Legends Of La Certosa

“‘Now when ye moone like a golden flowre,
In ye sky above doth bloome,
Ile lett doune a basket in that houre,
And pull ye upp to my roome,
And give mee a kisse if ’tis yes,’ he cryed;
Ye mayden would nothing refuse;
But held upp hir lippes—
Oh I would I had beene
Just thenn in that friar’s shoos.”

If we pass the Porta Romana, and keep on for three miles, we shall arrive at the old Carthusian convent of La Certosa in Val d’Ema. Soon after passing “the village of Galluzzo, where the stream is crossed, we come to an ancient gateway surmounted by a statue of Saint Laurence, _through which no female could enter_ except by permission of the archbishop, and out which no monk could pass.” At least, it is so stated in a justly famous English guide-book, though it does not explain how any “female” could enter the saint, nor whether the female in question belonged to the human species, or was fish, flesh, or red-herring. I should, however, incline to believe the latter is meant, as “herring” is a popular synonym for a loose fish.

The Certosa was designed and built in the old Italian Gothic style by Andrea Orcagna, it having been founded in the middle of the fourteenth century by Niccolò Acciajuoli, who was of a great Florentine family, from whom a portion of the Lung Arno is named. The building is on a picturesque hill, 400 feet above the union of the brooks called the Ema and the Greve, the whole forming a charming view of a castled monastery of the Middle Ages.

There is always, among the few monks who have been allowed to remain, an English or Irish brother, to act as cicerone to British or American visitors, and show them the interesting tombs in the crypt or subterranean church, and the beautiful chapels and celebrated frescoes in the church. These were painted by Poccetti, and I am told that among them there is one which commemorates or was suggested by the following legend, which I leave the reader to verify, not having done so myself, though I have visited the convent, which institution is, however, popularly more distinguished—like many other monasteries—as a distillery of holy cordial than for aught else:

AL CONVENTO DELLA CERTOSA.

“There was in this convent a friar called Il Beato Dyonisio, who was so holy and such a marvellous doctor of medicine, that he was known as the Frate Miraculoso or Miraculous Brother.

“And when any of the fraternity fell ill, this good medico would go to them and say, ‘Truly thou hast great need of a powerful remedy, O my brother, and may it heal and purify thy soul as well as thy body!’ {67} And it always befell that when he had uttered this conjuration that the patient recovered; and this was specially the case if after it they confessed their sins with great devoutness.

“Brother Dyonisio tasted no food save bread and water; he slept on the bare floor of his cell, in which there was no object to be seen save a scourge with great knots; he never took off his garments, and was always ready to attend any one taken ill.

“The other brothers of the convent were, however, all jolly monks, being of the kind who wear the tunic as a tonic to give them a better—or bitter—relish for secular delights, holding that it is far preferable to have a great deal of pleasure for a little penitence than _per poco piacer gran penitenza_—much penitence for very little pleasure. In short, they were just at the other end of the rope away from Brother Dyonisio, inasmuch as they ate chickens, _bistecche_ or beef-steaks, and drank the best wine, even on fast-days—_giorni di vigiglia_—and slept in the best of beds; yes, living like lords, and never bothering themselves with any kind of penance, as all friars should do.

“Now there was among these monks one who was a great _bestemmiatore_, a man of evil words and wicked ways, who had led a criminal life in the world, and only taken refuge in the disguise of a monk in the convent to escape the hand of justice. Brother Dyonisio knew all this, but said nothing; nay, he even exorcised away a devil whom he saw was always invisibly at the sinner’s elbow, awaiting a chance to catch him by the hair; but the Beato Dyonisio was too much for him, and kept the devil ever far away.

“And this was the way he did it:

“It happened one evening that this _finto frate_, or mock monk or feigned friar, took it into his head, out of pure mischief, and because it was specially forbidden, to introduce a _donna di mala vita_, or a girl of no holy life, into the convent to grace a festival, and so arranged with divers other scapegraces that the damsel should be drawn up in a basket.

“And sure enough there came next morning to the outer gate a fresh and jolly black-eyed _contadina_, who asked the mock monk whether he would give her anything in charity. And the _finto frate_ answering sang:

“‘You shall have the best of meat,
Anything you like to eat,
Cutlets, macaroni, chickens,
Every kind of dainty pickings.
Pasticcie and fegatelli,
Salamé and mortadelle,
With good wine, if you are clever,
For a very trifling favour!’

“To which the girl replied:

“‘Here I am, as here you see!
What would’st thou, holy man, with me?’

“The friar answered:

“‘When thou hear’st the hoots and howls
At midnight of the dogs and owls,
And when all men are sunk in sleep,
And only witches watch do keep,
Come ’neath the window unto me,
And there thou wilt a basket see
Hung by a rope as from a shelf,
And in that basket stow thyself,
And I alone will draw thee up,
Then with us thou shalt gaily sup.’

“But the girl replied, as if in fear:

“‘But if the rope should break away,
Oh, then there’d be the devil to pay,
Oh, holy father, first for thee—
But most especially for me!
For if by evil luck I’d cracked your
Connecting cord, my limbs I’d fracture!’

“The friar sang:

“‘The rope is good, as it is long,
The basket’s tough, my arms are strong,
Have thou no fear upon that score,
T’as hoisted many a maid before;
For often such a basket-full
Did I into a convent pull,
And many more I trust will I
Draw safely up before I die.’

“And at midnight the girl was there walking beneath the windows awaiting the hour to rise—_Ascensionem expectans_—truly not to heaven, nor from any great liking for the monks, but for a great fondness for roast-chickens and good wine, having in her mind’s eye such a supper as she had never before enjoyed, and something to carry home with her.

“So at last there was a rustling sound above, as a window softly opened, and a great basket came vibrating down below; and the damsel, well assured, got into it like a hen into her nest, while the lusty friar above began to draw like an artist.

“Now the _Beato frate_ Dyonisio, knowing all that passed round about by virtue of his holy omniscience, determined to make manifest to the monks that things not adapted to piety led them into the path of eternal punishment.

“Therefore, just as the basket-full of girl touched the window of the convent, it happened by the virtue of the holy Dyonisio that the rope broke and the damsel came with a _capi tombola_ somerset or first-class tumble into the street; but as she, poor soul, had only sinned for a supper, which she greatly needed and seldom got, she was quit for a good fright, since no other harm happened to her.

“But it was far otherwise with the wicked monk, who had only come into that holy monastery to stir up sin; for he, leaning too far over at the instant, fell with an awful howl to the ground, where he roared so with pain that all the other monks came running to see what was the matter. And they found him indeed, more dead than alive, terribly bruised, yet in greater agony of mind than of body, saying that Satan had tempted him, and that he would fain confess to the Beato Dyonisio, who alone could save him.

“Then the good monk tended him, and so exhorted him that he left his evil ways and became a worthy servant of God, and the devil ceased to tempt him. And in due time Brother Dyonisio died, and as a saint they interred him in the crypt under the convent, and the morning after his burial a beautiful flower was found growing from his tomb, and so they sainted him.

“The fall of the girl was a scandal and cause of laughter for all Florence, so that from that day the monks never ventured more to draw up damsels in baskets.”

* * * * *

This story is so widely spread in many forms, that the reader can hardly have failed to have heard it; in fact, there are few colleges where it has not happened that a basket has not been used for such smuggling. One of the most amusing instances is of a damsel in New Haven, or Cambridge, Massachusetts, who was very forgetful. One day she said to a friend, “You have no idea how wicked some girls are. The other morning early—I mean late at night—I was going by the college when I saw a girl being drawn up in a basket by some students, when all at once the rope broke—_and down I came_.”

In Germany, as in the East, the tale is told of a wooer who is drawn up half-way in a basket and then let remain for everybody to behold. In Uhland’s Old Ballads there is one to this effect of Heinrich Corrade der Schreiber im Korbe. Tales on this theme at least need not be regarded as strictly traditional.

There is another little legend attached to La Certosa which owes its small interest to being told of a man who was one of the Joe Millers of Italy in the days of the Medici. It is a curious fact that humorists do most abound and are most popular in great epochs of culture.

Domenico Barlacchi was a _banditore_—herald or public crier—of Florence, commonly known as Il Barlacchia, who lived in the time of Lorenzo de’ Medici, and who, being _molto piacevole e faceto_, or pleasing and facetious, as I am assured by an ancient yellow jest-book of 1636 now before me, became, like Piovano Arlotto and Gonella, one of the famous wits of his time. It is worth noting, though it will be no news to any folk-lorist, that in these flying leaves, or fleeting collections of facetiæ, there are many more indications of familiar old Florentine life than are to be gleaned from the formal histories which are most cited by writers who endeavour to illustrate it.

“One morning Barlacchia, with other boon companions, went to La
Certosa, three miles distant from Florence, {71} where, having heard
mass, they were taken over the convent by one of the friars, who
showed them the convent and cells. Of which Barlacchia said ’twas
all very fine, but that he would like to see the
wine-cellar—_sentendosi egli hauer sete_—as he felt great thirst
sadly stealing over him.

“To which the friar replied that he would gladly show them that part
of the convent, but that unfortunately the Decano who kept the keys
was absent. [_Decano_, dean or deacon, may be rendered roughly in
English as a dog, or literally of a dog or currish.] To which
Barlacchia replied, ‘Truly I am sorry for it, and I wish you were all
_de’ cani_ or dogs!’

Times have changed, and whether this tale brought about the reform I cannot say, but it is certain that the good monks at present, without waiting to be asked, generally offer a glass of their famous cordial to visitors. Tastes may differ, but to mine, when it is old, the green Certosa, though far cheaper, is superior to Chartreuse.

Another tale of Barlacchia, which has a certain theological affinity with this story, is as follows:

“A great illness once befell Barlacchia, so that it was rumoured all
over Florence that he was dead, and great was the grieving thereover.
But having recovered, by the grace of God, he went from his house to
the palace of the Grand Duke, who said to him:

“‘Ha! art thou alive, Barlacchia? We all heard that thou wert dead.’

“‘Signore, it is true,’ was his reply. ‘I was indeed in the other
world, but they sent me back again, and that for a mere trifle, which
you forgot to give me.’

“‘And what was that?’ asked the Duke.

“‘I knocked,’ resumed Barlacchia, ‘at the gate of heaven, and they
asked me who I was, what I had done in the world, and whether I had
left any landed property. To which I replied no, never having begged
for anything. So they sent me off, saying that they did not want any
such poor devils about them—_non volevano là simile dapochi_. And
therefore, illustrious Signore, I make so bold as to ask that you
would kindly give me some small estate, so that another time I may
not be turned away.’

“Which so pleased the magnificent and liberal Lorenzo that he
bestowed on Barlacchia a _podere_ or farm.

“Now for a long time after this illness, Barlacchia was very pale and
haggard, so that everybody who met him (and he was well known to
everybody) said, ‘Barlacchia, _mind the rules_’—meaning the rules of
health; or else, ‘Barlacchia, look to yourself;’ or _regolati_! or
_guardatevi_!—till at last he became tired with answering them. So
he got several small wooden rules or rulers, such as writers use to
draw lines, and hung them by a cord to his neck, and with them a
little mirror, and when any one said ‘_Regolati_’—‘mind the rules,’
he made no reply, but looked at the sticks, and when they cried
‘_Guardatevi_!’ he regarded himself in the mirror, and so they were
answered.”

This agrees with the sketch of Lorenzo as given by Oscar Browning in his admirable “Age of the Condottieri,” a short history of Mediæval Italy from 1409 to 1530:

“Lorenzo was a bad man of business; he spent such large sums on
himself that he deserved the appellation of the Magnificent. He
reduced himself to poverty by his extravagance; he alienated his
fellow-citizens by his lust . . . and was shameless in the promotion
of his private favourites.”

Yet with all this he was popular, and left a legendary fame in which generosity rivals a love of adventure. I have collected many traditions never as yet published relating to him, and in all he appears as a _bon prince_.

“But verily when I consider that what made a gallant lord four hundred years ago would be looked after now by the Lord Chancellor and the law courts with a sharp stick, I must needs,” writes Flaxius, “exclaim with Spenser sweet:

“‘Me seemes the world is run quite out of square,
For that which all men once did Vertue call,
Is now called Vice, and that which Vice was hight
Is now hight Vertue, and so used of all;
Right now is wrong, and wrong that was, is right,
As all things else in time are changed quight.’”