Part 13

“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.”

“Then, my dear, I will become a fair church and thou shalt be the fine sexton (_sacristano_). And he will ask thee if thou hast seen a girl and youth pass, and thou shalt reply that he must first repeat the Paternoster and not the Ave Maria. And if he asks again, tell him to say the Ave Maria and not the Paternoster. And then, out of patience, he will depart.”

So it came to pass, and the wizard was deceived. When he had returned, his wife asked him what he had seen.

“Nothing but a church and a sacristan.”

“Stupid that you are! The church was Marietta—fly, fly and catch them!”

So he set forth again, and again he was seen from afar by Antonuccio.

“Marietta, I see your father coming.”

“Good. Now I will become a beautiful garden, and thou the gardener. And when my father comes and asks if thou hast seen a couple pass, reply that thou weedest lettuces, not broccoli. And when he asks again, answer that thou weedest broccoli, not lettuces.”

So it all came to pass, and the wizard, out of patience, returned home.

“Well, and what did you see?” inquired his wife.

“Only a garden and a gardener.”

“_Ahi—stupido_! Those were the two. Start! This time I will go with you!”

After a while Antonuccio saw the two following, and gaining on them rapidly.

“Marietta, here come your father and mother. Now we are in a nice mess.” {147}

“Don’t be afraid. Now I will become a fountain fair and broad, like a small lake, and thou a pretty pigeon, to whom they will call; but for mercy’s sake don’t let yourself be taken, for then all will be over with us.”

The wizard and his wife came to the fountain and saw the dove, and tried to inveigle and catch it with grain. But it would not be caught, neither could the witch quench her thirst with the water. So, finding that both were beyond her power, she cried in a rage:

“When Antonuccio kisses his mother, He’ll forget Marietta and every other.”

So, when the parents were gone, the pair set forth again, till they came to a place not far from where the mother of Antonuccio lived.

“I will go and see my mother,” he said.

“Do not go, for she will kiss thee, and thou wilt forget me,” replied Marietta.

“But I will take good care that she does not kiss me,” answered Antonuccio. “Only wait a day.”

He went and saw his mother, and both were in great joy at meeting again, but he implored her not to kiss him. And being weary, he went to sleep, and his mother, unheeding his request, kissed him while he slept. And when he awoke, Marietta was completely forgotten.

So the curse of the witch came to pass. And he lived with his mother, and in time fell in love with another girl. Then they appointed a day for their wedding.

Meanwhile, Marietta lived where she had been left, and made a fairy friend who knew all that was going on far and near. One day she told Marietta that Antonuccio was to be married.

Marietta begged her to go and steal some dough (from the house of the bride). The friend did so, and Marietta made of the dough two cakes in the form of puppets, or children, and one she called Antonuccio and the other Marietta.

Then, on the day of the feast, the first day of the wedding, she begged her friend to go and put the two puppets on the bridal table.

She did so, and when all were assembled, the puppet Marietta began to speak:

“Dost thou remember, Antonuccio, How, when my father brought thee to his house, My mother wished to take away thy life? And how he bade thee sweep the stable clean?”

And the other replied:

“Passing away, passing away, Well do I remember the day.” {148}

Then Marietta sang:

“Dost thou remember, Antonuccio, How ’twas I aided thee to clear the field?”

He replied:

“Passing away, passing away, Well do I remember the day.”

She sang again:

“Dost thou remember how thou hadst no work Upon the day when they would murder thee, And how we fled together to escape?”

He replied:

“Passing away, passing away, Well do I remember the day.”

Meanwhile the true Antonuccio, who was present, began to remember what had taken place. Then the puppet Marietta sang again:

“Dost thou remember how I was the church, And thou of it becam’st the sacristan?”

He answered:

“Passing away, passing away, Well do I remember the day.”

“Dost thou remember how I was a garden, And how thou didst become its gardener?”

“Passing away, passing away, Well do I now remember the day.”

“Dost thou remember how I was a fountain, And thou a pigeon flying over it?”

“Passing away, passing away, Well do I now remember the day.”

“Dost thou remember, Antonuccio, How ’twas my mother laid a curse on me, And how she said before she went away— When Antonuccio kisses his mother He’ll forget Marietta and every other?’”

“Passing away, passing away, Well do I now remember the day.”

Then Antonuccio himself remembered it all, and rising from the table, ran from the house to where Marietta dwelt—and married her.

* * * * *

This story, adds Miss Lister, is somewhat abbreviated, since in the original the puppet Marietta, for the edification of all assembled, repeats the whole story.

It will be at once observed that there is in all this no special reference to Virgil as a character, as he appears in other legends, the reason being that the old woman who narrated it simply understood by the word Virgilio _any_ magician of any kind. So in another tale a youth exclaims, “Art thou what is called _a_ Virgil?” This is curious as indicating that the word has become generic in Italian folk-lore. But Virgil is even here, as elsewhere on the whole, a man of kind heart. He has had his garden robbed and his daughter stolen, but he displays at all times a kindly feeling to Antonuccio. It is his wife, the witch, who shows all the spite.

Nor is this, like the rest, a witch-story which belongs entirely to esoteric, unholy, or secret lore, specially embodying instruction and an incantation. It is a mere nursery legend, the commonest of Italian fairy-tales, to be found in all collections in whole or in part. It is spread all over Europe, and has found its way through Canadian-French to the Red Indians of North America—apropos of which I would remind a certain very clever reviewer and learned folk-lorist that because many French tales are found among the Algonkin tribes, it does not follow, as he really intimates, that the said Redskins have no other traditions.

But even in this version there are classic traces. The cleaning out of the Augean stables by Hercules is one, and the spell of oblivion another.