The Goblin Of The Tower Della Trinita, Or The Porta San

“They do not speak as mortals speak,
Nor sing as others sing;
Their words are gleams of starry light,
Their songs the glow of sunset light,
Or meteors on the wing.”

I once begun a book—the ending and publishing of it are in the dim and remote future, and perhaps in the limbo of all things unfinished. It was or is “The Experiences of Flaxius the Immortal,” a sage who dwells for ever in the world, chiefly to observe the evolution of all things absurd, grotesque, quaint, illogical—in short, of all that is strictly human. And on him I bestowed a Florentine legend which is perhaps of great antiquity, since there is a hint in it of an ancient Hebrew work by Rabbi ben Mozeltoff or the learned Gedauler Chamar—I forget which—besides being found in poetic form in my own great work on Confucius.

That money is the life of man, and that treasure buried in the earth is a sin to its possessor, forms the subject of one of Christ’s parables. The same is true of all talent unemployed, badly directed, or not developed at all. The turning-point of evolution and of progressive civilisation will be when public opinion and state interests require that every man shall employ what talent he has, and every mere idler be treated as a defaulter or criminal. From this truly Christian point of view the many tales of ghosts who walk in agony because of buried gold are strangely instructive.

FLAXIUS AND THE ROSE.

“Midnight was ringing from the cloister of San Miniato in Florence on the hill above, and Flaxius sat by the Arno down below, on the bank by the square grey tower of other days, known as the Niccolò, or _Torre delta Trinità_, because there are in it three arches. . . .

“It was midnight in mid-winter, and a full moon poured forth all its light over Florence as if it would fain preserve it in amber, and over the olive groves as if they had become moss agates. . . .

[“‘Or I,’ quoth Flaxius, ‘a fly in hock.’]

“Yes, it was a clear, cold, Tuscan night, and as the last peal of bells went out into eternity and faded in the irrevocable, thousands of spirits of the departed began to appear, thronging like fireflies through the streets, visiting their ancient haunts and homes, greeting, gossiping, arranging their affairs just as the peasants do on Friday in the great place of the Signoria, as they have done for centuries.

“Flaxius looked at the rolling river which went rushing by at his feet, and said:

“‘_Arno mio_, you are in a tremendous hurry to get to the sea, and all the more so because you have just had an _accessit_—a remittance of rain from the mountain-banks. _Buon pro vi faccia_—much good may it do you! So every shopman hurries to become a great merchant when he gets some money, and every farmer a signore, and every signore a great lord, and every great lord a ruler at court and over all the land—_prorsum et sursum_. And when they get there—or when you get to the sea—then ye are all swallowed up in greater lives, interests, and actions, and so the rivers run for ever on, larger yet ever seeming less unto yourselves. And so—_ad altiora tendunt omnes_—the flower-edged torrent and the Florentine.’ . . .

“When he suddenly heard above his head a spirit voice, clear, sweet and strange, ringing, not in words, but tones of unearthly music—of which languages there are many among the Unearthlies, all being wordless songs or airs suggesting speech, and yet conveying ideas far more rapidly. It was the Goblin of the Tower calling to him of the tower next beyond on the farther hill, and he said:

“‘How many ghosts there are out to-night!’

“‘Yes; it is a fine night for ghosting. Moonlight is mid-summer for them, poor souls! But I say, brother, who is yonder _frate_, the dark monk-spectre who always haunts your tower, lingering here and there about it? What is the spell upon that _spirito_?’

“‘He is one to be pitied,’ replied the Goblin of the Trinità. ‘He was a good fellow while he lived, but a little too fond of money. He was afflicted with what doctors called, when I was young in Rome, the _amor sceleratus habendi_. So it came to pass that he died leaving a treasure—_mille aureos_—a thousand gold crowns buried in my tower unknown to any one, and for that he must walk the earth until some one living wins the money.’

“Flaxius pricked up his ears. He understood all that the spirits said, but they had no idea that the man in a scholar’s robe who sat below knew Goblinese.

“‘What must a mortal do to get the gold?’ inquired the second goblin.

“‘Truly he must do what is well-nigh impossible,’ replied the Elf of the Tower; ‘for he must, without magic aid—note that—bring to me here in this month of January a fresh full-blown rose.’

“The voices were silent; a cloud passed over the face of the moon; the river rushed and roared on; Flaxius sat in a Vandyke-brown study, thinking how he could obtain peace and repose for the ghostly monk, and also get the _pecuniam_.

“‘Here is,’ he thought, ‘_aliquid laborare_—something to be worked out. Now is the time, and here is a chance—_ingirlandarsi di lauro_—to win the laurel wreath. A rose in January! What a pity that it is not four hundred years later, when people will have green-houses, and blue-nosed vagabonds will be selling red roses all the winter long in the Tornabuoni! Truly it is sometimes inconvenient to be in advance of or behind the age.

“‘_Eureka_! I have it,’ he at last exclaimed, ‘by the neck and tail. I will _spogliar la tesoria_—rob the treasury and spoil the Egyptian—_si non in errore versatus sum_—unless I am stupendously mistaken. Monk! thy weird will soon be dreed—thy penance prophesied will soon be o’er.’

“Saying this he went into the city. And there the next day, going to a fair dame of his acquaintance, who excelled all the ladies of all Italy in ingenious needlework, he had made of silk a rose; and so deftly was it done, that had it been put on a bush, you would have sworn that a nightingale would have sung to it, or bee have sought to ravish it.

“Then going to a Venetian perfumer’s, the wise Flaxius had his flower well scented with best attar of roses from Constantinople, and when midnight struck he was at the tower once more calling to the goblin.

“‘_Che vuoi_? What dost thou seek?’ cried the Elf.

“‘The treasure of the monk!’

“‘_Bene_! Give me a rose.’

“‘_Ecco_! There it is,’ replied Flaxius, extending it.

“‘_Non facit_—it won’t do,’ answered the goblin (thinking Flaxius to be a monk). ‘It is a sham rose artificially coloured, _murice tincta est_.’

“‘Smell it,’ replied Flaxius calmly.

“‘The _smell_ is all right, I admit,’ answered the guardian of the gold. ‘The perfume is delicious;’ here he sniffed at it deeply, being, like all his kind, enraptured with perfume, ‘and that much of it is, I grant, the real thing.’

“‘Now tell me,’ inquired Flaxius, ‘truly—_religiosè testimonium dicere_—by thy great ancestress Diana and her sister-double Herodias and her Nine Cats, by the Moon and the eternal Shadow, Endamone, and the word which Bergoia whispered into the ear of the Ox, and the Lamia whom thou lovest—what is it makes a man? Is it his soul or his body?’

“‘Man of mystery and master of the hidden lore,’ replied the awe-struck goblin, ‘it is his _soul_.’

“‘And is not the perfume of the rose its _soul_—that which breathes its life, in which it speaks to fairies or to men? Is not the voice in song or sweetened words the perfume of the spirit, ever true? Is not—’

“‘I give it up,’ replied the goblin. ‘The priest may turn in now for a long, long nap. Here, take his gold, and _ne gioire tutto d’allegrezza_—may you have a merry time with it. There is a great deal of good drinking in a thousand crowns; and if you ever try to _ludere latrunculis vel aleis_, or shake the bones or dice, I promise you three sixes. By the way, I’ll just keep this rose to remember you by. _Addio—a rivederlei_!’

“So the bedesman slept amid his ashes cold, and the good Flaxius, who was a stout carl for the nonce, with a broad back and a great beard, returned, bearing a mighty sack of ancient gold, which stood him in good stead for many a day. And the goblin is still there in the tower.”

“_Hæc fabula docet_,” wrote Flaxius as he revised the proof with a red-lead pencil, for which he had paid a penny in the Calzolaio. “This tale teaches that in this life there is naught which hath not its ideal side or inner soul, which may raise us to higher reflection or greater profit, if we will but seek it. The lower the man the lower he looks, but it is all to his loss in the end. Now every chapter in this book, O my son—or daughter—may seem to thee only a rose of silk, yet do not stop at that, but try to find therein a perfume. For thou art thyself, I doubt not, such a rose, even if thy threads (as in most of us) be somewhat worn, torn, or faded, yet with a soul far better than many deem who see thee only afar off. And this my book is written for the perfume, not the silk of my reader. And there is no person who is better than what the world deems him or her to be who will not find in it marvellous comfort, solace, and satisfaction.”

Thus wrote Flaxius.

* * * * *

Since I penned the foregoing from memory, I have found the Italian text or original, which had been mislaid for years. In it the tale is succinctly told within the compass of forty lines, and ends with these words:

“‘Take the treasure, and give me the rose!’

“And so the spirit gave him the treasure and took the rose, and the
poor man went home enriched, and the priest to sleep in peace—_fra
gli eterni_—among the eternals.”

I ought, of course, to have given scientifically only the text word for word, but _litera scripta manet_—what is written remains, and Flaxius is an old friend of mine, and I greatly desired to introduce him to my readers. And I doubt not that the reviewers will tell me if I have sinned!

“Do a good deed, or aught that’s fit,
You never again may hear of it;
But make a slip, all will detect it,
And every friend at once correct it!”