Chapter VII · NORTH TIROL—UNTERINNTHAL (RIGHT INN-BANK). EXCURSIONS FROM SCHWATZ.

‘Partout où touche votre regard vous rencontrez au fond sous la forme qui passe, un mystère qui demeure ... chacun des mystères de ce monde est la figure, l’image de celui du monde supérieur; de sorte que tout ce que nous pouvons connaître dans l’ordre de la nature est la révélation même de l’ordre divin.’—Chevé, Visions de l’Avenir.

Starting again from Schwatz by the high-road, which follows pretty nearly the course of the Inn, you pass a succession of small towns, each of which heads a valley, to which it gives its name, receiving it first from the torrent which through each pours the aggregate of the mountain streams into the river, all affording a foot-way through the Duxerthal into the further extremity of the Zillerthal—Pill, Weer, Kolsass, Wattens, and Volders.

First, there is Pill, a frequent name in Tirol, and derived by Weber from Bühl or Büchl, a knoll; it is the wildest and most enclosed of any of these lateral valleys, and exposed to the ravages of the torrent, which often in winter carries away both bridges and paths, and makes its recesses inaccessible even to the hardy herdsmen. The following story may serve to show how hardy they are:—Three sons of a peasant, whose wealth consisted in his grazing rights over a certain tract of the neighbouring slopes, were engaged one day in gathering herbage along the steep bank for the kids of their father’s flock. The steep must have been difficult indeed on which they were afraid to trust mountain kids to cater for themselves; and the youngest of the boys was but six, the eldest only fifteen. The eldest lost his balance, and was precipitated into the roaring torrent, just then swollen to unusual proportions; he managed to cling fast behind one of the rocky projections which mark its bed, but his strength was utterly unable to bear him out of the stream. The second brother, aged ten, without hesitating, embraced the risk of almost certain death, let himself down the side of the precipice by clinging to the scanty roots which garnished its almost perpendicular side. Arrived at the bottom, he sprang with the lightness of a chamois across the foaming waters on to the rock where the boy was now slackening his exhausted hold, and succeeded in dragging him up on to the surface; but even there there seemed no chance of help, far out of sound as they were of all human ears. But the youngest, meantime, with a thoughtfulness beyond his years, had made his way home alone, and apprised the father, who readily found the means of rescuing his offspring.

Following the road again, Volders is reached at about a mile from Wattens. As at the latter place, your ears are liberally greeted with the sounds of the smithy. Volders has quite a celebrity for its production of scythes; some ten or twelve thousand are said to be exported annually. The Post Inn affords tolerable quarters for a night or two while exploring the neighbourhood.

The prolific pencil of Schöpf has provided the church with an altar-piece of the Holy Family; though an ancient foundation, it does not present any object of special interest.

The Voldererthal runs beneath some peaks dear to Alpine climbers, the Grafmarterspitz, the Glunggeser, the Kreuzjoch, and the Pfunerjoch. Its entrance is commanded by the castles of Hanzenheim, sometimes called Starkelberg, from having belonged to a family of that name, and used as a hospital during the campaign of 1809; and Friedberg, which is still inhabited, having been carefully restored by the present owner, Count Albert von Cristalnigg. It was originally built in the ninth or tenth century, as a tower to guard the bridge; it gave its name to a powerful family, who are often mentioned in the history of Tirol. At the end of the thirteenth and beginning of the fourteenth centuries, it was one of the castles annexed by Friedrich mit der leeren Tasche. It contains also the Voldererbad, a mineral spring, which is much visited, but more conveniently reached by way of Windegg than through the valley itself.

In the Voldererwald is a group of houses, Aschbach by name, which belongs ecclesiastically to the parish of Mils, on the opposite side; and the following story is given to account for the anomaly:—At the time when the territory of Volders belonged parochially to Kolsass (it must have been before the year 1630, as it was that year formed into an independent parish), the neighbourhood was once ravaged by the plague. A farmer of Aschbach being stricken by it, sent to beg the spiritual assistance of the priest of Kolsass. The priest attended to the summons; but when he reached the threshold of the infected dwelling, and saw what a pitiable sight the sick man presented, his fears got the better of his resolution, and he could not prevail on himself to enter the room. Not to leave his penitent entirely without comfort, however, he exhorted him to repentance, heard his confession, and absolved him from where he stood; and then uncovering the sacred Host, bid him gaze on it in a spirit of faith, and assured him he should thereby receive all the benefit of actual Communion. The visit thus completed, he hurried back to Kolsass in all speed. Meantime the sick man, not satisfied with the office thus performed, sent for the priest of Mils, who, supported by apostolic charity, approached him without hesitation, and administered the sacred mysteries. Contrary to all expectation, the farmer recovered, resumed his usual labours, and in due course garnered his harvest. In due course also came round the season for paying his tithe. With commendable punctuality the farmer loaded his waggon with the sacred tribute, and started alacritously on the way to Kolsass. Any one who watched him might have observed a twinkle of his eye, which portended some unusual dénouement to the yearly journey. As he approached Kolsass the twinkle kindled more humorously, and the oxen felt the goad applied more vigorously. The pastor of Kolsass turned out to see the waggon approaching at the unusual pace, and was already counting the tempting sheaves of golden corn. To his surprise, however, his frolicsome parishioner wheeled round his team before he brought it to a stand, and then cried aloud, ‘Gaze, Father! yes, gaze in faith on the goodly sight, and believe me, your faith shall stand you in stead of the actual fruition!’ With that he drove his waggon at the same pace at which he had come, straight off to the pastor of Mils, at whose worthy feet he laid the tithe. And this act of ‘poetical justice’ was ratified by ecclesiastical authority as a censure on the pusillanimity of the priest of Kolsass, by the transfer of the tithing of Aschbach to the parish of Mils. I have met a counterpart of this story both in England and in Spain; so true is it, as Carlyle has prettily said, that though many traditions have but one root they grow, like the banyan, into a whole overarching labyrinth.

The church by which he endeavoured to bring under observation and imitation the distinguishing qualities of St. Charles, was erected on a spot famous in the Middle Ages as a bandit’s den; the building occupied thirty-four years, and was consecrated but a short time before his death. Baron Karl von Fieger, from whom he bought the site, a few years later added to it the Servite monastery, which, though it exhibits all the vices of the architecture of its date, yet bears tokens that its imperfections are not due to any stint of means. Its three cupolas and other structural arrangements are designed in commemoration of the Holy Trinity—a mystery which is held in very special honour throughout Austria. In the decorations, later benefactors have carried on Guarinoni’s intention, the acts of St. Charles being portrayed in the frescoes, completed in 1764, by which Knoller has earned some celebrity in the world of art for himself and for the church: they display his conversion from the stiffer German style of his master, Paul Trogger, to the Italian manner. That over the entrance conveys a tradition of St. Charles, predicting to Guarinoni, while his page, that he would one day erect a church in his honour; that of the larger cupola is an apotheosis of the saint. The picture of the high-altar sets forth the saint ministering to the plague-stricken; it is Knoller’s boldest attempt at colouring.

His remains were tenderly gathered and laid to rest, and his memory held in affection by all the neighbourhood; nevertheless, though there were many signs of the supernatural connected with the event, it did not receive all the veneration it might have been expected to call forth.

Another memory yet of Hippolitus Guarinoni lingers in the neighbourhood. By a path which branches off near Judenstein to the left (going from Volders and following the stream), the Volderbad is reached; a sulphur spring discovered and brought into notice by him, and now much frequented in summer, perhaps as much for its pleasant mountain breezes as for the medicinal properties of the waters.

Sistrans was once famous for a champion wrestler who had long carried off the palm from all the country round; but like him of Schwatz, he was not content with his great natural strength; he was always afraid a stronger than he might arise and conquer him in turn; and so he determined to put himself beyond the reach of another’s challenge. To effect this he arranged with great seeming devotion to serve the Mass on Christmas night; and while the priest’s eye was averted, laid a second wafer upon the one that he had had laid ready. The priest, suspecting nothing, consecrated as usual; and then at the moment of the Wandlung, when the priest was absorbed in the solemnity of his act, as he approached to lift the chasuble he stealthily abstracted the Host he had surreptitiously laid on the altar. The precious talisman carefully concealed, he bound it on his arm the instant Mass was over; and from that day forth no one could stand against him. And not only this, but he had power too in a multitude of other ways. Had anyone committed a theft, it needed but to consult our wrestler; if he began saying certain words and walking solemnly along, immediately, step by step, were he far or near, the thief, wherever he was, was bound by secret and resistless impulse to tread as he trod, and bring back the booty to the place whence he had taken it. Was anyone’s cattle stricken with sickness, it needed but to call our wrestler; a few words solemnly pronounced, and the touch of his potent arm, sufficed to restore the beast to perfect health. Moreover, no bird could escape his snare, no fox or hare or chamois outrun him for swiftness.

Thus all went well; he had played a bold stake, and had won his game. But at last the time came for him to die. Weary of his struggles, and even of his successes, our wrestler would fain have laid his head to rest under the soft green turf of the field of peace, by the wayside of those who pass in to pray, and lulled by the sound of the holy bells. But in vain he lay in his bed; death came not. True, there were all his symptoms in due force—the glazed eye and palsied tongue and wringing agony; but for all that he could not die. At last, the priest, astonished at what he saw, asked him if he had not on his conscience some sin weighty above the wont, and so moved him to a sense of penance that he confessed his impiety with tears of contrition; and it was not till he had told all, and the priest had received the sacred particle he had misused, that, shriven and blessed, his soul could depart in peace. There is a spot outside Sistrans called the Todsünden-marterle, but whether it has any connection with this tradition, or whether it has one of its own, I have not been able to learn.

A couple of hours further is the pilgrimage chapel of Heiligenwasser, which is much visited both by the pious and the valetudinarian. Its history is that in 1606 two shepherd boys keeping their father’s herd upon the mountains lost two young kine. In vain they sought them through the toilful path and beneath the burning sun; the kine were nowhere to be found. At last in despair of any further labour proving successful, they fell on their knees and prayed with tears for help from above. Then a bright light fell upon them, and the Gnadenmutter appeared beside them, and bid them be of good cheer, for the cattle were gone home to their stall; moreover she added, ‘Drink, children, for the day is hot, and ye are weary with wandering.’ ‘Drink!’ exclaimed the famished children, ‘where shall we find water? there is no water near!’ but even as they spoke the Gnadenmutter was taken from their sight, but in the place where the light surrounding her had shone there welled up a clear and bubbling stream between the rocks, which has never ceased to flow since. The boys went home, but had not the courage to tell how great a favour had been bestowed on them; yet they never went by that way without turning to give glory to God, and say a prayer beneath the holy spring.

Fifty years passed. One of them was an infirm old man, and no longer went abroad so far, the other was attended in his labours by the son of a neighbour, a lad who had been dumb from his birth. When the lad saw the herdsman kneel down by the spring and drink and pray, he knelt and drank and prayed too; when lo! no sooner had the water passed his lips than he found he had the power of speech like any other. The narration of the one wonder led to that of the other. The people readily believed, and before the year was out a chapel had been raised upon the spot.