evil stand for one another, according to circumstances. And as the dying
man was one who, above all people living, made the meanest trifle a thing
of vast importance, so this devil, whose name was Balsàbo, went beyond
all his own kind of _diavoli pococuranti_ in being unlike the great
Signore di Tribaldo (as the dead man was called), he being a _diavolo a
dirittura_, a devil in a straight line, or directly forward. And this
demon being invisible to all save Virgil, the master said to him
secretly:
“Art thou willing to enter this man’s body and act as his soul, and
become father of a family?”
“As ready for that as for anything. No doubt I will find fun in it,”
answered Balsàbo.
Then Virgil said:
“Spirito di Belsàbo,
Io ti scongiurò
Che per comando mio
Tu lasci una vita sfrenata
Come ’ai tenuto per il passato
E dentro il corpo di Tribaldo
Tu possa entrare e divenire
Un capo di famiglia
Fino a ordine mio.
E tutti quei
Fanciulli educherai (_sic_).”
“Spirit of Belsàbo,
I now conjure thee
That by my command
Thou shalt leave the lewd life
Which thou did’st lead of old,
And enter into this body
Of Di Tribaldo, and become
Head of a family,
And educate his children.”
So into the body he went, as the spirit of Di Tribaldo went out, like the
toy which shows the weather in which one puppet pops forth as the other
goes in. So there he lay for a minute, all the children around in silent
amazement that he had departed without cursing them. When all at once up
leaped Balsàbo, as gay as a lark, crying like a _Scaramuccio_:
“Whoop, pigs! here we are again!”
Hearing which, the dear children, understanding that he had come to life
again, did indeed weep bitterly, so that Di Tribaldo, had he stopped a
little longer, might have been amazed. But he had no sooner gone out of
his body than a great grim devil, a kind of detective demon, who was on
the look-out for souls, whipped him up, gave him a couple of cuffs to
keep him quiet, and, putting him into a game-bag, drawing the cords
tight, and then rolling them round and tying them, flew off to give the
prey up to the proper authorities, and what disposition they made of this
precious piece of property I know not, nor truly do I much care. All
that can be said is that ’twas a good riddance of bad rubbish, and that
we may all rejoice that he comes no more into this story.
But what was the amazement of the well-nigh bereaved children when their
solemn parent made a leap half-way to the ceiling, and then, while
imitating with his mouth a _zufolo_, or shepherd’s pipe, to perfection,
began to dance with grace a wild _coranto_, and anon sang:
“Chi ben vive, ben muore,
Io lo credo in mio cuore;
Oggi vivo, in figura,
E doman in sepoltura,
Ho scappato ben il orco,
Morto io, morto il porco!” {23}
“He who lives well may well depart,
As I believe with all my heart.
To-day alive, and all in bloom,
To-morrow buried in the tomb;
But I’ve escaped, and don’t care why!
If I were dead the pig might die!
The pig might die, the world be burned!
And everything to ashes turned!”
Which pious song being ended, he asked them why they were all staring at
him like a party of stuck pigs, and bade them scamper and send out for a
good supper, with flowers and wine; and on their asking what he would
have, he replied, still singing:
“Everything to please the palate,
Venison, woodcocks, larks, and sallet,
Partridges both wild and tame,
And every other kind of game,
Buttered eggs and macaroni,
Salmagundi, rice and honey,
Mince-pies and oyster too,
Lobster patties, veal ragoût,
Beef, with mushrooms round the dish,
And everything that heart could wish.”
Whereupon, being told by his eldest daughter, who was of opinion that he
had gone mad, that such a supper would cost twenty crowns, he replied
that it could not be done for the money, and that he should always expect
such a meal every day, and a much better one when guests should come.
Wherein he kept his word, and amazed them all by urging them to stuff and
cram to their hearts’ desire, but especially by pressing them to drink;
and whereas it had been of yore that they had been scolded like beasts if
they so much as begged for a second glass of sour, half-watered wine,
they were now jeered and jibed as duffers and sticks for not swigging off
their bumpers of the best and strongest like men.
And they also noted a great change in this, that while the late Signore
Tribaldo had ever been as severe in manner and conversation as any saint,
and grim as an old owl, the Signore Balsàbo during the meal cracked one
joke after the other, some of them none too seemly, and roared with
laughter at their frightened looks. But as ’tis easy to teach young cats
the way to the dairy, they began to slowly put out one paw after the
other, and be of the opinion that on the whole their dear papa had been
much improved by his death and revival. And some word having been said
of games, he suddenly whipped out a pack of cards and proposed play. At
which his eldest son replying that it would be but a thin game with them
who had hardly a _quattrino_ apiece, Balsàbo sent for his strong-box,
which was indeed well-lined, and gave them each a hundred crowns in gold,
swearing it was a shame that such a magnificent family as his should go
about like poor beggars, because handsome youth and beautiful girls
needed fine clothes, and that in future they were all to spend what they
liked—and bless the expense at that!—for as long as there was twopence in
the locker, half of it should be theirs.
Then they sat down to play, and Gianni, the eldest son, and Bianca, the
eldest daughter, who had aforetime learned to play a little on the sly,
thought they would surely win. But Balsàbo in the end beat them all, and
when they marvelled at his luck roared with laughter, and said ’twas no
wonder, for he had cheated at every turn; and then, sitting down again,
showed them how ’twas done, but bade them keep it all a family secret.
“For thus,” said he, “we can among us cheat all the gamesters in
Florence, and ever be as rich as so many Cardinals.”
And then he said to them, as in apology: “Ye have no doubt, my dear
children, marvelled that I have this evening been somewhat strict and
austere with you, which is not to be blamed, considering that I have been
dead and am only just now alive again; but I trust that in future I shall
be far more kind and indulgent, and lend you a helping hand in all your
little games, whatever they be; for the only thing which can grieve me is
that there shall be any fun or devilry going on, and I not have a hand in
it. And as it is becoming that children should obey their parents, and
have no secrets from them, I enjoin it strictly on you that whatever you
may be up to, from swindling at pitch-and-toss, up to manslaughter or
duels, ye do nothing without first taking counsel with me, because I,
being more experienced in the ways of this wicked world, can best guard
you against its deceptions. And so, my beloved infants, go in peace,
which means go it while you are young, and as peacefully as you can, and
merrily if you must!”
Now, the eldest son, Gianni, had longed well nigh to being ill, and even
to tears, to wear fine clothes (in which Bianca and the others were well
up with him), and have a gallant horse, like the other youths of his rank
in Florence. But kind as Balsàbo had been to him, he hardly dared to
broach the subject, when all at once his father introduced it by asking
him why he went footing about like a pitiful beggar, instead of riding
like a cavalier; and learning that it was because he had no steed,
Balsàbo gave a long whistle and said:
“Well, you are a fool of forty-five degrees! Why the devil, if you
thought I would not approve it, did you not buy a horse on post-obit
credit, and ride him on the sly? However, ’tis never too late to mend.
But such a goose as you would be certainly cheated in the buying. Come
with me.”
And Gianni soon found that his saint of a father was well up to all the
tricks of the horse trade, the end being that he had the best steed in
Florence for half of what it would have cost him. And from this
accomplished parent he also learned to ride and fence, and in the latter
he taught his son so many sly passes and subtle tricks, crafty glissades
and _botte_, that he had not his master in all the land.
And now a strange thing came to pass: that as all these young people,
though willing enough to be gay and well attired, were good at heart and
honest, as they day by day found that their father, though really bad in
nothing, had, on the other hand, no more conscience or virtue than an old
shoe or a rag scarecrow, so it was they who began to sermonize him, even
as the late Signore Tribaldo had lectured them, the tables being quite
turned. But what was most marvellous was that Signore Balsàbo, far from
taking any offence, seemed to find in this being scolded for his want of
heart, morals, and other crimes, a deep and wondrous joy, a sweet
delight, as of one who has discovered a new pleasure or great treasure.
This was especially the case when he was brought to book, or hauled over
the coals, by his daughter Bianca, who was gifted with the severe
eloquence of her other father, which she now poured forth in floods on
his successor.
Now, you may well imagine that an old devil-goblin who had been kicked
and footed about the world for a thousand years between the back-kitchen
of hell unto the inner courts of the Vatican, including all kinds of
life, but especially the bad, thus having a family to support and beloved
daughters and sons to blow him up, and, in fact, the mere having any
decent Christian care enough for him to call him a soulless old
blackguard, was like undreamed-of bliss. He had been in his time
exorcised by priests in Latin through all that grammar and vocabulary
could supply, and cursed in Etruscan, Greek, Lombard, and everything
else; but the Italian of his daughter had in it the exquisite and novel
charm that there was real _love_ mingled with it and gratitude for his
profuse kindness and indulgence, so that ’twas to him like the pecking of
an angry and dear canary bird, the which thing acted on him so strangely
that he at times was fain to look about him for some stray sin to commit,
in order to get a good sound scolding. For he had fallen so much into
decent life and ways by living with his dear children that it often
happened that he did nothing wrong for as much as three or four days
together.
And truly it was a brave sight to see him, when reprimanded, cast down
his eyes and sigh: “Yes, yes! ’tis too true: _mea culpa_! _mea maxima
culpa_! It was indeed wicked!” when all the while he hardly knew where
the sin was or wherein he had done wrong or right or anything else. Now,
it may seem a strange thing that so old a sinner should ever come to
grace; but as ye know that in old tombs raspberry or other seeds, hard
and dry, a thousand years old, have been found which, however, grew when
planted, so Balsàbo began to think and change, and try, even for
curiosity’s sake, what being good meant.
Meanwhile it was a marvel to see how well—notwithstanding all the
expenditure, to which there was no limit, save the consciences of the
children—Balsàbo kept the treasury supplied. And this was to him a joke,
as all life was, save, indeed, the children, in whom he began to take
interest, or for whom he felt love; for, what with knowing where many an
old treasure lay hidden, or the true value of many a cheap estate, and a
hundred other devices and tricks, he ever gained so much that in time he
gave great dowers to his daughters, and castles and lands, with titles,
to his sons.
Now, it came to pass—and it was the greatest marvel of all—that Bianca,
by her reproving and reforming Balsàbo, had her own heart turned to
goodness, and gave herself up to good works and study and prayer; and
unto her studies Balsàbo, curiously interested, gave great aid. Then she
learned marvellously deep secrets of magic and spirits, but nothing evil;
and it came to pass that in her books she found that there were beings
born of the elements, creatures appointed to live a thousand years or
more, and then pass away into air or fire, and exist no longer.
Furthermore, she discovered that such wandering spirits sometimes took up
their abode in human bodies, and that, being neither good nor bad, they
were always wild and strange, given up of all things to quaint tricks and
strange devices, as ready unto one thing as another.
And it came to her mind, as she noted how Balsàbo knew all languages, and
spoke of things which took place ages before as if he had lived in them,
and of men long dead as if he had known them, that he who was her father
aforetime was ignorant of all this as he was of gentleness or kindness or
good nature, all which Balsàbo carried to a fault, not caring to take the
pains to injure his worst enemy or to do a good turn to his best friend,
unless it amused him, in which case he would kill the one with as little
sorrow as if he were a fly, and give the other a castle or a thousand
crowns, and think no more of it than if he had fed a hawk or a hound.
And all such good deeds he played off in some droll fashion, like tricks,
as if thinking that sport, and nothing else, was the end and aim of all
benevolence. However, as regarded Bianca and her brothers and sisters,
he seemed to have other ideas, and to her he appeared to be as another
being, in love and awe obeying her as a child and striving to understand
her lessons.
So this went on for years, till at last one day Bianca, full of strange
suspicions, which had become well nigh certainties, went to Virgilio and
said:
“Tell me in truth who is this being whom thou didst send us as my father,
for that he is not the Di Tribaldo of earlier days, I am sure. Good and
kind he hath been, but too strange to be human; wild hart is he, not to
be measured as a man.”
Virgil replied:
“Thou hast guessed the riddle, and yet not all; for he is a spirit of the
elements, and his appointed time is drawing near to an end, and, being
neither good nor evil, he would have passed away in peace into the
nothing which is the end of all his kind. But thou hast awakened in him
a knowledge of love and duty, so that he will die in sorrow, for he has
learned from thee what he has lost.”
Then Bianca asked:
“Can he not be saved?”
And Virgil replied:
“If anyone would give his or her life, then by virtue of that sacrifice,
when the thousand years of his existence shall be at an end, the two
lives shall be as one in the world where all are one in love for ever.”
Bianca replied:
“That which I have begun I will finish. Having opened the bud, I will
not leave the flower; having the flower, I will bring it to fruit and
seed; the egg which I found and saved, I will hatch. She who hath said
‘A’ must also say ‘B,’ till all the letters are learned.
“‘Who such a course hath once begun,
To the very end must run.’
And so will I give my life to give a soul to this poor spirit, even as
the Lord gave His to save mankind.”
Then Bianca departed, and many days passed. On a time Virgilio saw
Balsàbo, who greeted him with a sad smile.
“My sand is well-nigh run out, oh master,” said the spirit. “Yet another
day, and the sun which is to rise no more will go down behind the
mountain-range of life. _Il sole tramonta_.”
“And art thou pleased to have been for a time a man?” asked Virgil.
“It was not an ill thing to be loved by the children,” replied Balsàbo.
“There I had great joy and learned much—yea, far too much for my own
happiness, for I found that I was lost. When I was ignorant, and only a
poor child of air and earth, fire and water, I knew nothing of good or
evil, or of a soul or a better life in eternity; now I have learned all
that by love, and also that it is not for me.”
“Wait and see,” replied Virgilio. “He who has learned to love has made
the first step to immortality.”
And after a few days, news was brought to Virgilio that Balsàbo, whom men
called Di Tribaldo, was dying, and that Bianca also could not live long;
and that night the master, looking from his tower beyond the Arno on the
hill, that which is now called the San Gallo, or the Torre di Galileo,
saw afar in the night a strange vision, the forms of a man and of a young
woman, divinely beautiful, sweetly spiritual, in a golden, rosy light,
ever rising higher and higher, while afar there was a sound as of harps
and voices singing:
“They walked in the world as in a dream,
For nothing they saw as it now doth seem;
And all they knew of care and woe
Is now but a tale of the long ago;
And they will walk in the land on high
Where flowers are blooming ever and aye,
And every flower in its breath and bloom
Sings in the spirit with song perfume,
And the song which it sings in the land above,
In a thousand forms, is eternal love.”
And as they rose Virgilio saw falling from them, as it were, a rain of
rose-leaves and lilies, and every leaf as it fell faded, yet became a
spirit which entered some newborn babe, and the spirit was its life.
“Sweetly hast thou sung, oh Spirit of God,” said Virgilio, as the last
note was heard and the sight vanished. “The poorest devil may be saved
by Love.”
* * * * *
The idea that a soul or spirit, human or other, can enter into a dead
body and revive it is to be found in the legends of all lands, from those
of ancient Egypt, as appears in that of “Anpu and Bata,” which has been
nine times translated into English, down to several of these Italian
tales. It is a fancy which need not be traditional or borrowed; it would
occur to man as soon as the Shaman pretended to go out of his body while
in a trance.
After the foregoing was written out, including the allusion to seeds
found in tombs a thousand years old which grew again, and which were, of
course, Roman or Etruscan, as the only kind known in Italy—I never having
read of any such thing save as regards corn found in Egypt—I met with the
following passage in “The Sagacity and Morality of Plants,” by Dr. J. E.
Taylor:
“Seeds have been found in Celtic tumuli . . . which, after an
interval of perhaps two thousand years, have germinated into plants,
and similar successful experiments have been made with seeds found in
ancient Roman tombs.”
As regards the original of this story, it was so imperfect, brief, and
trifling that I have, as it were, well-nigh reconstructed it, and might
as well claim to be its author as not, as I should have done were I an
earlier Italian novelist, who without scruple appropriated popular
stories with as little conscience as Robert Burns did old ballads.
Bishop Percy amended them, and owned it, and all that he got thereby was
much abuse and ridicule. But it is of little consequence when the legend
is not offered as a mere tradition, and this is only a scrap of tradition
_réchauffé_.
The character of Balsàbo belongs closely to the class which includes
Falstaff, Panurge, Punch, Belphegor, and many other types who are
“without conscience or cognition” of right or wrong, neither adapted to
be banned or blessed, genially selfish, extravagantly generous, good
fellows and bad Christians, yet who have ever been pre-eminently popular.
But I am not aware that it ever entered into a mortal head to dream of
their being reformed, any more than their cousins Manfred and Don
Giovanni, for which reason I consider this tale of Balsàbo as decidedly
original. Sinners we have had repentant by thousands, but this is really
the only history of the conversion of Nothingarian.
Paracelsus was the first writer, following the Neo-Platonists and popular
traditions, to make a mythology of elementary spirits and define their
nature.
“There dwell,” he says, “under the earth semi-homines, or half-human
beings, who have all temporal things which can be enjoyed and desired.
They are called ‘gnomes,’ though properly the name should be sylphs or
pygmies. They are not spirits, yet may be compared to them . . . between
them and the devil is a great difference, because he does not die and
they do, albeit they are very long-lived. And they are not _spirits_,
because a spirit is immortal.”
This gave birth in later days to the “Entertainments” of the Comte de
Gabalis, and the exquisite “Undine” of La Motte Fouqué. Of late years
exact science, by its investigations into zoology and botany, has
approached Paracelsus by discovering incredible developments in
_instinctive_ intelligence, as distinguished from self-conscious reason,
in all that exists.
* * * * *
Since the foregoing tale, with the comment on it, was written, even to
the last word, I met with and read a novel entitled “Entombed in the
Flesh,” by Michael Henry Dziewicki, {32} which, both as regards plot and
many details, bears such an extraordinary, and yet absolutely accidental,
resemblance to the story of “Balsàbo” that, unless I enter a protest to
the contrary, I can hardly escape the accusation of having borrowed
largely from it. In it a demon, neither angel nor devil, enters into the
body of a man just dead, and has many marvellous and amusing adventures,
being, of course, involved in the fate of a girl whom Lucifer wishes to
destroy. The end is, however, very different, because in the novel
Phantasto, the spirit, is set free, and the maiden rescued by the latter
going into a Salvation Army meeting and being moved by hearing the name
and teaching of Jesus. In “Balsàbo” the demon has immortality conferred
on him by Bianca’s giving her own _life_ to effect it. This is, I think,
more ingenious than any other sacrifice could be, because in the tale,
though it be rudely expressed, there is the exquisite conception that an
immortal existence can take in, include with it, and identify a minor
intelligence or raise it to a higher sphere.
That I have somewhat enlarged the original tale or written it up will be
evident to everyone, but I have omitted very little which is in the text,
save an incantation at the end which Virgil addresses to the unborn souls
who are to enter into the bodies of the children born of the rose-leaves.
But I have inadvertently missed one point, to the effect that, after
having been kicked out of hell, Balsàbo got down so low in morality as to
be finally expelled from the Vatican. The literal translation of the
passage is as follows:
“But poor Balsàbo, who had been kicked out of the kitchen of hell, . . .
and even from the Vatican (felt honoured) . . . when Bianca scolded him
like a child, and said: ‘_Vergogna_!’—‘For shame!’”