Cortina lies in its valley like a white shell that has rolled down into
a broad vase of malachite. It has about a hundred houses and seven
hundred inhabitants, a large church and two small ones, a fine stone
campanile with excellent bells, and seven or eight little inns. But it
is more important than its size would signify, for it is the capital of
the district whose lawful title is _Magnifica Comunità di Ampezzo_—a
name conferred long ago by the Republic of Venice. In the fifteenth
century it was Venetian territory; but in 1516, under Maximilian I., it
was joined to Austria; and it is now one of the richest and most
prosperous communes of the Tyrol. It embraces about thirty-five hundred
people, scattered in hamlets and clusters of houses through the green
basin with its four entrances, lying between the peaks of Tofana,
Cristallo, Sorapis, and Nuvolau. The well-cultivated grain fields and
meadows, the smooth alps filled with fine cattle, the well-built houses
with their white stone basements and balconies of dark brown wood and
broad overhanging roofs, all speak of industry and thrift. But there is
more than mere agricultural prosperity in this valley. There is a fine
race of men and women—intelligent, vigorous, and with a strong sense of
beauty. The outer walls of the annex of the Hotel Aquila Nera are
covered with frescoes of marked power and originality, painted by the
son of the innkeeper. The art schools of Cortina are famous for their
beautiful work in gold and silver filigree, and wood-inlaying. There are
nearly two hundred pupils in these schools, all peasants’ children, and
they produce results, especially in _intarsia_, which are admirable. The
village orchestra, of which I spoke a moment ago, is trained and led by
a peasant’s son, who has never had a thorough musical education. It must
have at least twenty-five members, and as we heard them at the Festa
they seemed to play with extraordinary accuracy and expression.
This Festa gave us a fine chance to see the people of the Ampezzo all
together. It was the annual jubilation of the district; and from all the
outlying hamlets and remote side valleys, even from the neighbouring
vales of Agordo and Auronzo, across the mountains, and from Cadore, the
peasants, men and women and children, had come in to the _Sagro_ at
Cortina. The piazza—which is really nothing more than a broadening of
the road behind the church—was quite thronged. There must have been
between two and three thousand people.
The ceremonies of the day began with general church-going. The people
here are honestly and naturally religious. I have seen so many examples
of what can only be called “sincere and unaffected piety,” that I cannot
doubt it. The church, on Cortina’s feast-day, was crowded to the doors
with worshippers, who gave every evidence of taking part not only with
the voice, but also with the heart, in the worship.
Then followed the public unveiling of a tablet, on the wall of the
little Inn of the Anchor, to the memory of Giammaria Ghedini, the
founder of the art-schools of Cortina. There was music by the band; and
an oration by a native Demosthenes (who spoke in Italian so fluent that
it ran through one’s senses like water through a sluice, leaving nothing
behind), and an original _Canto_ sung by the village choir, with a
general chorus, in which they called upon the various mountains to
“reëcho the name of the beloved master John-Mary as a model of modesty
and true merit,” and wound up with—
“_Hurrah for John-Mary! Hurrah for his art!
Hurrah for all teachers as skilful as he!
Hurrah for us all, who have now taken part
In singing together in_ do ... re ... mi.”
It was very primitive, and I do not suppose that the celebration was
even mentioned in the newspapers of the great world; but, after all, has
not the man who wins such a triumph as this in the hearts of his own
people, for whom he has made labour beautiful with the charm of art,
deserved better of fame than many a crowned monarch or conquering
warrior? We should be wiser if we gave less glory to the men who have
been successful in forcing their fellow-men to die, and more glory to
the men who have been successful in teaching their fellow-men how to
live.
But the Festa of Cortina did not remain all day on this high moral
plane. In the afternoon came what our landlady called “_allerlei
Dummheiten_.” There was a grand lottery for the benefit of the Volunteer
Fire Department. The high officials sat up in a green wooden booth in
the middle of the square, and called out the numbers and distributed the
prizes. Then there was a greased pole with various articles of an
attractive character tied to a large hoop at the top—silk aprons, and a
green jacket, and bottles of wine, and half a smoked pig, and a coil of
rope, and a purse. The gallant firemen voluntarily climbed up the pole
as far as they could, one after another, and then involuntarily slid
down again exhausted, each one wiping off a little more of the grease,
until at last the lucky one came who profited by his forerunners’
labours, and struggled to the top to snatch the smoked pig. After that
it was easy.
Such is success in this unequal world; the man who wipes off the grease
seldom gets the prize.
Then followed various games, with tubs of water; and coins fastened to
the bottom of a huge black frying-pan, to be plucked off with the lips;
and pots of flour to be broken with sticks; so that the young lads of
the village were ducked and blackened and powdered to an unlimited
extent, amid the hilarious applause of the spectators. In the evening
there was more music, and the peasants danced in the square, the women
quietly and rather heavily, but the men with amazing agility, slapping
the soles of their shoes with their hands, or turning cart-wheels in
front of their partners. At dark the festivities closed with a display
of fireworks; there were rockets and bombs and pin-wheels; and the boys
had tiny red and blue lights which they held until their fingers were
burned, just as boys do in America; and there was a general hush of
wonder as a particularly brilliant rocket swished into the dark sky; and
when it burst into a rain of serpents, the crowd breathed out its
delight in a long-drawn “Ah-h-h-h!” just as the crowd does everywhere.
We might easily have imagined ourselves at a Fourth of July celebration
in Vermont, if it had not been for the costumes.
The men of the Ampezzo Valley have kept but little that is peculiar in
their dress. Men are naturally more progressive than women, and
therefore less picturesque. The tide of fashion has swept them into the
international monotony of coat and vest and trousers—pretty much the
same, and equally ugly, all over the world. Now and then you may see a
short jacket with silver buttons, or a pair of knee-breeches; and almost
all the youths wear a bunch of feathers or a tuft of chamois’ hair in
their soft green hats. But the women of the Ampezzo—strong, comely, with
golden brown complexions, and often noble faces—are not ashamed to dress
as their grandmothers did. They wear a little round black felt hat with
rolled rim and two long ribbons hanging down at the back. Their hair is
carefully braided and coiled, and stuck through and through with great
silver pins. A black bodice, fastened with silver clasps, is covered in
front with the ends of a brilliant silk kerchief, laid in many folds
around the shoulders. The white shirt-sleeves are very full and fastened
up above the elbow with coloured ribbon. If the weather is cool, the
women wear a short black jacket, with satin yoke and high puffed
sleeves. But, whatever the weather may be, they make no change in the
large, full dark skirts, almost completely covered with immense silk
aprons, by preference light blue. It is not a remarkably brilliant
dress, compared with that which one may still see in some districts of
Norway or Sweden, but upon the whole it suits the women of the Ampezzo
wonderfully.
For my part, I think that when a woman has found a dress that becomes
her, it is a waste of time to send to Paris for a fashion-plate.