Stories of San Miniato
“The picturesque height of San Miniato, now the great cemetery of the city which dominates the Arno from the south, has an especial religious and saintly interest. The grand Basilica, with its glittering ancient mosaic, shines amid the cypresses against the sky, and whether it gleams in the sunlight against the blue, or is cut in black on the primrose sky of twilight, it is equally imposing.”—“Echoes of Old Florence,” by Leader Scott.
To the old people of Florence, who still see visions and dream dreams, and behold the wind and the stars at noonday (which latter thing I have myself beheld), the very ancient convent of San Miniato, “the only one in Tuscany which has preserved the ancient form of the Roman basilica,” and the neighbourhood, are still a kind of Sleepy Hollow, where witches fly of nights more than elsewhere, where ghosts or folletti are most commonly seen, and where the orco and the nightmare and her whole ninefold disturb slumbers a bel agio at their easiest ease, as appears by the following narrative:
San Miniato fra le Torre.
“This is a place which not long ago was surrounded by towers, which were inhabited by many witches.
“Those who lived in the place often noticed by night in those towers, serpents, cats, small owls, and similar creatures, and they were alarmed by frequently seeing their infants die like candles blown out—struggere i bambini come candele; nor could they understand it; but those who believed in witchcraft, seeking in the children’s beds, often found threads woven together in forms like animals or garlands, and when mothers had left their children alone with the doors open, found their infants, on returning, in the fireplace under the ashes. And at such times there was always found a strange cat in the room.
“And believing the cat to be a witch, they took it, and first tying the two hind-paws, cut off the fore-claws (zampe, claws or paws), and said:
“‘Fammi guarire
La mia creatura;
Altrimenti per te saranno
Pene e guai!’
“‘Cure my child,
Or there shall be;
Trouble and sorrow
Enough for thee!’
“This happened once, and the next day the mother was sitting out of doors with her child, when she saw a woman who was her intimate friend at her window, and asked her if she would not wash for her her child’s clothes, since she herself was ill. But the other replied: ‘I cannot, for I have my hands badly cut.’
“Then the mother in a rage told this to other women whose children had been bewitched or died.
“Then all together seized the witch, and by beating her, aided with knives crossed, and whatever injuries they could think of, subdued her and drenched her under a tower with holy water. And the witch began to howl, not being able to endure this, and least of all the holy water!
“When all at once there came a mighty wind, which blew down the witch-tower, and carried away the witch, and killed all the uncanny animals which dwelt in the ruins. And unbelievers say that this was done by an earthquake; but this is not true, for the witches were really the cause (chagione) of its overthrow.
“And though many old things are destroyed and rebuilt, there are many cats still there which are assuredly witches.
“And in the houses thereabout people often perceive and see spirits, and if any one will go at night in the Piazza San Miniato fra le Torri, especially where those old things (chose vecche) were cleared away, he will see sparks of fire (faville di fuocho) break out, and then flames; and this signifies that some diabolical creature or animal is still confined there which needs relief (che a bisogna di bene), or that in that spot lies a treasure which requires to be discovered.”
I consider this as very interesting, because I most truthfully guarantee that this specimen of witch-lore was written in good faith and firm belief, and is not at all, like most of the tales gleaned or gathered now-a-days, taken from people who got them from others who perhaps only half believed in them. She who wrote it has no more doubt that witch-cats prowl, and that wild-fire hisses forth from evil spirits in durance pent ’neath the soil of San Miniato, than that the spirit of the Arno appears as “a small white hand pointing tremulously upwards.”
There is given in the Facetiæ of Piovano Arlotto, which is considered a truthful record of the adventures of its subject, a tale relative to San Miniato which cannot here be deemed out of place. It is as follows:
La Testa di San Miniato.
“There was in Florence a poor and learned gentleman—savio e da bene, who was a good friend of Piovano Arlotto, who was also good to him, since he had often aided the former with money, meal, and many other things, and indeed without such help he could hardly have fed his family; for he had fourteen sons and daughters, and though the proverb says Figliuoli, mioli, ’lenzuoli non sono mai troppi in una casa—there are never too many children, glasses, or linen sheets in a house, this good man found indeed that he had too many of the former.
“Now to help dire need, this gentleman tried to buy on credit two bales of cloth, one wherewith to clothe his family, and the other to sell in order to make some money. To do this, he needed some one to be his security, and he had recourse to Piovano Arlotto, who willingly agreed to pay the manufacturer in case the friend who gave his note could not meet it. Now he found that the manufacturer had sadly cheated the purchaser in the measure or quantity, fully one-half, as was also evident to many others; however, as matters stood, he was obliged to let it pass.
“As things were thus, the poor gentleman died and passed away from this misera vita or sad life, and Piovano was in deep grief for his loss, and as much for the poor orphans.
“When the note fell due, the manufacturer went to Piovano Arlotto and asked for his money, saying that he only demanded what was justly due to him.
“And after a few days’ delay, he paid the man two-thirds of the sum, and ten florins for the time and trouble, and said he would not give a farthing more. Then the dealer begun to dun him, but he evaded every demand. Then the merchant employed a young man, eighteen years of age, who had not his equal in Florence to collect debts. And this youth set to work in earnest to get from the priest the sum of about twenty-eight gold florins, still due from the account.
“In a few days he had attacked Piovano a hundred times with the utmost impudence, in the market, in the public squares, on the streets at home, and in the church, without regard to persons present, at all times, and in every aggravating way, until the priest conceived a mortal hatred of the dun, and turned over in his head many ways to get rid of him.
“At last he went one day to the Abbot of San Miniato or Monte, and said to him: ‘Padre reverendo, I seek your paternal kindness to relieve a very distressing case in which I am concerned. I have a nephew who is possessed by the devil, one into whom an evil spirit has entered, and who has a monomania that I owe him money, and is always crying to me everywhere, ‘When are you going to pay me? I want twenty-eight florins.’ ’Tis a great pity, for he is a fine young man, and something really ought to be done to cure him. Now I know that the holy relic which you possess, the worthy head of the glorious and gracious San Miniato, has such a virtue, that, if it be once placed on the head of this poor youth, ’twill certainly cure him. Would you so contrive, in any way, to put it on him some time this week?’
“The Abbot answered, ‘Bring him when you will.’
“Piovano thanked him and said: ‘I will bring him on Saturday, but when he shall be here, I pray you be at the gate with seven or eight strong men, that he may not escape; for you know, holy father, that these demoniacs are accustomed to rage when they see relics and hear prayers, and it will be specially so with this poor youth, who is young and vigorous—yea, it may be that ’twill be necessary to give him sundry cuffs and kicks, so terrible is the power of Satan—lupus esuriens. Do so, I pray, without fearing to hurt my feelings—nay, it would be a great pleasure to me, so heartily do I desire to see him cured.’
“The Abbot answered, ‘Bring him here, my son, and I will see that all is rightly done.’
“Piovano returned, saying to himself:
“‘Chi vuol giusta vendetta,
In Dio la metta.’
“‘Leave vengeance to the Lord, or to his ministers—videlicet, the monks of San Miniato. Which I will do.’
“On Friday he went to the merchant who had sold the cloth, and said: ‘As for this which I owe you, it is all rubbish. You cheated the man who gave you the note out of half the cloth—you know it, and I can prove it. However, to avoid further trouble and litigation, I am willing to pay all, but you must allow time for it. Dura cosa e l’aspettare—’tis hard to wait, but harder still to have nothing to wait for. The monks of San Miniato owe me for forty cords of wood, which is to be paid for at the end of two years, and then you shall have your money.’
“This sounded like ‘for ever and a day’ to the creditor, and in a rage he had recourse to his collector, who on Saturday morning went to San Miniato. When he arrived, he had to wait till the grand mass was over, to the great vexation of the young man, and meanwhile eight powerful monks with long staves had grouped themselves about the door, awaiting a little healthy exercise.
“And mass being over, the dun hastened up to the Abbot, who, taking him by the hand, said: ‘Oh, my son, put thy trust in God and in San Miniato the blessed; pray that he may take this evil conceit from thy head,’ and with this much more, till the young man grew impatient and said:
“‘Messer Abbot, to-day is Saturday, and no time for sermons. I have come to know what you are going to do about this debt of Piovano of twenty-eight florins, and when it will be paid?’
“Then the Abbot, hearing, as he expected, the demand for money, began to exhort and exorcise. And the youth began to abuse the Abbot with all kind of villanies, and finally turned to depart; but the Abbot caught him by the cloak, and there was a fight. Then came the eight monks, who seizing him, chastised him lustily, and bound him with cords, and bearing him into the sacristy, sprinkled him with holy water, and incensed him indeed—and then set the holy head of San Miniato on his head—he thinking they were all mad as hatters. Then they exorcised the evil spirits in him—‘Maledicti! excommunicati et rebelles—sitis in pæna æternali nulla requies sit in vo-o-o-bis si statim non eritis obedientes, præceptis me-e-e-e-is!’—until the youth had to give in, and beg the Abbot’s pardon, and being released, fled as for dear life.
“But he met outside Piovano Arlotto, who said to him: ‘Thou hast had a dainty drubbing, my son, but there is plenty more where that came from—non v’e nè fin, ne fondo—there is neither end nor bottom to it. Now go to thy master, and say that if he goes further in this business he will fare worse than thou hast done.’
“The youth, returning to Florence, told the tale to his employer, and how Piovano Arlotto had declared if they dunned him any more he would do his best to have them drubbed to death. So they dropped the matter—like a hot shot.
“Everybody in Florence roared with laughter for seven days—sparsa la piacevolezza per Firenze, vi fu che ridere per setti giorni—that is to say, everybody laughed except one clothmaker and his collector, and if they smiled, ’twas sour and bitterly—the smile which does not rise above the throat—the merriment like German mourning grim. And as for the young man, he had to leave Florence, for all of whom he would collect money told him to go to—the monks of San Miniato!”
There was a curious custom, from which came a proverb, in reference to this monastery, which is thus narrated in that singular work, La Zucca del Doni Fiorentino (“The Pumpkin of Doni the Florentine”):
“There is a saying, E non terrebbe un cocomere all’erta—He could not catch a cucumber if thrown to him. Well, ye must know, my masters and gallant signors, that our Florentine youth in the season of cucumbers go to San Miniato, where there is a steep declivity, and when there, those who are above toss or roll them down to those below, while those below throw them up to those above, just as people play at toss-and-pitching oranges with girls at windows. So they keep it up, and it is considered a great shame and sign of feebleness (dapocaggine) not to be able to catch; and so in declining the company of a duffer one says: ‘I’ll have nothing to do with him—he isn’t able to catch a cucumber.’
“It is one of the popular legends of this place that a certain painter named Gallo di San Miniato was a terribly severe critic of the works of others, but was very considerate as regarded his own. And having this cast at him one day, and being asked how it was, he frankly replied: ‘I have but two eyes wherewith to see my own pictures, but I look at those of others with the hundred of Argus.’”
And indeed, as I record this, I cannot but think of a certain famous critic who is so vain and captious that one must needs say that his head, like a butterfly’s, is all full of little i’s.
“And this tale of two optics reminds me of the story of Messer Gismondo della Stufa, a Florentine of Miniato, who once said to some friends: ‘If I had devoted myself to letters, I should have been twice as learned as others, and yet ye cannot tell why.’ Then some guessed it would have been due to a good memory, while others suggested genius, but Messer Gismondo said: ‘You are not there yet, my children; it is because I am so confoundedly cross-eyed that I could have read in two books at once.’”
In the first legend which I narrated, the fall of the tower is attributed to witchcraft or evil spirits. In the very ancient frescoes of San Miniato there is one in which the devil causes a wall or tower to fall down and crush a young monk. What confirms the legend, or its antiquity, is that the original bell-tower of San Miniato actually fell down in 1499. The other then built was saved from a similar fate by the genius of Michael Angelo Buonarotti, who built a bank of earth to support it.
“Hæc fabula of the head of San Miniato,” wrote the immortal Flaxius on the proof, “teaches that he who would get round a priest in small trickery must arise uncommonly early—nay, in most cases ’twould be as well not to go to bed at all—especially when dunning is ‘on the tap.’ Concerning which word dun it is erroneously believed in England to have been derived from the name of a certain Joseph Dunn, who was an indefatigable collecting bailiff. But in very truth ’tis from the Italian donare, to give oneself up to anything with ardour—to stick to it; in accordance with which, donar guanto, or to give the glove, means to promise to pay or give security. And if any philologist differs from me in opinion as to this, why then—let him diff! Which magnanimously sounding conclusion, when translated according to the spirit of most who utter it, generally means:
“Let him be maledict, excommunicate, and damnated ad inferos—in sæcula sæculorum!—twice over!”