Chapter VI: Part 6

“But they will drive me out headlong,” replied Gianni; “I dare not go. And if I do not return to my family, who are all ill or starving to death, they will think that some disaster has befallen me.”

“For that too there is also a remedy,” said Virgil, with a smile. “Have no care. Now to thy master!”

“Why didst thou send away this honest man?” asked Virgil of the _padrone_.

To which the master replied by telling all about the oxen. “Therefore, because he brought ruin into my house did I dismiss him.”

“Well,” replied Virgil, “this time thou didst get rid of an honest man and keep the knave. Now let us go and see to thy dead oxen.”

So they went apace to the spot where the dead oxen had all been thrown, where the whole eight lay unchanged, for decay had not come upon them, they were as sound as ever.

Then Virgil exclaimed, as he waved his wand:

“If ye are charmed, retake your breath!
If you’re bewitched, then wake from death!
Speak with a voice, and tell us why,
And who it was that made ye die!”

Then all the oxen came to life, and sang in chorus with human voices:

“Dorione slew us for revenge,
Because Gianni would not buy his oxen,
Truly they were greatly ornamented,
Yet withal were wretched, sorry cattle.
So he swore to be revenged upon him,
So he was revenged by witching us.”

“You have heard the whole truth,” said Virgil to the Emperor. “It is for you to condemn the culprit.”

“I condemn him to be at once put to death,” replied the Emperor. “Hast thou anything to add?”

“Yes,” said Virgil; “I condemn him to immediately become a goat after death.”

Then Dorione was burnt alive for an evil wizard, and he leapt from the flame in the form of a black goat and vanished.

Gianni returned in favour to his master, and all went well with him evermore.

* * * * *

The very singular or unusual name of Dorione intimates a classical origin, and it is true that one of the Danaides, the bride of Cerceste, was called thus; but on this hook hangs no analogy. Dordione was the Roman god of blackguardism _pur et simple_, unto whom people made obscene offerings—which, according to sundry reviewers, might suggest the Dorian of a certain novel of the ultra Greek-æsthetic school, which had many admirers in certain circles, both in America and England. But it is very remarkable that wherever it occurs, be it in pagan antiquity or modern times, the name has always had a certain evil smell about it, a something fish-like and ancient, but not venerable. It is true that I have already given a legend of another Dorione, who was a protégé of Virgil; but even this latter example was sadly given to “rapacious appropriation.” The Dorians were all a bad lot from a moral point of view, according to history.

It is remarkable that Dorione, who is a mountain shepherd or herdsman, is noted as a sorcerer. Owing to their solitary lives and knowledge of secrets in the medical treatment and management of cattle, this class in many countries (but especially in France and Italy) is regarded as consisting entirely of sorcerers. This is specially the case with smiths, farriers, and all who exercise the veterinary art.

It may also strike the reader as singular that Dorione in the tale should be moved to such deadly vengeance, simply because Gianni would not buy his cattle, and preferred others. This is a very common and marked characteristic of Italians. If you examine a man’s wares, talk about, and especially if you touch them, you will often be expected to buy as a matter of course. I have been seriously cautioned in a fair, by one who was to the manner born, against examining anything unless I bought it, or something. A few years ago, in Florence, a flower-girl asked an Englishman to buy of her ware, which he declined to do, and then changing his mind, bought a bouquet from another girl close by. Whereupon the first _floriste_ stabbed and slew the second—to the great astonishment of the tourist!

There is an unconscious fitness and propriety in making the author of the “Georgics” so familiar with cattle that he is able to raise them from the dead. The chorus of oxen, accusing the evil-doer, is an idea or motive which also occurs in the story of Cain, as given in my “Legends of Florence.”

The black goat is, and ever was in Italy, specially accursed as a type of evil. Witches are rarely described as riding brooms—their steed is the goat. Evil spirits, or souls of men accursed, haunt bridges in this form. The perverse and mischievous spirit of the animal, as well as his appearance, is sufficient to explain this.

THE GIRL AND THE FLAGEOLET.

“Thus playing sweetly on the flageolet,
He charmed them all; and playing yet again,
Led them away, won by the magic sound.”

_De Pueris Hamleënsibus_, 1400.

There is in the Toscana Romagna a place known as La Valle della Fame, or Valley of Hunger, in which dwelt a family of peasants, or three brothers and two sisters. The elder brother had married a wife who was good and beautiful, and she had given birth to a daughter, but died when the babe was only one year old. Then, according to the advice of the sisters and brothers, he married again, that he might have someone to take care of his child. The second wife was a pretty young woman, but after she had been wedded a year she gave birth to a daughter, who was very ugly indeed and evil; but the mother seemed to love her all the more for this, and began to hate the elder, who was as good and beautiful as an angel. And as her hatred grew she beat and abused the poor little girl all day long.

One morning the latter went into the woods to hide herself from her stepmother till it should be evening, when she could return home and be safe with her father and aunts. And while sitting all alone beneath a tree, she heard a bird above her singing so sweetly that she felt enchanted. It was a marvellous sound, at times like the music of a flute played by a fairy, then like a human voice carolling in soft tones, and then like a horn echoing far away. The little girl said:

“Oh dear, sweet bird, I wish I could pipe and play like you!”

As she said this the bird fell from the tree, and when she picked it up she found that it was a _zufolo_, or shepherd’s flageolet, in the form of a bird. And when she blew on it, it gave forth such sweet sounds—_suone belle da rimanere incantati_—as would charm all who heard them. And as she practised, she found the art to play it seemed to come of itself, and every now and then she could hear a fairy voice in the sound speaking to her.

Now, this was a miracle which had been wrought by Virgil the magician, who did so many wonderful things in the olden time.

In the evening she returned home and played on the bird-pipe, and all were charmed except the stepmother, who alone heard in the music a voice which said:

“Though sweet thy smile, and smooth thy brow,
Evil and cold at heart art thou;
I never yet did harm to thee,
Yet thou hast beat me cruelly,
And given me curses fierce and wild
Because I’m fairer than thy child.
Unless thou lettest me alone
Henceforth, all ill shall be thine own,
With all the suffering I have known.”

But to the girl the pipe sang:

“Sing to thy father, gently say
That thou the morrow goest away,
And tell him thou hast borne too long
Great cruelty and cruel wrong;
For truly he was much to blame
That he so long allowed the same;
But now the evil spell is broken,
The time has come, the word is spoken!”

Then her father would fain have kept her, but the spell was on her, and she went out into the wide world playing on her pipe. And when she was in the woods, the birds and wild beasts came and listened to her and did as she bade; and when she was in towns, the people gathered round and were charmed to hear her play, and gave her money and often jewels, and no one dared to say an evil word to her, for a spell was on her, and a charm which kept away evil.

So years passed by, and she was blooming into maidenhood, when one day a young lord, passing with his mother, who was a woman as noble of soul and good as her son, paused to hear the girl play on her pipe and sing, for they thought the marvellous song of the _zufolo_ was her voice.

Then the lady asked the girl if she would enter a monastery, where she would be educated and brought up to live in a noble family in return for her music. The girl replied that she had already a great deal of money and many jewels, but that she would be very glad to be better educated and advanced in life. So she entered the convent, where she was very happy, and the end thereof was that she became betrothed to the young signore, and great preparations were made for the wedding.

Now, the stepmother had but one idea in life, which was that her own daughter should make some great match, and for this purpose she was glad when the second went away, as she hoped, to become a mere vagabond, playing the flute for a living. But when she heard that the girl was very prosperous in a convent in Florence, and had not only been educated like a princess in the best society, but would ere long marry a nobleman, she became mad with rage; and going to a witch, she paid her a great sum to prepare a powder which, if strewed in the path of the bride, would cause her prompt and agonizing pain, and after a time death in the most dreadful suffering. And this was to be laid in the way of the wedding procession. But on that morning the pipe sang:

“Where’er on earth the wind doth blow,
All leaves and dust before it go.
Evil or good, they fly away
Before its breath, as if in play;
And so shall it for thee this day,
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust,
And death to the witch, for so it must
Ever happen as ’twas decreed,
For death is the pay for an evil deed!”

Now, the bridegroom and all friends had begged the bride to play the flute as she walked in the wedding procession, and she did so, and it seemed to her that it had never played so sweetly. The stepmother was looking on anxiously in the crowd, and when the bride was just coming to the powder in the way, the wicked woman cried:

“Play louder—_louder_!”

The bride, to oblige everyone, blew hard, and a wind came from the pipe which blew all the powder into the stepmother’s eyes and open mouth, and in an instant she gave a cry of agony, and then rolled on the ground, screaming:

“_Il polvore_! I have swallowed the powder!”

And the flute played:

“By thy mother I was slain;
A fairy gave me life again.
I was killed for jealousy,
And all as false as false could be.
Now thou art dead and I am free.”

And from that time the pipe played no more. But the young lady married the signore, and all went well with them.

And this was done by Virgil, who was ever benevolent.

* * * * *

The pipe, flute, or whistle, which fascinates all who hear it, is to be found in the traditions of all races, from the story of Orpheus onward; it even forms the plot of what is one of the prettiest tales of the Algonkin Indians, {126} and one which is probably original with them. What is also common to many is the conception of the one unjustly put to death turned into a musical instrument, which by a song betrays the murderer. But what is peculiar to this story is the power of the pipe to blow away enchantment and dissipate the witch-dust laid in the path. This is a very ingenious addition to the conception of the music and voice.

It is to be observed that sometimes rustic performers on the pipe, who have chiefly learned their music in the woods from birds and Nature, sometimes attain to a very fascinating and singular execution, quite unlike that which is heard from the most cultivated and artistic musicians. The celebrated Dr. Justinus Kerner, whom I have heard play, could produce on the Jew’s-harp such results as would be deemed incredible. It struck me as an extraordinary expression of will and character beyond all teaching or imitation.

There are also many learned writers on music who are not aware that the human throat or voice is capable of producing sounds which are not, so to speak, _vocal_, but like those of the musical-box and several wind-instruments. This accomplishment is common among the blacks of the Southern States, and the performances, as I can bear witness, are most extraordinary and amazing. I once mistook the playing of two coloured boys in Nashville for the sound of a somewhat distant hand-organ. Even the twang of the banjo is thus rendered with startling accuracy. It is also true that reed-pipes can be made which, by combining the voice and blowing (as with the _mirliton_), give results which are very little known, but which probably suggested this and other tales in which the flute or pipe speaks. There are not many people who know the bull-roarer save as a boy’s toy—that is to say, a mere flat bit of wood whirled round at the end of a cord—but by modification and combination, this or several of them produce sounds like those of an organ; and when heard by night at a distance, the effect is such as to fairly awe those who are ignorant of its cause. Finally, there is the application by a tube of air to the Æolian harp, etc., so as to produce tunes, which is very remarkable, and as little known as the rest—albeit, a traveller, who found something of the kind among the heathen, avowed his belief that something might be made of it. If people would only find out what resources they all have within themselves, or in very cheap and easily-made instruments, there might be far more music or art in the world than there now is. On which subject the reader may consult a book, written by me, and entitled “The Cheapest Musical Instruments,” etc., now being published by Whittaker and Co., 2, White Hart Street, London.

LA BEGHINA DI AREZZO, OR VIRGIL AND THE SORCERESS.

Beauty, when blent with wickedness,
Ne’er yet did faile to bring distresse,
A lovely thing that is an evil
Is the own daughter of the devil;
And what was wicked from the first
Unto the ende will be accurst,
And sow, I trow, full sinfull seede,
As ye may in this story reade!

Once upon a time there was in Arezzo a young woman of rare beauty, though of base condition. This girl showed from her earliest years a very strong character, great and varied talents or gifts, and the outward appearance, at least, of great piety and morality, so that she was always in church or absorbed in thought, which passed for pious meditation, while she never missed early Mass on a single morning.

It came to pass that a young gentleman who was rich, handsome, clever, and of good family, fell in love with her and offered marriage, but this she refused, to the amazement of all, especially her parents. But the girl declared that her disposition to religion made marriage objectionable to her; and indeed at this time she so devoted herself to devotion that she hardly found time to eat. Yet as she did not become a nun, the Aretini, or people of Arezzo, called her the Beghina (Beguine), or Sister of Charity. Yet in doing all this she had ideas of her own, or more fish in her net than the world was aware of, for the peasants for her services and prayers, regarding her as a saint who could work miracles, because she indeed effected many strange things which seemed to them to be Divine, brought her many gifts, including money, all of which she declared would be devoted in future to the Madonna, regarding all which she had a great work in view.

At last her reputation for sanctity spread over all the country, and it was greatly increased when it was reported that so poor a girl had refused to marry a rich young gentleman, so that she was visited by the nobility, among whom she acquired great influence. And as she declared that it was her ambition to build a small church, and with it a home for herself, they, hoping that this would bring many pilgrims and greatly benefit the town, at last offered her thirty thousand crowns wherewith to carry out her pious purposes, which she with thanks and tears gratefully accepted.

The first thing which she did, however, was to build for herself a house, for which there was (secretly) constructed a long subterranean passage which led out to the river. Then she left her parents, saying that for the present she must lead a life of devotion in absolute seclusion. Then it was observed that from time to time young gentlemen were missing, and more than once their bodies were found floating in the river below the house of La Beghina, yet so great was her reputation for sanctity that no one connected their loss with her name.

So years passed by. But there was one who put no faith in her piety, and this was the signore whom she had refused, and with whom love for her had been succeeded by a bitter love of revenge, and by constant observation and inquiry he found out several things which greatly confirmed his suspicions. The first of these was the discovery of the bodies in the river; and being resolved to find out all the secrets of her house, he visited the mason who had built it, saying that he wished to erect a mansion for himself, and as he greatly admired that of La Beghina, would like to have one exactly like it. To which the old man replied that he was willing, but as every person who built a house kept certain details a secret to secure the safety of persons or property in certain emergencies, he must be excused if he withheld certain particulars. But the young signore replied that he had set his heart on having just such a house in every respect; that he himself wished to conceal all secrets, and, finally, that he would pay a round sum extra to have his desire fulfilled. This was an argument which the mason could not resist, and so explained to his patron every detail of the building, which made more than one mystery clear to him. And having learned the secret of the underground passage which led to the river, he began to watch it by night with great care; and found that the exit by the river was by a stone door, which was so artfully concealed in a rock by bushes that it was hardly perceptible.

One night, when it was very dark, the Signore Primo, for such was his name, being on the watch, heard a noise and saw the door open. Then there appeared the Beghina, bearing or dragging a long package or bundle—_un involto_—which she let fall into the flood. And at this sight the signore could not restrain a cry of rage, understanding it all, whereat La Beghina fled in terror into the passage, leaving the door unfastened behind her. But the young man, unheeding her, cast himself headlong into the river after the bundle, which he succeeded in bringing to land, and on opening it found the body of a young gentleman of his acquaintance, who was not, however, quite dead, as he had been merely heavily drugged, and who with care was restored to life. And truly he had a strange tale to tell, how he had been inveigled mysteriously and blindfolded, and introduced to some unknown house where there was a handsome woman, who, after he had made love with her, drugged and robbed him, after which he became unconscious.

The Signore Primo conveyed his friend to his own home, and after caring for his comfort and earnestly recommending him to keep the whole matter a secret, went back to the stone door, and finding it open, and having already learned how the house was built, he entered, and concealed himself where he could watch the mistress.

Early in the morning there came an elderly lady, who with many tears and in great emotion told the Beghina that she had a son gone to the war, and was in great fear lest he should be slain, and that she had prayed to the Virgin that he might return safe and sound; and that if the Beghina by her piety would bring this to pass, she would at once give her fifty gold crowns, and a very much larger sum in case her son should come to her again soon and well. To which La Beghina replied that she could go home with a happy heart, for in a few days she should have her son with her. So the lady departed.

Then the Beghina went into a secret room [but the Signore Primo continued to follow and observe her] and taking a pack of cards and a chain, she threw them against the wall and beat on the ground, saying:

“Diavoli tutti che siete nell’ inferno!
Scatenatevi, e damme portatevi,
Un comando
Vi voglio dare
Fino alla cittá
Dov’é la guerra dovete andare,
E salvare
Il figlio della signora;
Che pochanzi damme e venuta
E portatelo subito a casa sua,
In carne anima ed ossa,
Se questa grazia mi farete
L’anima di quel giovane l’avrete!”

“All ye devils who are in hell,
Loosen your chains, and come at once to me!
I give you a command—
Go to the city where the war is waged,
And save the life of the son
Of the lady who came to me of late,
And bear him quickly to her in her home!
Bear him in flesh, soul and bones!
If ye do me this favour,
Ye shall have the soul of that youth!”

And when this was sung many devils appeared and saluted her as a queen.

The Signore Primo was indeed amazed and terrified, for now he realized that the Beghina was worse than he had supposed, or a witch of the most malignant kind. But he left the place, and going to the lady, told her all he had witnessed. Then she in great terror fainted, and when restored to life declared that, if anyone could save the soul of her son, he should have all her fortune.

Then the Signore Primo told her that if anyone could defeat the evil witch it was a great magician who by lucky chance was in Arezzo, and that she should seek him forthwith. This great magician was no other than Virgil. And as soon as the lady appeared, Virgil said:

“I know why thou art come.”

Then he led her to the form of an angel clad in a rose-coloured garb, and, kneeling before it, said:

“O tu angelo del paradiso!
Ma benche puro e innocente sei stato
In questa terra confinata
Per salvare tua madre de suoi peccati,
Ma anche nel altro mondo
Ne fa sempre di peggio,
E per questo sarai liberato te
E confinata nel tuo posto,
La compagna e complice
Di tua madre la Beghina
La Beghina di Arezzo.
Vai tu angelo beato!
Da l’angelo custode!
E dilli che invochi
Lo spirito che di la ha piu comando,
E potenza di volere salvare
L’anima di quel giovane,
Che la Beghina le ha venduta
E cosi tu tu sarai in pace!”

“Oh, thou angel of Paradise!
Yet who, though pure and ever innocent,
Hast been enchanted on this earth
(Confined in the form which thou wearest),
To save thy mother for her sins;
Yet even in another world
She will ever be worse.
Therefore thou shalt now be freed,
And thy mother and her accomplice
Be enchanted in thy place.
The Beghina of Arezzo,
Go, thou blessed angel,
To the angel who guards thee!
Bid him invoke the spirit who has most power
To save the soul of that youth
Whom the Beghina has sold;
Thus shalt thou be in peace.”

At that instant there was heard a clap of thunder, the sound of a roaring storm, and there fell down before them two human beings like two corpses, yet not dead, and these were La Beghina and her companion witch.

Then there entered a grand sun-ray, which flashed in light upon the angel whom Virgil had summoned. And it said:

“The youth is saved, and whoever doeth good shall find good even in another world. Farewell; I too am saved!”

Then the Beghina and her companion began to spit fire and flame, and they were condemned to wander for ever, without resting, from one town to another, ever possessed with a mad desire to do evil, but without the ability, for Virgil had taken the power from them.

* * * * *

This story seemed to me in the original, after more than one reading, so confused and high-flown, that I was on the point of rejecting it, when a friend who had also perused it persuaded me that, under all its dialectic mis-spellings, barbarous divisions of words, and manifest omissions (as, for instance, what became of the Sieur Buridan of the Italian Tour de Nesle, who was so nearly drowned), there was a legend which was manifestly the mangled version of a far better original. Therefore I have translated it very faithfully, and would specify that there was from me no suggestion or hint of any kind, but that it is entirely of the people.

Firstly, it may be observed that the long-continued, deliberately-contrived hypocrisy of the Beghina, as well as the Red Indian-like vindictiveness of the hero, is perfectly Italian or natural. The construction of secret passages and hiding-places in buildings is almost common even to-day. The idea of a holy spirit who undergoes a penance, _confinata_, or enchanted and imprisoned in a statue to redeem her mother, is also finely conceived, as is the final statement that the Beghina and her mysterious accomplice, who is so abruptly introduced, are condemned to wander for ever, tormented with a desire to do evil which they are unable to satisfy.

The Beghina is an incarnation of hypocrisy, deceit, lust and treachery. The four symbols for these were the serpent, wren, chameleon, and goose—the latter because a certain Athenian named Lampon was wont to swear “by the goose!” and then break his oath. Possibly the origin of the saying “He is sound upon the goose” is derived from this.

But I sometimes think that to decide between tradition or borrowing and independent creation is beyond the folklore of the present day.

THE SPIRIT OF THE SNOW OF COLLE ALTO. {134}

“And hence, O virgin mother mild,
Though plenteous flowers around thee blow,
Not only from the dreary strife
Of winter, but the storms of life,
Thee have thy votaries aptly styled
Our Lady of the Snow.”

WORDSWORTH: _Tour on the Continent_.

Once in the olden time, in Colle Alto, the snow fell in one night many yards in depth, and the people were astonished and frightened when they awoke in the morning at beholding it spreading far and wide. Many tried to shovel it away, but were discouraged, because, as they removed it, as much came in its place, so that at last they all remained at home, for no one could pass through the snow, and they were afraid of being buried in it.

But the poor, who had but scant provision in their homes, suffered from hunger. And among these was a good man to whom his five children pitifully cried:

“_Babbo-il pane_!”—Papa, give us bread!

And he replied:

“My children weep, and I must risk my life to save them.” And looking out, he cried unthinkingly:

“And yet the snow is very beautiful!
O Spirit of the Snow—no mortal knows
How beautiful thou art. Be kind to us!”

As he said this there appeared before the window, and then among them, a lady of marvellous beauty and dazzling brightness, all clad in white, who said:

“What wilt thou have, since thou hast invoked me?”

“Lady,” replied the astonished peasant, “I know not who thou art, nor did I call thee!”

“Yes; in thy speech thou didst pronounce my name in invocation, and to those who do that, and deserve it, I give my aid. Follow me!”

The poor man was surprised and bewildered, but he followed, while trembling, the lady.

And she spoke in a voice which was heard in every house far and near in Colle Alto:

“Let him who will come forth without fear, for this good man hath opened unto you the way. But it is only the poor who can do this, because, while they have suffered and starved in their homes, not one of the rich who dwell here have made any effort to relieve the suffering, therefore none of them shall come forth till the snow is gone.”

Then all the poor folk found that they could walk upon the snow, {135} which was a pleasure, but the gentlefolk could not stir a step out of doors till it melted. And it vexed them sorely to stand at their windows and see women and children running merrily over the snow, so that some of them cursed their wealth, and wished that they were of the poor and free.

For fifteen days not a flake of snow disappeared, and then all at once it went away, and the poor, on opening their windows in the morning, found the sun shining, and a warm breeze blowing, which was scented as with roses, and the streets and roofs all as clean as if new. Then all the poor gathered every man a stone, and meeting in one place, they there built a little church (_chiesina_), and called it the Chapel of the Goddess of the Snow, and adored her as if she had been the Madonna or a saint.

Then for some time, as usually happens, there was great enthusiasm—_vie un gran fanatismo_—and then again all was gradually forgotten. So with the Goddess of the Snow: as years went by people talked about her less and less, and she was even ridiculed by those who were of evil hearts and souls, such as abuse and ill-treat their benefactors—as was shown by a certain waggoner, who found himself one day many miles afar from any house, when snow began to fall. And with it he began to curse, so as to shock even a sinner; whereupon it drifted round him so deeply that he with his waggon could get no further. And so he kept on blaspheming. His poor starved horses looked at him with meaning, as if calling his attention, and then cast their glances to the wall or a shrine, whereon was depicted an image of the Goddess of the Snow, as if begging him to notice or to appeal to it. And the wretch beholding it, swore worse than ever, saying that she was an accursed (witch).

He had not time to pronounce the word ere he sank down (into the snow), so that only his head remained uncovered. And his horses also were in the same place, but a warm wind began to blow. And so the man remained fast, freezing and starving, for three days, but it did not make him repent, and he swore more than ever.

Then, on the third day, Virgil, the great magician, passed by, and was amazed at seeing the horses quietly feeding on grass in the warm sunshine, while a pleasant breeze was blowing, and close by them a man buried to his neck in the snow. And being questioned, the waggoner replied that he was thus buried for blaspheming the Goddess of the Snow.

Virgil asked him if he repented it.

“I will repent,” replied the waggoner, “when I see it proved by a miracle—but in miracles I put no faith.”

“Well,” said Virgil, “pray to the goddess to pardon you. Pray with me thus:

“‘Dea della neve che sei candida,
E pura la sera a lume di Luna,
Un bel lenzuola candida sembra
Distesa sulla terra e sui tetti:
Col sol sei splendida e rilucente:
E vero ti sprezzai, ma non fu io
Fu il diavolo che mia ha tentato.
E spero da oggi non mi tentera più,
Perche amo essere in grazia tua e come,
Stella tu sei bella, sei bianca,
Sei candida e pura e sei l’unica
Che fra le Dee non faccia altro
Che bene, e mai male, bella dea!
O dea della Neve tu che sei
L’unico mio pensiero, unica speme,
Unica mia speranza—da ora avanti,
Tutti e tutti miei pensieri
Saranna a te rivolti—neppur da casa
Mi partero prima di fare a te
Una preghiera che possa spiegar
Il mio pensier al dar farsi
Partir o restar a te domandero,
A te domandero che devo far.
Tutto questo a te rivago
E sempre rivolgero se tu mi perdonerai
E questa grazia mi farai
Che son pentito assai
Di farmi sortir di qui
Che tanto sofro—farmi sortir—
Sano e salvo che io posso tornar
In braccio alla mia famiglia!
Che da tre sere mi chiamami desidera!’”

“O Goddess of the Snow, who art so white
And pure that in the evening, in the light
Of the full moon, thou seem’st to be
A fair bright sheet spread over earth and roofs
(That all may sleep beneath it and in peace),
But who art splendid with a ruddy glow
In the using sunlight—it is very true
That I did scorn thee, yet it was not I.
For ’twas the devil in truth who tempted me,
And who, I hope, will never tempt me more,
Because I fain would be in thy good grace!
O Star, thou art most beautiful and white,
Candid and pure, because thou truly art
Among the goddesses the only one
Who only doest good, and by no chance
Art sullied with aught evil—O most fair!
O Goddess of the Snow, who art indeed
My only thought, my only hope in life,
My only trust from now till ever on!
My all and every thought shall turn to thee
Nor will I ever from my house depart
Till I have offered thee a fervent prayer,
In which I’ll lay before thee all my soul,
And ask of thee what ’tis that I must do,
And if I must remain or mend my way!
All this do I repeat to thee again,
And ever will repeat if thou wilt but
Pardon my sin and grant to me the grace,
Having repented from my very heart,
To draw me from this place of suffering,
That safe and sound I may return again
Unto the embraces of my family,
Who for three nights have called to me in vain!”

He had hardly ended this invocation before a voice replied:

“Alzati e cammina e porta con te
Anche i tuoi animali ma non bestemmiare
Mai più, perche questaltra voltra
Sprafonderesti nell’ abisso dove
Gnenti (niente) più bastarrebbe per levarti
Dall’ inferno.” . . .

“Rise and depart, and take away with thee
Thy beasts in peace, but never more blaspheme,
Because another time thou’lt sink so deep
To the abyss that nothing will avail
To draw thee out, for thou wilt fall to hell!”

Then the waggoner took his horses and rode home at double-quick speed. He related to all what had happened, and the chapel was again restored with the image of the goddess. But even among the experienced (_conoscenti_) none could tell him [for a long time] who was the one who had taught him what to do. But it was at last made known to them that it was the great magician and the great poet Virgil, because the Goddess of the Snow and Virgil are good spirits. {138}

So this waggoner, from being evil became so good that one could not find his equal.

* * * * *

Our Lady of the Snow, or Maria vom Schnee, is one of the more familiar avatars of the Madonna all over Middle and Northern Italy and Germany, including Austria and Switzerland. One of the commonest halfpenny or _soldo_ pamphlets sold at corners in Florence is devoted to her. A very famous Madonna of the Snow is that of Laveno, to whom there is a special festival. Wordsworth has devoted a poem to her.

In the legend which I have given the general resemblance of the whole to the Madonna tales, as in the building a chapel, the threat of hell, and the punishment for profanity, suggest that it is borrowed from a Catholic source. This I doubt, for several reasons. It is of the witch witchy, and heathen, as shown by calling the lady a goddess, and especially by the long _scongiurazione_ or evocations in which the sorcerer takes such delight that for him they form the solid portion of the whole, possibly because they are, if not actually prohibited, at least secret things, cryptic or of esoteric lore. Now, be it noted that wherever, as regards other legends, as in that of the Madonna del Fuoco, given in my “Etrusco-Roman Legends,” the witch claims that her tradition has been borrowed by the priests, she is probably in the right. But what gives colour to the opinion that this Madonna is of heathen origin is the fact that in the Old German mythology, as Friedrich declares, there is a deity known as Lady Holde, Holle, or Hilda (who may be again found in the Christian Maria), who is a kind and friendly being. She was the Goddess of the Snow, hence it is commonly said when it snows that Lady Holde is making her bed and shaking out the feathers. As there is no German supernatural character, especially in the fairy mythology, which does not exist in Northern Italy, it would be very remarkable indeed if such a widely known and popular spirit as the Lady of the Snow had not been known there long before the Christian Madonna. I would add that this is purely and literally a legend of the people, not asked for by me, and not the result of any inquiry or suggestion.

The Madonna della Neve is especially honoured at Laveno, where there is an annual procession in her honour. I am indebted to the kindness of the Rev. Arthur Mangles, who knew that I was interested in the subject, for the following, translated by him from some small local book there published:

THE LEGEND OF LA MADONNA DELLA NEVE.

In the fourth century there lived in Rome two devout people, husband and wife, who, having no children, prayed to the Virgin that she would indicate to them the best way in which to leave their money.

On the night of the fifth of August, A.D. 352, the Virgin appeared to them and told them to build a church upon the summit of the Esquiline Hill, in Rome, exactly upon the area then covered with snow.

The Pope had the same vision of the Virgin, with the same communication as that of the husband and wife. Therefore he sent to the place indicated a messenger, accompanied by many priests, who found the snow.

The husband and wife forthwith built a handsome church upon the spot.

The church, which is now on the same hill, and on the foundation of the early edifice, is that of Santa Maria Maggiore.

* * * * *

Snow in August is rather a thin miracle whereon to found a legend, or a church, but it may pass. The one which I have translated seems to me to have a greater air of antiquity, with its retribution and beautiful Latin-like invocation to the Spirit of the Snow.

THE MAGICIAN VIRGIL; A LEGEND FROM THE SABINE.

The following tale was obtained by Miss Roma Lister from the vicinity of Rome, and from an old woman who is learned in sorcery and incantations. It begins with the note that, on February 8, 1897, it was taken down as given, literally word for word, and I translate it accordingly verbatim.

* * * * *

There were a husband, a wizard, and his wife (who was a witch), who had a beautiful daughter, and a house with a fine garden which was full of broccoli—oh, the finest broccoli in the world!

And opposite to this, or overlooking the garden, dwelt two women, and one of these was _incinta_, or with child, and she said to the other woman:

“_Comare_, {140} how I would like to have two broccoli from the magician’s garden. They’re so nice!”

“Yes, _comare_, but how to get them? It would be dangerous!”

“_La cosa si farà_—it can be done, at midnight when the sorcerer is asleep, by stealing a little.”

And so they did, for at midnight both went with a sack, climbed over the iron gate, and, having filled their bag, went away. {141a}

In the morning the magician Virgilio went to his garden and found that many broccoli were gone. In a rage he ran to his wife, and said: “What’s to be done?”

She replied: “This night we’ll set the cat on guard upon the gate.”

Which was done. That evening, _fra il lusco e il brusco_, {141b} the one said:

“Ah, gossip, this night it can’t be done.”

“And why not, my dear?”

“Why! Because they’ve set a guard.”

“Guard! An old cat, you mean. Are you afraid of her?”

“Yes, because she mews when she sees something.”

“I say, I’ll tell you what to do. Take a bit of meat, and when she opens her mouth to mew, pitch it in. That’ll keep her jaws quiet while we pick the broccoli.”

And so it was done, and they got away with another bagful of broccoli.

In the morning the _mago_ Virgil found that he had been robbed again. He complained again to his wife, who said:

“Well, to-night we will put the dog on.”

Said and done. But the dame at the window was on the watch. And seeing all, she said:

“No broccoli to-night, gossip. This time they’ve put the dog to look out.”

“Oh, bother the dog! When he opens _his_ jaws to bark, I’ll pitch in a good bit of hard cheese. That’ll keep him quiet.”

Said and done again. The next morning the magician found a still greater disappearance of broccoli from his garden.

“The thing is becoming serious,” he said. “To-night I will watch myself.”

With that he went to his gate and remained there, looking closely at all those who passed by. So he said to the first:

“What is your trade?”

“I’m a carpenter.”

“Pass on,” replied the magician. “You’re not the man I want.”

There came another.

“What’s your calling?”

“I’m a tailor.”

“Pass on—_non fate per me_” (you won’t do).

There came a baker. He was not wanted. But the next was a digger of ditches and of graves—a _fossaruolo_—and the wizard cried:

“Bravo! You’re my man! Come with me; I want you to dig a pit in my garden.”

So the poor man went, for he was as much frightened at the terrible face and stature of the wizard as he was in hope of being paid. And being directed, he dug a hole nearly as deep as the magician was tall.

“Now,” said the master, “get some light sticks and cover over the pit while I stand in it, and then strew some twigs and leaves over it, with a few leaves to hide the top of my head.”

It was done, and there he stood covered. The ditcher, or sexton, hurried away, glad that he had dug this strange grave for another, and not for himself.

Evening came, and the gossip looked out.

“Good! There is not even a dog on guard. Come, let us hurry! This time we will take all that remains of the broccoli.”

Said and done. And when they had gathered the last plant, the gossip cried:

“See what beautiful mushrooms! Let us pick them.”

She had seen the two ears of the sorcerer, which peeped out uncovered. So she took hold of one and pulled.

“It will not come out!” she cried. “Do thou pull at one, while I draw at this.”

Each pulled, when the magician raised his awful face and glared at them. _E sorte fuori la terribile testa del mago_!

“Now you shall die for robbing me!” he exclaimed.

They were in a fine fright. At last Virgil said:

“I will spare thy life, if thou wilt give me all thou bearest—all within thee.”

She consented, and they departed. After a time she became a mother, and the magician came and demanded the child. And as she had promised it, she consented to give it to him, but begged that it might be left to her for a time.

“I will give it to thee for seven years,” he replied. Saying this, he left her in peace for a long time. So the child, which was a boy, was born, and as he grew older was sent every day to school.

One morning the magician met him, and said: “Tell thy mother to remember her promise.” Then he gave the child some sweets, and left him. When at home the boy said:

“Mamma, a gentleman met me to-day at the door of the school, and said to me that I should tell you to remember your promise. Then he gave me some comfits.”

The poor mother was in a great fright.

“Tell him, when you next meet him,” she answered, “that you forgot to give his message to me.”

The next day the boy met the magician, and said to him that he had forgotten all about it, and told his mother nothing.

“Very well, tell her this evening, and be sure to remember.”

The mother heard this, and bade him tell the sorcerer the same thing again.

When he met the magician Virgil again and told the same story, the latter smiled, and said:

“It seems that thou hast a bad memory. This time I will give thee something by which to remember me. Give me thy hand.”

The boy gave his hand; the magician bit into one finger, and as the child screamed, he said: “This time thou wilt remember.” The boy ran yelling home.

“See what has happened to me, _brutta mammacia_—you naughty mamma—because I did what you bade, and told the gentleman that I forgot.”

The poor woman, hearing herself called _brutta mammacia_, {143} was overcome with grief and shame, and said, “_Vai bene_—I will tell him myself.” So the next day she took the child and gave him to the magician, who led him to his home.

But when his wife, the witch, beheld the boy, she cried:

“Kill that child at once, for I read it in his face that he will be the ruin of our daughter Marietta!”

But the magician declared that nothing would induce him to harm the boy, so the little fellow remained, and was treated by the master like a son. In due time he became a tall and handsome young man, and he was called Antonuccio. But the witch always said:

“We should kill and eat him, for he will be the ruin of our Marietta.”

At last the magician, weary of her complaints, said:

“_Bene_! I will set him a task, and if he cannot accomplish it, that same night shall he be slain.”

Now, Antonuccio, as he slept in the next room, had overheard all this.

The next morning the magician took the youth to a stable which was very large and horribly filthy, such as no one had ever seen, and said:

“Now, Antonuccio, you must clean this stable out and out—_bene e bene_—repave it on the ground, and whitewash all above it; and moreover, when I speak, an echo shall answer me.” {144}

The poor youth went to work, but soon found that he could do next to nothing. So he sat down in despair.

At noon came Marietta, to bring him his lunch, and found him in tears.

“What’s the matter, Antonuccio?”

“If you knew that I am to be killed this evening—”

“What for?”

“Your father has said that unless I clean out the stable, and pave and whitewash it to the echo—”

“Is that all? _Sta allegro_—be of good cheer—I’ll attend to that.”

Marietta went home, and stealing in on tip-toe while the sorcerer slept, softly carried away his magic wand, and with a few words cleaned out the stable to the echo, and Antonuccio was delighted.

In the evening the magician came, and finding the stable clean as a new pin, was much pleased, and kissed him and took him home. The witch-wife was furious at learning that the stable had been cleaned, and declared that Marietta had done it, and ended by screaming for his life. At last the wizard said:

“To-morrow I will set him another task, and should he fail in that, he shall surely die.”

The next morning he led the youth into a dense forest of mighty trees, and said:

“Thou seest this wood? In one day it must be all cut down and cleared away to a clean field, in which must be growing all kinds of plants which are to be found in the world.”

And Antonuccio began to hew with an axe, and worked well, but soon gave up the task in despair.

At noon came Marietta with her basket.

“What, crying again! What is the trouble to-day?”

“Only to clear away all this forest, make a clean field, and plant it with all the herbs in the world.”

“Oh, well, eat your lunch, and I will see about it. It is lucky that it is not something difficult!”

She ran home, got a magic wand, and went to work. Down the trees came crashing—away they flew! ’Twas a fine sight, upon my word! And then up sprouted all kinds of herbs and flowers, till there was the finest garden in the world.

In the evening came the magician, and was well pleased at finding how well Antonuccio had done the work. But when his wife heard all, she raged more than ever, declaring that it had all been done by Marietta, who was destined to be ruined by the boy.

“Well, well!” exclaimed the wizard. “If you will give me no peace, I must put an end to this trouble. I will give the boy nothing to do to-morrow—he may remain idle—and in the evening I will chop off his head with this axe.”

Antonuccio heard this speech as he had done the others, and this time was in despair. In the morning Marietta found him weeping.

“What is the matter, Antonuccio?”

“I am to do no work to-day, but this evening I am to have my head chopped off.”

“Is that all? Be of good cheer—_sta allegro_—I will see what can be done.”

She put the pot on the fire to boil, and began to make the macaroni. When she had cooked a great deal, they fed all the furniture, pots and pans, chairs and tables, to please them, and induce them to be silent—all except the hearth-brush, whom by oversight they forgot.

“And now,” said Marietta, “we must be off and away; it is time for us to go!”

So away they ran. After a while the wizard and his wife returned and knocked at the door. No answer. They rapped and called, but got no reply. At last the hearth-brush cried:

“Who’s there?”

“Marietta, open the door—it is I.”

“I’m not Marietta. She has run away with Antonuccio. First they fed everybody with ever so much macaroni, but gave me none.”

Then the witch cried to the wizard:

“Hurry—hasten—catch them if you can!”

The good man did as he was bid, and began to travel—travel far and fast.

All at once, while the lovers were on their way, Antonuccio turned his head and saw afar their pursuer on a mountain-road, and cried:

“Marietta, I see your father coming.”