“En sic meum opus ago,
Ut Romæ fecit imago
Quam sculpsit Virgilius,
Quæ manifestare suevit
Fures, sed cæsa quievit
Et os clausit digito.”
DE CORRUPTO ECCLESIÆ STATU: _XVIth Century_. _Virgilius the
Sorcerer_ (1892).
The reader who is familiar with “The Legends of Florence” will remember
that, in the second series of that work, {49} there are several tales
referring to the Red Pillars of the Baptistery, of which, as Murray’s
“Guide Book” states, “at each side of the eastern entrance of the
Battisterio di San Giovanni there is a shaft of red porphyry, presented
by the Pisans in 1117.” To which I added:
“Other accounts state that the Florentines attached immense value to
these columns, and that once when there was to be a grand division of
plunder between Florence and Pisa, the people of the former city
preferred to take them, instead of a large sum of money, or something
which was apparently far more valuable. And the Pisans parted from
them most unwillingly, and to deprive them of value passed them
through a fire. Which is all unintelligible nonsense, but which
becomes clear when we read further.
“I had spoken of this to Mr. W. de Morgan, the distinguished scholar,
artist, and discoverer in ceramics, when he informed me that he had
found, in the ‘Cronaca Pisana’ of Gardo, a passage which clearly
explains the whole. It is as follows:
“In the year 1016, the Pisans brought the gates of wood which are in
the Duomo, and a small column, which is in the façade, or above the
gate of the Duomo. There are also at the chief entrance two columns,
about two fathoms each in length, of a reddish colour, and it is said
that whoever sees them is sure in that day not to be betrayed. And
these two columns which were so beautiful had been so enchanted by
the Saracens, {50a} that when a theft had been committed the face of
the thief could be seen reflected in them. And when they had
scorched them they sent them to Florence, after which time the
pillars lost their power; whence came the saying, _Fiorentini
ciechi_, or ‘blind Florentines.’ {50b}
“Unto which was added, _Pisani traditori_, or ‘treacherous Pisans.’
Those pillars were, in fact, magic mirrors which had acquired their
power by certain ceremonies performed when they were first polished,
and which were lost.”
A German writer on witchcraft, Peter Goldschmidt, states that there was
once in olden time in Constantinople a certain Peter Corsa, who, by
looking in two polished stones or magic mirrors, beheld in them proof
that his wife, then far away, was unfaithful to him. It is possible, or
probable, that this refers to the same pillars, before they had been
brought to Pisa, even as the column of the Medicis in the Piazza
Annunciata was sent from the East to Florence.
What renders this the more probable is the following passage by
Comparetti, given in his “Virgilio nel Medio Evo”:
“In a History of the Pisans, written in French in the fifteenth
century and existing in manuscript in Berne, there is mention of two
columns made by Virgil, and which were then in the cathedral of Pisa,
on the tops of which one could see the likeness of anyone who had
stolen or fornicated.” See De Sinner, “Catal. Codicum MSS. Bibl.
Bernensis,” II., p. 129; Du Meril, “Mélanges,” p. 472.
It is most unlikely that the Pisans had _two_ pairs of columns, in each
of which appeared the forms or phantoms or _simulacra_, of criminals, for
which reason we may conclude that those in the Battisterio of Florence
are quite the same as those which were said to have been made by Virgil.
And it is also probable that the belief that they were made by Virgil
went far to give them the great value which was attached to them. They
should be called the columns of Virgil.
It may be observed that the Berne manuscript cited mentions that it was
on the _top_ of the pillars that the visions were seen, and that the tops
of the columns of the Battisterio have been knocked away, possibly by the
Pisans, in order to deprive them of their peculiar value.
Virgil is also accredited with having made a statue which, like Mahomet’s
coffin, hung free in mid-air, and was visible from every part of Rome, or
in fact from every door and window. And it had the property that no
woman who had once beheld it had, after that, any desire to behave
improperly, which thing, according to the plainly-speaking author of “Les
Faicts Merveilleux de Virgille,” was a sad affliction to the Roman dames,
_qui aymoyent par amour_, since they could not put foot out of doors
without seeing “that nasty-image” which prevented them from having
_soulas de leurs amours_. So they all complained bitterly to Virgil’s
wife, who promised to aid them. Therefore, one day when her husband was
absent, she went up the bridge or ladder which led to the statue and
threw down the latter. “So, from that time forth, the _dames de Rome
firent à leur volonté et a leur plaisance_, _et furent bien ayses de
lymage qui fut abbatu_.” Truly the Ibsenite and other novelists of the
present day, but especially the lady realists of our time, have great
cause to be thankful that no such statues are stuck up in the public
places of our cities, for if such were the case their occupation would be
gone for ever—or until they had overturned them.
Virgil would appear, however, to have been somewhat inconsistent in this
matter of statues, or else desirous of demonstrating to the world that he
could go to opposite extremes, since he made another, which is thus
delicately hinted at in a footnote by Comparetti: {52}
“In contradizione con questo racconto in cui Virgilio apparisce come
protettore del buon costume, trovasi un altro racconto, secondo il
quale . . . egli avrebbe fatto una donna pubblica artificiale. Cosi
Enenkel nel suo ‘Weltbuch’; vede V. J. Hagen, ‘Gesammtten Abenteuer,’
II., 515; Massmonn, ‘Kaiser Chronik,’ III., 451. Una leggenda
rabbinica parla anch’ essa di una statua destinata a quell’ uso ed
esistente in Romæ. Vede Praetorius, ‘Anthropodemus Plutonicus,’ I.,
150, e Liebrecht nella ‘Germania di Pfeiffer,’ X., 414.”
The passage in Enenkel referred to is given with the rest of the
“Weltbuch” by Comparetti, and is as follows:
“Virgilius der selbe man,
Begunde nu ze Rôme gân,
Und versuocht ’sain maisterschaft,
Ob es wær’ wâr der teuvel kraft,
Er macht’ ze Rôm’ ain stainein Weib
Von Künste den het ainen Leib
Swann’ ain Schalk, ain boeser Man
Wolte ze ainem Weibe gân,
Daz er gie zu dem Staine,
Der boese, der unraine,
Das im was bei des Staines Leib
Recht als ob er wær im Weib,
Nicht vür baz ich en sagen sol
Main mainung ’witzt ihr alle wol.”
Bonifacius, in his “Ludicra,” Ravisius Textor (“Officina”), and Kornmann
(“Curiosa”) have brought together all the instances in special chapters
of men who have fallen in love with statues. I observe that in a late
popular novel this device of the _donna artificiale_ is described in a
manner which leaves actually nothing to be desired to the lovers of
indecency, vileness, blasphemy, or “realism”—_c’est tout un_.
It may be observed that in another tale collected by me, Virgil has for
his Egeria a statue called Pæonia, which comes to life when he would
confer with her, and which I regard, on what is at least startling
coincidence if not full proof, a tradition of Minerva-Pæonia and
Esculapius.
The tale in question declares that the magician Virgil, who had a marked
fancy for making statues love, or turning women into stone—ever petting
or petrifying among the petticoats—had a third favourite, a Pæonia, who
was marble when not specially required for other purposes than ornament.
These three ladies suggest the Graces:
“Aglaia, Euphrosyne que Thaliaque splendida
Clara letitiæ matres!”
It is probably by mere coincidence or chance that in Keats’ “Endymion”
the habitual friend and comforter of the hero is:
“_Peona_, his sweet sister; of all those
His friends, the dearest, . . .
Whose eloquence did breathe away the curse.
She led him like some midnight spirit-nurse.”
But that Peona, through all the poem, plays the part which Pæonia has
with Virgil is unquestionable. It would seem as if there is, if not a
spiritual, at least an æsthetic influence in names. _Nomen est omen_.
“All Bobs are bobbish,” said a farmer, “and all Dicks dickies.”