Story Of The Podestà Who Was Long On His Journey

“Were I ten times as tedious, I would find it in my heart to bestow
it all on you.”—_Dogberry_.

This little tale is told by the Florentine Poggio, who was born in 1380 and died in 1459, yet lived—in his well-known _Facezie_. But as it ever was and is a folk-story, independently of the great jester, I think it worthy of a place in this collection.

“There was once a podestà sent from Rome to govern Florence, and truly he was of that kind who to a farthing’s worth of sense have ten ducats’ value in self-conceit; for if vanity could have kept a man warm, he never would have had need to buy blankets. And this was most shown in his belief that he was a great orator, though he was so intolerably stupid and slow that his speeches were like the post-rider of Giordano, who in good weather sometimes got as far as five miles a day.

“Now he was to be inducted into office in the Cathedral, in the presence of the _priori_, or notables of the city of Florence, and so begun a discourse in which he first of all described how great a man he had been as senator in Rome, and what he had done, and what everybody else connected with him had done, and all the details of his departure from the Eternal City; and then depicted a banquet given to him at Sutro, and so went on, telling everything about everybody, till, after several hours of terribly tiresome discourse, he had got no farther than Siena.

“Now by this time, as Poggio words it, ‘This excessive length of wearisome narration had so exhausted his auditors that they began to fear that the entire day would be spent on the road,’ and at last, as the shades of night began to fall, one who was present rose and said:

“‘Monsignore, I beg you to remember that it is growing late, and you must really get on a little faster in your journey, for if you are not in Florence to-day, the gates will be shut, and unless you get here in time you will not be allowed to enter, and thus you will miss being ordained, and cannot enter on your office.’

“Which having heard, the man of many words promptly concluded his speech by saying that he was really in Florence.”

* * * * *

Southey, in “The Doctor,” has narrated a number of instances of tedious discourse, but none, I think, quite equal to this.

There is a shadow under every lamp, a devil’s chapel close by every church, and even of the venerable and holy Duomo of Florence there are such tales as the following:

LA MESSA DE’ VILLANI.

“If there is any faith to be put in old stories and ancient books, even the ladies and gentleman, to say nothing of priests, used such language in their ordinary conversation, in good old Medici times, as would not be heard among any but the lowest people now-a-days. Well, as the saying is:

“‘Ne di tempo, nè di Signoria,
Non ti dar malinconia.’

“‘Fret not thyself for time long past away,
For weather, nor for what the great may say.’

“Well, it happened one morning in Florence that a _gentil donna_, who, I take it, was more _donna_ than truly _gentil_, whatever her rank may have been, meeting at the door of the Duomo a very ordinary and rough figure of her acquaintance, who had only made himself look more vulgar by new and gaudy clothes, asked him as he came out:

“‘Is the Cads’ Mass {180} over already?’

“To which he, in nowise put out, promptly replied:

“‘Yes, Madonna, and that of the Demireps is just going to begin; {181} only hurry, and you’ll be there in time with the rest of ’em!’

“And that lifted him to celebrity, for in those famous days a small joke often made a great reputation. Ah! Signore—a great many of us have been born into this world four hundred years too late—more’s the pity! However, the lady learned the truth of the old proverb, ‘_Guardati del villan_, _quando hà la camicia bianca_’—‘Look out for a vulgar fellow when he has a clean shirt on,’ for then he thinks himself fine enough to say anything saucy.

“And there is yet another story of the same sort, Signore; indeed, I think that while the world lasts there will always be a few of them left for steady customers, under the counter, like smuggled goods in Venice; and it is this: It befell once that a Florentine fell in love with a lady, who was like her mother, _come il ramo al tronco s’assomiglia_—‘as the bough to the tree, or very much worse than she ought to be;’ for the dear mamma was like the Porta San Niccolò, only not so well famed.

“However, the gentleman wedded her, never heeding the proverb:

“‘Let every wooer be afraid
To wed a maiden not a maid;
For sooner or later, as ’tis said,
She’ll turn again unto her trade.’

“However, in this case the proverb got the lie, for the lady after she was married behaved with great propriety, and yet was often reminded that she had better have repented before she sinned than after; for many would not speak to her, for all her wealth, till she was well convinced that _Che profitta ravedersi dopo il fatto_?

“‘When the deed has once been done,
What is the use of repenting, my son?’

“So it befell one morning that the poor soul was praying in the Cathedral or Duomo, as many another poor sinner had done before her (doubtless on the same spot), when a noble lady, who had never been found out in any naughtiness (some people are certainly very lucky in this world, Signore Carlo!), came by, and seeing the penitent, drew in her robe, turned up her nose, and retreated as if the other had the plague. To which the Magdalen replied, in a sad but firm voice, ‘Madonna, you need not be afraid to touch me, for I assure you that the malady (of which I have, I trust, been thoroughly cured) attacks none save those who wish to have it.’”

* * * * *

When standing in the Cathedral, the visitor may remember that here Santo Crescenzio, who died in 424, once wrought a miracle, thus recorded in his “Life” of the fourteenth century:

“A poor man had come into the Cathedral and saw no light (_i.e._, was
blind), and going to where Saint Crescentius was, implored him with
great piety that he would cause the light to return unto him. And
being moved to pity, he made the sign of the cross in the eyes of the
blind man, and incontinently the light was restored unto him. Saint
Crescentius did not wish this to be made known, and pretended to know
nothing about it, but he could not conceal such miracles.”

Of which the immortal Flaxius remarks, that “it is singular that so many saints who wished to keep their miracles unknown had not the forethought to make silence a condition of cure. Also, that of all the wonder-working once effected by the holy men of the Church, the only gift now remaining to them is the miraculous power of changing sons and daughters into nephews and nieces; the which, as I am assured, is still as flourishing as ever, and permitted as a proof of transubstantiation.” Thus it is that simple heretics deride holy men. And Flaxius is, I bid ye note, a sinner, in whose antique, unsanctified derision I most assuredly do take no part, “it being in bad form in this our age to believe or disbelieve in anything,” and therefore in bad style to laugh at aught.

It may be worth recalling, when looking out on the Cathedral Square, that it was here that San Zenobio performed another great miracle, recorded in all his lives, but most briefly in the poetical one:

“Then did he raise an orphan from the dead,
The only son of a poor widow, he,
A cart with oxen passing o’er his head,
Died in the Duomo Square in misery;
But though all crushed, the Saint restored his life,
And, well and gay and bright as stars do shine,
He went to his mother, and the pious wife
Gave thanks to God for mercy all divine.”

Which being witnessed, says the _Vita San Zenobii_, all who were present began to sing, “_Gloria tibi Domine qui mirabilia per servos tuos in nobis operari dignatus es_, _gloria sit tibi-i et laus in sæcu-la—sec-u-lo-o-o-rum_, _A-men_.

Which, if they sung it as I heard it sung yesterday in the Cathedral of Siena, must have had an extremely soporific effect, lulling all others to sleep, and causing them to see beatific visions beyond all belief. I had in my boyhood a teacher named Professor Sears C. Walker, who was wont to tell how he had once heard in a rural New England village a church congregation sing:

“Before thy throne the angels bow-wow-wow-ow!”

But to hear the _bow-wow_ in perfection, one must go to Rome. A pack in full cry or a chorus of owls is nothing to it. But let us pass on to a fresh story.