"There stood formerly in the Via del Fico a very ancient palace with a
garden, in which there grew a fig-tree which was said to have grown of
itself, or without ever having been planted. This tree bore much fruit
of great beauty.
"But however proud the owner of the tree was of its beauty, or however
much he might desire to have its fruit, something always strangely
occurred to prevent its being enjoyed. For when any one was about to
pluck it, there suddenly appeared a great black dog, who, seizing men or
women by their garments, dragged them away, beginning to howl and bay.
{205} And then they hurried away and let the figs alone, in order to
make the dog cease his terrible unearthly baying; for it is believed to
be an omen of death when a dog utters such sounds, it being such a
presage of disaster as when a _civetta_ or small owl hoots on the roof.
"However, it sometimes happened that the dog did not come, but those who
took and ate the figs fared just as badly all the same. For they soon
began to feel ill and suffer dire pains, and when they had gone into
their bedrooms and laid down, there always entered a beautiful girl clad
in white, who began to whirl round (_a girarsi_) or spin, making all the
time a great buzzing sound, until horror came over them, which when she
perceived, she vanished.
"And many tried also to lop off boughs from the fig-tree, but they were
found the second night replaced by a perfect new growth with fully ripe
fruit. And it was not the least marvel of the tree that it was always in
full leaf, with abundance of ripe figs on it, even in winter, when there
was snow on the ground.
"One day men digging in the garden found a tablet of stone or metal on
which was inscribed:
"'Il fico rispettate
E non la toccate,'
E non cercate
Neppure mangiarne.'
"'Respect the tree, and let it be,
From branch to root, nor touch its fruit!
Of itself the tree did grow,
From a dog who long ago,
Enchanted by the fairies' power,
Was buried here in mystic hour;
Therefore we bid you let it stand,
And if you follow the command
You will be happy all your days,
But woe to him who disobeys!'
"Now, the owner of the palazzo and garden was a man who had no faith in
old legends, or love for such mysteries as these, and so he said, 'It is
time to put an end to all this superstition, and I am determined to at
once see whether all my prosperity depends on a fig-tree; so do you cut
it down and tear it up, root and branch, utterly.'
"This was at once done by the labourers, but, while doing so, they heard
sounds as of wailing and great lamenting in the earth beneath them. And
when they, astonished, asked the signore to listen to the voices, he
replied, 'Away with your superstitions; we will see this time whether the
tree will grow or return again.'
"Truly it did not return, but passed away for ever, and with it all the
property and prosperity of the lord. For in time he had to sell all he
had, and, losing what he got, died in poverty. Then those who had to go
in the street where his palace had been would say, '_Andiamo nella Via
del Fico_,' just as they say, '_Andar per la Via de' Carri_,' but meaning
to 'go in the way of what is worthless or poverty-stricken,' and so it
was that the street came by its name."
* * * * *
This strange tale, which is evidently of great antiquity, and deeply
inspired with real witch tradition, has, indeed, nothing in common with
the pretty fairy stories which are so generally presented as constituting
the whole of popular narrative folklore. It was not made nor intended to
serve as a pleasing tale for youth, but to embody certain ideas which the
witch-teacher explained to the pupil. The first of these is, that the
_fig-tree_ planted under certain circumstances became a kind of Luck of
Eden Hall to its possessor. This story comes from the Etruscan-Roman
land, where traditions have been preserved with incredible fidelity. In
the olden time Tarquin the Elder planted a fig-tree in a public place in
Rome, and it was a matter of common faith that this tree would flourish
for ever if undisturbed, and that on it depended the prosperity and
preservation of the city. {207} And in India, the motherland of Greek
and Roman mythology, it was believed that whenever one of certain ancient
fig-trees died, that the reigning family would pass away. The opinion
was widely spread that the fig-tree was above all others the one of life
and destiny. In the Bagvatgeta, Krishna says of himself: "I am the
spirit, the beginning, the middle, and the end of creation. I am as the
_Aswatha_ (_pipal _or Indian fig) among trees." Hence it came that many
Christians believed that the Tree of Life in Eden was not an apple but a
fig-tree. The traditions which establish the fig-tree as being above all
others one on whose existence that of individuals, families, and states
depended, are extremely numerous and varied. "It was," remarks Alt, "not
only a symbol of fertility, but an emblem of ever-renewed and
never-extinguished _vitality_, and one of eternity, the resurrection, and
of the transmigration of the soul." On the celebrated altar in Ghent,
the Tree of Life is represented as a fig-tree (Menzel, _Christliche
Symbolik_, i. 277). This universal belief explains why the fig-tree
determines the duration and destiny of lives and families.
It may have struck the reader as singular that those who eat of the
forbidden figs are punished by the visit of a beautiful girl who whirls
around with a buzzing sound till they are overcome by awe. Here be it
noted first of all, that the fig, like the pear, is exactly the shape of
a top, even the stem representing the peg. Now, in ancient Latin
witchlore or sorcery, extraordinary magic power, or even sanctity, was
attached to everything which made a humming or buzzing sound. It was
supposed, when properly made, with certain incantations or instruments,
to be capable of throwing people into a trance. Chief among these
instruments was the top. Thus Horace begs Crattidia to stop the
enchantment of the buzzing top (Ode xv. Book v.).
On this subject I find the following in _Diavoli e Streghe_, by Dr. A.
Zangolini, 1864:
"The _rombo_ {208} is an instrument not unlike the _trottola_ or
peg-top of our boys, called in Latin _turbo_, and in common language
also _paleo_. It was believed that with it in witchcraft a lover
could have his head turned with passion, or that he would be turned
at will while it spun. The same held true of other disks
(tee-totums) of wood, iron, or copper."
This idea was extended to the hum of spinning-wheels, which aided the
conception of the Fates, and the thread of life, to the buzzing of bees
and flies, and many other variations of such sounds. Mr. Andrew Lang has
in an admirable paper shown that the _bull-roarer_ has been regarded as
so sacred among certain savages that women, or the profane, were not
allowed to touch it. A bull-roarer is so easily constructed, that it is
remarkable how few people are familiar with it. Take a common stick, say
six inches in length, tie a cord three feet long to one end, and,
grasping the other, whirl it round, with the result of astonishing all to
whom it is not familiar by its sound:
"First it is but a gentle hum,
Like bird-song warbling in the trees,
Then like a torrent it doth foam,
And then a wild and roaring breeze."
When vigorously spun, it may be heard of a calm evening for a mile, and
its effect is then indescribably--I will not say, as most novelists here
would, "_weird_," for I do not know that it prophesies anything, but it
is certainly most suggestive of something mysterious.
Therefore the bayadere, with her spinning _pas seul_ and buzzing
_romore_, who appears to the eater of the figs, is the magic top in
person, her form being taken from the fig. The connection of the
enchanted dog with the tree is not so clear, but it may be observed that
there is a vast mass of tradition which makes the black dog a _chthonic_,
that is, a subterranean or under-earthly symbol, and that in this story
he comes out of the earth. This animal was a special favourite of
Hecate-Diana of the world below, the queen of all the witches.
There is a vast quantity of folklore in reference to the fig as an emblem
of fertility, reproduction, and sensual affinity, and, on the other side,
of its being an emblem often used in proverbs to express the very
contrary, or trifling value, worthlessness, and poverty. Thus, the
barren fig-tree of the New Testament had a deep signification to all who
were familiar with these poetic and mystic "correspondences." The reader
has probably observed that in this story there is, as in a parable, a
strong intimation of symbolism, or as if more were meant than meets the
ear.
"Remains to be said," that the putting the thumb between the index and
middle finger, which was regarded with awe by the Romans as driving away
evil spirits, was called "making the fig," or _far la castagna_, to make
the chestnut--in Latin, _medium ostendere digitum_. The same sign as the
fig to drive away devils became a deadly insult when made at any one, as
if he were a wizard and accursed. It had also a jeering and indecent
meaning. It has been said that the fig, as a synonym for anything
worthless, originated from the great abundance and cheapness of the fruit
in Greece, but this is very unsatisfactory, since it would apply as well
to olives or grain.
* * * * *
"This tale doth teach," notes the learned Flaxius, "as regards the
folklore of the black dog, that in this life most things are good or bad,
as we take them. For the black dog, Monsieur, of Cornelius Agrippa (like
that in Faust) was a demon, albeit his pupil, Wierus, records that he
himself knew the animal well, but never supposed there was aught of the
goblin in it. And this same Wierus has mentioned (_loc. cit._, p. m.
325), that one of the things which most terrify the devil and all his
gang is the blood of a black dog splashed on the wall. So in ancient
symbolism death meant life, the two being correlative, and in witchcraft
the spell of the frog and many more are meant to do deadly harm, or great
good, according to the way in which they are worked. Wherein lies an
immense moral lesson for ye all. Remember, children--
"'There is no passion, vice, or crime,
Which truly, closely understood,
Does not, in the full course of time,
Do far less harm than good.'"
IL PALAZZO FERONI
SHOWING HOW IT GOT ITS NAME FROM A FAIRY
"Ah me! what perils do environ
The man who meddles with cold iron!
Thus sang great Butler long ago,
In Hudibras, as all men know;
But in this story you will see
How Iron was sold by irony."
One of the most picturesque mediaeval palaces in Florence is that of the
Feroni, and its architectural beauty is greatly enhanced by its fine
situation at the head of the Tornabuoni on the Piazza della Trinita, with
the magnificent column of the Medicis just before its gate. According to
Italian authority, "this palace may be called, after those of the
Praetorio (_i.e._, Bargello) and the Signoria, the most characteristic
building of its epoch in Florence. It is said to have been built by
Arnolfo di Cambio. It once belonged to the Spini, from whom it passed to
the Feroni." When I was in Florence in 1846-47, this palace was the best
hotel in Florence, and the one in which I lived. There have been great
"restorations" in the city since that time, but very few which have not
been most discreditably and foolishly conducted, even to the utter
destruction of all that was truly interesting in them; as, for instance,
"the house of Dante, torn down within a few years to be rebuilt, so that
now not one stone rests upon another of the original;" and "Santa Maria
Novella, where the usual monkish hatred of everything not _rococo_ and
trashy has shown itself by destroying beautiful work of earlier times, or
selling it to the Kensington Museum, setting up a barbarously gilt
gingerbread high altar, and daubing the handsome Gothic sacristy with
gaudy colours." To which the author of Murray's "Guide-Book for Central
Italy" adds, that "perhaps on the whole list of ecclesiastical
restorations there does not exist a more deplorable instance of monastic
vandalism than has been perpetrated here by the architect Romoli"--a
remark which falls unfortunately very far short of the truth. Such ruin
is wrought _everywhere_ at present; witness the beautiful Fonte Gaja,
"the masterpiece of Jacopo della Quercia in Siena (1402), which, since
the change of Government, was not 'restored,' but _totally destroyed and
carted away_, a miserable modern copy having been recently set up in its
place" (Hare, "Cities of Central Italy"), all of which was probably done
to "make a job" for a favoured builder. "But what can you expect," adds
a friend, "in a country where it is common to cover a beautiful dry stone
wall with plaster, and then paint it over to resemble the original
stone," because, as I was naively told, "the rough stone itself looks
_too cheap_"? Anybody who has lived long in Italy can add infinitely to
such instances. The Palazzo Feroni has, however, suffered so little, for
a wonder, from restoration, and still really looks so genuinely old, that
it deserves special mention, and may serve as an excuse for my remarks on
the manner in which ancient works are destroyed so _con amore_ by monks
and modern municipalities. I may here note that this building is, in a
sense, the common rendezvous for all the visitors to Florence, chiefly
English and Americans, since in it are the very large circulating library
and reading-rooms of Vieusseux. {212}
There is, of course, a legend attached to the Palazzo Feroni, and it is
as follows: