The Valleys of Tirol: Their traditions and customs and how to visit them

The owner of the ground, Bartolo Pittschneider, the jeweller of the village, seems to have been digging the foundation for a rustic house, intending to make use of a remnant of a very ancient wall long thought to have formed part of a temple of Saturn. At a depth of about 18 or 20 in. he came to a sort of pavement, or tomb or cellar covering, of roughly-shaped stones resting against and sloping away from the base of the ancient wall, so as to form a little enclosure. Along with the key lay some other small objects, which unfortunately have been dispersed,201 but among them were two bronze coins of Maximilian and Constantine the Great, thought to indicate the date of the burial of the key and not that of its manufacture.

This key was subsequently sent to Padre Tarquini,202 and a copy has been given me of his report upon it. He pronounced the inscription to be undoubtedly Etruscan, but at the same time he did not think the work of the key to be of older date than the fourth century of our era; inasmuch as there are other examples of Etruscan writing surviving to as late a date in remote districts; that its size and material (a mixture of silver and copper) denoted it to belong to some important edifice, and most probably to the very temple of Saturn amid whose ruins it was found buried. He found in it two new forms of letters not found in other Etruscan inscriptions, but says that similar aberrations are too common to excite surprise. He translated it in the following form: – ‘Ad introducendum virum (1) addictum igni in Vulcani (2) Vivus aduratur ob perversitatem – incidendo incide (3) – Sceleratus est; sectam facit; blasphemavit – In aspectu ejus ascendentes limen paveant, videntes hominem oblitum Ejus (4) præstare jubilationem retinenti ad cruciatum, tamquam hostem suum.’203

It would be curious to know how Mr. Isaac Taylor would read the inscription by his different method, for Padre Tarquini found a curious coincidence of circumstances to afford an interpretation to his translation. It would seem that it was only after translating it as above that his attention was called to the Christian local tradition, and then he was struck with several points of contact between it and them. 1. The date which he had already assigned to the key is that given by the Bollandists to the martyrdom of St. Alexander and his two brothers. 2. It was found within the very precincts where he was said to have been burnt, and (his translation of) the inscription commemorates a human burnt sacrifice (il vivicomburio). 3. The inscription (by his translation) seems to allude to Christians, to their suffering expressly for propagating their religion. 4. The inscription points to the sacrifice having taken place in an elevated situation, as it uses the verb ‘to ascend,’ and the contemporary narrative of St. Vigilius to St. Chrysostom of the event, as it had happened before his eyes, says ‘Itum est post hæc in religiosa fastigia, hoc est altum Dei templum … in conspectu Saturni.’ He further goes on to approve a conjecture of the local antiquary that the key was a votive offering made on occasion of the martyrdom of St. Alexander with SS. Zeno and Martyrius, in thanksgiving for the triumph over their teaching, and inscribed with the above lines as a perpetual warning to their followers.

The Avisiothal – the northernmost eastern tributary of the Etschthal – consists of three valleys running into each other; the Val di Cembra, or Zimmerthal; the Val Fieme, or Fleimserthal; and the Val di Fassa, or Evasthal. The Val di Cembra is throughout impracticable for all wheeled traffic. Nature has made various rents and ledges in its porphyry sides, of which hardy settlers have taken advantage for planting their villages, and for climbing from one to another; but even their laborious energy has not sufficed to make roads over such a surface. This difficulty of access has not been without its effect in tending to keep up the honesty, hospitality, and piety of the people; but as few will be able to penetrate their recesses, their characteristics will be better sacrificed to the exigencies of space than those of others. I will only mention, therefore, the Church of Cembra, the Hauptort (about four hours’ rugged walk from Lavis), which is an ancient Gothic structure well kept up, and adorned with paintings; and a peculiar festival which was celebrated on the Assumption-day, 1870, at Altrei, namely, the presentation of new colours to the Schiess-stand, by Karl von Hofer, on behalf of the Empress of Austria. One bears a Madonna, designed by Jele of Innsbruck, on a banner of green and white (the national colours); the other the names of the Empress (‘Karolina Augusta’) and the word ‘All-treu,’ the original name of the village, conferred on it by Henry Duke of Bohemia, when he permitted ten faithful soldiers to make a settlement here free of all taxes and customs. And yet the Italians, regardless of derivations, have made of it Anterivo.

Cavalese (which can be reached in five hours by stellwagen running twice a day from the railway station at Neumarkt) stands near the point where the Val di Cembra (which runs nearly parallel to the railway between Lavis and Neumarkt) passes into the Fleimserthal. It is a charmingly picturesque, thriving little town, and should not be overlooked, for the church is a very museum of Tirolese art: painting, sculpture, and architecture, all being due to native artists, and highly creditable to national taste, culture, and devotion. Among these artists were Franz Unterberger, who was chosen by the Empress Catherine to execute copies from Raffael’s Loggie, Alberti, Riccaboni, and others, whose fame has resounded beyond the echoes of their native mountains. Many private houses also contain works of Tirolese art. Cavalese stands on a plateau, overlooking a magnificent panorama, and shaded by a grove of leafy limes. Under these is a stone table, with stone seats arranged round it, where a sort of local parliament was formerly held. Respecting the appropriation of this plateau for the site of the church, tradition says that in early times, when the church was about to be built, the commune fixed upon this plateau, in the outskirts of the town, as the most beautiful, and therefore most appropriate, situation. But the old lady, part of whose holding it formed, could be induced on no consideration to give it up. Some little time after, however, she had a very serious illness; on her sick bed she vowed, that if restored to health she would devote as much of her fair meadow to the use of the church as a man could mow in one day.204 She had no sooner registered her vow than health returned. The commune appointed a mower, and he mowed off the whole of the vast meadow in one day. The old lady always maintained that there was something uncanny about it, and anyone can see for themselves that no human mower could have done it. The Market-place is adorned with a very handsome tower. A new church is now building, after the design of Staidl, of Innsbruck, on the site of the little ruined church of St. Sebastian, which shows that the study of architecture is not neglected in Tirol. The space being very restricted, the novel expedient has been resorted to of placing the sacristy under the sanctuary, and with good effect to the external appearance. The former palace of the Bishops of Trent, now a prison, is not to be overlooked. Predazzo is the only other spot in this valley we will stop to look at. The extraordinary geological formation of the neighbourhood has attracted many men of science to the place, whose names may be seen in the strangers’ book. The people are singularly thrifty and industrious. A high road connecting it with Primiero is just completed, which is to be continued to meet the railway projected between Belluno and Treviso. A new church is being raised there, of proportions and design quite remarkable for so remote a place. It was begun simultaneously with the troubles in Italy, in 1866, and a creditable amount has been since laid out upon it. The lofty vaulting of the nave is supported by ten monolithic columns of granite; the floor is paved with hard cement, arranged in patterns formed in colour; the smaller pillars, doors, steps, mouldings, are all of granite; much of the tracery is very artistic; the windows are of creditable painted glass, though not free from the German vice of over-shading. The architect is Michel Maier, of Trent; the elegant campanile by Geppert, of Innsbruck. It will be the largest church in the whole of Wälsch-Tirol, after the Cathedral of Trent. The interior arrangements and decoration bid fair to be worthy of the structure. There is some good polychrome in the presbytery, by Ciochetti, a young artist, native of the village of Moena, in Fassathal, who in the last five years has had eleven medals from the Academy of Fine Arts at Venice. It is the custom all through the valley that each village should have its own gay banner, which is carried before bridal processions to and from the church. But at Predazzo they have many other peculiarities; among these is the following: – The night before the wedding the bridegroom goes to the house of the bride, accompanied by a party of musicians, knocks at the door, and demands his bride. The eldest and least well-favoured member of the household is then brought to him, on which a humorous altercation takes place and a less ancient dame is brought, and so on, till all have been passed in review, and then the intended bride herself is brought at last, who admits the swain to the evening meal of the family. The friends and neighbours then come in, and bring their wedding gifts to the loving pair.

The Fassathal begins just after Moena. One of its wildest legends is that of the feuriger Verräther. It dates from the time of the Roman invasion. The mountain-dwellers appear to have been as zealous defenders of their native fastnesses then as in later times, and it is said the conquering legions were long wandering round the confines without finding any who would lead them into the interior of the country. It was at last an inhabitant of the Fassathal who betrayed the narrow pass which was the key to their defences, and which cost the liberty of the nation – all for the sake of the proffered blood-money. But he was never suffered to enjoy it; for a flash like lightning, though under a clear sky, struck him to the earth, and ever since, the traitor has been to be met by night wrapt in flames, and howling piteously.

Vigo is the principal town, and serves as the starting-point for the magnificent mountain excursions of the neighbourhood. The most difficult of these, and one only to be attempted by the well-seasoned Alpine climber,205 is that of the massive snow-clad Marmolata, 10,400 feet high, surnamed the Queen of the Dolomites; but she is a severe and haughty queen, who knows how to hold her own, and keep intruders at a distance; and many who have been enchanted with her stern beauty from afar have rued the attempt at intruding on the cold solitude of her eternal penance. For the legends tell that in her youth she was covered with verdant charms, which made her the delight of the people; but they were not content to use with pious moderation the precious gifts she had in store, and for some sin of theirs – some say for selfish disregard of the law of charity to the poor;206 some say for disregard of the Church’s law forbidding to work on the hohe Unser-frauentag (the Assumption),207 some say for unjust striving for the possession of the soil – the vengeance of Heaven overtook them, and the once smiling meadows were converted into the hard and barren glacier. Near Vigo is a little way-side chapel, highly prized, because near it some French soldiers in the invasion of 1809 lost their way, and the town was thus saved from their depredations; and the legend arose that the Madonnabild had stricken them blind. Several of them died of falls and hunger, and tradition says, that on wild nights notes of distress from a dying bugler’s horn may be heard resounding still.

The Avisio was once the boundary against Venetian territory; and St. Ulrich dying on its banks, on his return from Rome, exacted of his disciples a promise that they would carry his body across, so that he might find his final rest on German soil.

CHAPTER XII.

WÄLSCH-TIROL.

VAL SUGANA. – GIUDICARIA. – FOLKLORE

Legends are echoes of the great child-voices from the primitive world; so rich and sweet that their sound is gone out into all lands.

Val Sugana is watered by the Brenta through its whole course, running nearly direct east from Trent. It is reached by the Adler Thor, and over the handsome bridge of S. Ludovico, through luxuriant plantations of mulberries and vines, and with many a summer villa on either hand. The road leads (at a considerable and toilsome distance) to the low range of hills (in Tirol called a Sonnenberg) of Baselga, locally named Pinè, whose sides are studded with a number of villages and groups of houses. In one of these, Verda or Guarda by name, near the village of Montanaga, is the most celebrated pilgrimage of the Trentino – the Madonna di Pinè, also known as the Madonna di Caravaggio. It was the year 1729; a peasant girl, Domenika Targa, native of Verda, who was noted by all her neighbours for the angelic holiness of her life, had lost some of her herd upon the mountain one hot August day; in her distress, she knelt down to ask for help to bring back her charge faithfully. Suddenly the place was bathed in a light of glory, and before her stood a lady so benign and glorious, she could be none other than the Himmelskönigin. ‘Go, my child, and tell them that you have seen me here, and that I have chosen this spot for my delight; and that their prayers will be heard which they offer before the picture of the Madonna di Caravaggio.’ The light faded away, and Domenika turned to seek her flock. She found them all in order, waiting for her to drive them home. There was considerable discussion after this as to what ‘Madonna di Caravaggio’ might mean; and it was at last decided that it could mean nothing but the picture of the Madonna by Caldara, surnamed Caravaggio from his birthplace, venerated at Milan. Domenika could not leave her herds to go to Milan, and she was perplexed how to obey the vision. In her simple faith she addressed her prayer on high for further direction, and once more the heavenly sight was vouchsafed to her, and it was explained that the Madonnabild meant was not that of Milan, but the one in the little field-chapel of S. Anna, near Montanaga. Domenika did not fail to go there the next festival on which it was open, the Ascension Day, which was, that year, May 26. Above the faint light of the tapers tempered by the incense clouds, and amid the chanted litanies of the choir, the fair Queen once more appeared to her in garments of gold, and surrounded by a glittering train of attendants. Some months passed, and though the people had wondered at the marvel, nothing had been done to commemorate it; Domenika was kneeling, on September 8, the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin, in the Chapel of S. Anna. A sound of soft chanting broke on her ear, which she thought must be the procession of the parish coming up the hill to pray for rain. But as it grew nearer, the same heavenly radiance overspread the place, and once more she saw the Virgin Mother; but this time she looked stern, for the great favour of her visit had been overlooked, and she reasoned with Domenika on the ingratitude it betokened. Domenika honestly outspoke her inward cogitations on the subject – what could a poor cattle-herd do? It was given her to understand that much might be done even by such a poor peasant, if she exercised energy and devotion. With new strength and determination, she girt herself for the task of building a shrine over the spot so dear to her. At first she met with great ridicule and scorn, but she pursued her way so steadily and so humbly, that all were won to share her convictions. Offerings for the work began to flow in. Those who had no money gave their corn, or their grapes, their ornaments, and their very clothes. Year by year the new church rose, according as she could collect the means; and at last, on May 26, 1751, she had the consolation of seeing the complete edifice consecrated. It is a neat cruciform building, sixty-three feet long and fifty-three feet wide, with three marble altars, on one of which is a copy of the Madonna di Caravaggio of Milan painted by Jakob Moser after he had made three pilgrimages to the original. I was not able to ascertain what was supposed to have been intended in the first instance by calling the old picture in S. Anna’s field-chapel the Madonna di Caravaggio. Possibly the little Milanese town, which has given two painters to fame, had produced some ‘mute inglorious’ ‘Caravaggio,’ who painted the earlier picture. The commemoration of Domenika’s vision is celebrated every year in Val Pinè by pilgrimages on May 26 when the most striking gatherings of Tirolese costume are to be observed there.

Pergine is the first large village on returning into the main valley, about six miles from Trent. It well deserves to be better known: the neighbourhood is of great beauty, and the form of the surrounding heights is well likened by the inhabitants to a theatre. The church, built in 1500–45, is spacious and handsome, adorned in the interior with red marble columns. In the churchyard are the remains of the older church, where every Lent German sermons are still preached for the benefit of the scattered German population, whose name for the place is Persen. The German and Italian elements within the village are blended with tolerable amity. From the fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries, silver, copper, lead, and iron, were got out in the neighbouring Fersinathal; and though the works are now nearly given up, the Knappen then formed an important portion of the community. They cast the bell as an offering to the church when building, and it is still called the Knappinn– by the Italians canòppa. The chief industry now is silk-spinning. The greatest ornament of the place is the Schloss of the Bishop of Trent, which is well kept up, and from the roof of which an incomparable view is obtained. Among the peculiar customs of the place those concerning marriages deserve to be recorded, as they tend to show the character of the people. Two young men of the bridegroom’s friends are selected for the office of Brumoli so called; they have to carry, the one a barn-door fowl, the other a spinning-wheel, before the bride as she goes to and from church, to remind her of her household duties. After the wedding, as she returns with her husband to his house the door is suddenly closed as she approaches, and there is then carried on a dialogue, according to an established form, between her and her husband’s mother – the latter requiring, and the former undertaking, that she will prove herself God-fearing and domesticated; that she will be faithful and devoted to her husband, and live in charity with all his family. The little ceremony complete, the mother-in-law throws wide the door, and receives her with open arms.

On the south side of the valley, opposite Pergine, is the clear lake of Caldonazzo, whose waters reflect the bright green chestnut woods around it; it is the source of the Brenta, and one of the largest lakes of Tirol; about three miles long, and half as broad. Count Welfersheim, an Austrian general, and his adjutant, were drowned in attempting to walk over the thin ice on it in March 1871. On a rugged promontory jutting into its midst stands the most ancient sanctuary of the neighbourhood, San Cristofero; once a temple to Saturn and Diana, but adopted for a Christian church by the earliest evangelizers of the valley, for which reason the produce of the soil and waters yet pays tithe to the presbytery of Pergine. Other villages add to the surrounding beauties of the lake, particularly Campolongo, with its church of St. Teresa high above the green waters, and the church and hermitage of San Valentin; the latter is now used for a roccolo, or vogeltennen, by which numbers of birds of passage are caught on their migrations. The land is very poor. To eke out their living, most of the male inhabitants of the villages around are wont to go out every winter as pedlars, with various small articles manufactured in the valley, and with which they are readily trusted by those who stay behind. On their return, which is always at Easter, they distribute honourably what they have earned for each, deducting a small commission. So straightforward and honourable are they, that though they have little idea of keeping accounts, and the sums are generally made out with a bit of chalk on the inn table, yet it is said that such a thing as a dispute over the amounts is utterly unknown. The church of St. Hermes, at Calzeranica, is reckoned the most ancient of the whole neighbourhood; remains of an ancient temple, thought to have been to Diana of Antioch, have been found when repairing it. In the forest behind Bosentino, a neighbouring village, is a pilgrimage chapel called Nossa Signora del feles; die h. Jungfrau vom Farrenkraut– St. Mary of the Fern. Some two hundred years ago, Gianisello, a little dumb boy of Bosentino, who was minding his father’s herd in the forest, was visited by a bright lady, who pointed to a tuft of fern growing under a chestnut tree, and bid him go and tell the village people she would have them built a chapel there. When the people heard the boy tell his story, who for all the twelve years of his life had never spoken a word before, they felt no doubt it was the Blessed Virgin he had seen. The chapel was soon built, and furnished with a painting embodying the little boy’s story. In time of dearth, drought, epidemic, or other local calamity, many are the processions which may yet be seen wending their prayerful way to the chapel of St. Mary of the Fern.

Among the wild and beautiful legends of this part of the valley is a variant of one familiar in every land. A young swain, the maiden of whose choice was called to an early grave, went wandering through the chestnut groves calling for his beloved, till he grew weary with crying, and laid him down in a cave to rest. A sweet sleep visited him, and he found himself in it at home as of old in the Valle del Orco,208 with his Filomena on his arm; he led her to the village church, and the silver-haired pastor gave the marriage blessing, while all the village prayed around. He brought Filomena home to his old house, alle Settepergole,209 his dear old father and mother welcomed her, and she brought sunshine into the cottage; and when they were called away the old walls were yet not without life and joy, for it resounded to the voice of the prattling little ones. The little ones grew up into stalwart lads and lasses, who earned homesteads of their own, and erewhile brought another tribe of prattling little ones to his knee; while Filomena smiled a bright sunshine over all, and they were so happy they prayed it might never end: but one day it seemed that the sunshine of Filomena’s smile was not felt, for she was no longer there; then all grew pale and cold, and with a sudden chill he woke. It was grey morning as he rose from the cave; the cattle were lowing as they were led out to pasture; he looked out towards the chestnut groves, and watched in their waving foliage the strange effect which had been the charm of his childhood, looking like rippled ocean pouring abroad its flood.210 But when he reached the village the sights and sounds were no more so familiar: the old church tower was capped with a steeple, of which he never saw the like; the folk he met by the way were all strangers, and stared at him as at one who comes from far. He wandered up and down all the day, and everything was yet strange. At evening the men came back from the fields, and again they gazed at him estranged: once he made bold to ask them for ‘Zansusa,’ the companion of his boyhood, but they shrugged their shoulders with a ‘Chè Zansusa?’ and passed on. He asked again for ‘Piero,’ almost as dear a friend, and they pointed to a ‘Piero’ with not one feature like his Peter. Once again he asked for ‘Franceschi,’ and they pointed to a grave, where his name was written indeed – ‘Franceschi,’ who but the day before had walked with him in full life and health, to hang a fresh wreath on Filomena’s cross! Ah! there was Filomena’s cross, but how changed was that too! the bright gilding, on which his savings had been so willingly lavished, was tarnished and weather-worn, and not a leaf of his garland remained round it. He wandered no further, nor sought to fathom the mystery more; he knelt on the only spot of earth that had any charm for him. As his knees touched the hallowed soil consoling thoughts of her undying affection overflowed him. ‘Here we are united again,’ he said; ‘in a little while we shall be united for ever.’ ‘At last have I found thee! these fifty years I have sought thee in vain!’ The moonbeam kissed his forehead as he looked up, and the moonbeam bore her who had spoken. A fair form she wore, but still it was not the form of Filomena. ‘Who are you, and wherefore sought you me?’ he asked. ‘I am Death,’ replied the pale maiden, ‘and for fifty years I have sought thee to lead thee to Filomena.’ She beckoned as she spoke, and willingly he followed her whither the moonbeam led.