“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: