CHAPTER VI.
In sending word to Anton to fetch us from the inn at Nieder Olang that especial afternoon, we had not been aware that we had chosen a place and hour when most of the pious male Catholics were gathered thither to accord an unflinching, unequivocal assent to the Infallibility dogma, as well as to condemn from the bottom of their clerical or rustic souls the foul heresy of Old Catholicism, which was spreading far and wide in the adjoining kingdom of Bavaria. Most of the farmers and all the parish priests were assembled. The spacious Widum or parsonage, in festal array, kept open house, the large church was full to overflowing, whilst the ample inn being still more crammed we preferred waiting for Anton in a shady nook opposite. Here we had ample leisure to observe the rows of clerical and bucolic backs ranged against the open inn windows, and to listen to the hum of serious voices, sounding as if a spiritual mass meeting were being held over seitels of wine. It was a curious sight a quarter of an hour later, the conclave being at an end, to watch the priests flocking forth, some so old and shabby, in such stained, rusty frockcoats, that their very assumption of dignity appeared painfully grotesque; others, more scrupulously clean, displayed with pride a blue silk ribbon bound as an order across their breasts; but whether shabby or decent, whether singly or in groups, they were invariably received bareheaded by the respectful villagers waiting outside, whilst a double salvo of homage was awarded by priest and layman to a tall, elegant Italian monsignor from Brixen, who, tucking up gracefully his rich violet garments, walked with infinite care from the inn to the Widum, disappearing from view under the gateway.
All the clergy now departing in various directions were complacently chuckling over the security of their position, their quiet, unquestioning sheep obediently following whithersoever they might lead them. It was not always so in the Tyrol. In former ages, especially at the time of the Reformation, the people had used their independent judgment, allowing themselves neither to be oppressed nor led astray. In these latter days, however, their freer, nobler instincts have been overpowered by the marvelous, almost incredible, influence of the Jesuits. In the last century, when this order was suppressed, the Tyrolese gymnasiums were immediately improved, schools for the people were opened, and such was the spirit of the age that the barons Sternbach, Turn, Taxis and other noblemen became Freemasons—an act which their descendants, now shackled with Jesuitical influences, regard with the deepest horror. After the revolution of 1848 a spirit of reaction arose in the Tyrol, which holds the people back, retards progress and keeps the country far behind other European lands.
A very embodiment of this retrograding subordination stood before us in the form of Seppl, who, dull, poor both in mind and pocket, still lingered entranced with wonder and amazement at a power which appeared to him capable of governing both earth and heaven.
Rich bauers and poor laborers in this peaceful, wealthy portion of the Tyrol become daily more blindly attached to the priests. Should there happen to be a thinker amongst them, he must keep his questionings to himself: he will find no sympathy in his neighbors. In towns such as Innsbruck, however, he will discover many fellows, for a feeling of reaction has awakened there a more liberal, independent spirit.
If Seppl might be taken as an extreme type of the provincial mode of thought, so might a young student with whom we shortly became acquainted be regarded as representing that of the town. Pursuing a long course of medical studies at the Innsbruck University, he implied rather by his actions than by any outward expressions that he regarded his worthy country relations as zealots, absented himself from Rosenkranz and long family graces, and spoke compassionately of his relatives as being "very naïve;" and these simple, unsophisticated people in their turn, though staggered by this spirit of quiet innovation and rebellion in their midst, made their minds easy on the score that a man of the world, such as he was, and honorably providing for himself, could not be expected to be such as they were. He had not time for prayers and confessions: he must study, and then must enjoy relaxation; but some of their extra petitions might be put to his account. Not that this was ever expressed in so many words: it was rather from our own quiet observations that we drew these inferences. Nor did opportunities fail, seeing that our new acquaintance was in fact no other than the "Herr Student," the saintly personage whom we had imagined in long black Noah's Ark coat, wearing the orthodox clerical stock embroidered with blue and white beads, leading Rosenkranz, and, should we ever have the honor of his acquaintance, saying three Ave Marias before conversing with heretics.
Instead of this, behold a good-looking, cheerful young man in gold spectacles, wearing a suit the color of ripe chestnuts, who, whilst we began impatiently to look for Anton, appeared before us like a good genius from the inn, introduced himself and apologized that we should have been kept waiting. "I regret," he added, "that I was not aware of your arrival until the kellnerin pointed you out through the window; otherwise I should have taken the liberty to explain to you that my brother may be a little late. He brought me and two friends over earlier in the day, and had then to attend to a little business. Mein compliment;" and with a low bow he returned to the inn.
We no longer anxiously inquired of each other whether the ever-ready Anton had received our message, rather whether we had not put him to considerable inconvenience when there was business of the Hofbauer's to be attended to. And next, how in the world, if the Herr Student, who had so suddenly appeared on the scene, were here with two friends, we could all return in the gig?
Nor did this dilemma seem likely to decrease when we spied in the far distant windings of the road, dotted over with the receding black groups of priests and their supporters, a moving object approaching in our direction bearing unmistakable resemblance to the gig and broad-backed horse, but with a female figure seated behind Anton—a perplexity which grew greater when, the distance becoming less, the figure assumed a still more elegant form, holding a fashionable sunshade in her hand, which suddenly began to wave persistently in our direction.
Who could it be? We imagined, we hoped, we doubted, until ten minutes later our astonishment ended in a joyous reality as we clasped in our arms our dear, friend E——. She had arrived in our absence on a visit to us at the Hof, and the good family, desirous of affording us a joyful surprise, had proposed that Anton should drive her over to meet us at Nieder Olang. The Herr Student was in the secret. This had made him prudently cut our conversation short and return to his friends in the inn.
E—— brought bouquets of flowers for us from the aunt and Moidel, but there was no reason for us to hurry back: there were still several hours of daylight. The sturdy horse having already accomplished some eighteen or twenty miles since morning, made no objection to a rest and feed of hay in the stable, whilst Anton was content to sit with his brother and his two friends in the stube before the trio started on foot for the Hof. It seemed rather a desire to show the strangers the neighborhood than any inclination to attend the clerical meeting which had brought the Herr Student to Nieder Olang this afternoon. And we, glad of an hour's delay, started immediately with E——, the sunny summer afternoon made brighter by this joyous meeting, to visit the adjoining hamlet of Mitter Olang.
The three small adjacent villages of Upper, Middle and Lower Olang, lying amongst monotonous fields and destitute themselves of any picturesque beauty, would be passed over by the stranger as totally devoid of interest; but, thanks to Dr. Staffler's topographical work, Das deutsche Tirol und Voralberg, the mention of Peter Sigmair of Mitter Olang had excited a strong desire in us to see the spot where he had lived and died.
After the battle of Austerlitz, in 1805, the defeated emperor of Austria signed a treaty with Napoleon ceding Venice to the French and the Tyrol to their ally, Bavaria. The Tyrolese thus found themselves suddenly separated from an empire the fortunes of which they had shared for some five hundred years. If the country had outwardly become Bavarian, the hearts of the people remained essentially Austrian, and bitterly did they resent having to obey a government in league with the French, the sworn foe of Austria. Thus they determined on the first opportunity to throw off the hated yoke. The Bavarians had promised by the treaty to leave intact the Tyrolese constitution. They soon, however, forced the young men into the army to fight their battles, dissolved the religious houses, and eventually dismissed both bishops and parish priests. This was more than these extremely religious people could brook. The Bavarians had broken faith in not preserving the constitution: now they were free from their oath, they declared. In this sentiment the emperor of Austria warmly seconded them, and secret plots of rebellion began speedily to ferment through the land. In 1809, the memorable, never-to-be-forgotten year Nine of Tyrolese history, the earnestly longed-for opportunity arrived. In April of this year the Austrians declared war against France, and on the 8th of the same month the enthusiastic patriot Johann Maria von Kolb appeared in the market-place of Innichen, where he issued written proclamations, still preserved at Bruneck, bidding all the parish priests and the inhabitants of the Upper Pusterthal instantly to rise, throw off the Bavarian yoke and join the beloved Austrian troops, which were now marching in that direction.
Incited by Von Kolb and other leaders, the people rose and welcomed the Austrians. The Bavarian troops stationed at Bruneck hastily retreated to Brixen, and the Austrians entered the chief town of the Pusterthal on April 12. Peace now reigned in the district for several months. The rest of the Tyrol, however, was in commotion. In May the Bavarians were again back in the country, and the French coming to their assistance. The people rose under the leadership of the brave Hofer. They won a great victory at Iselberg, but in October the French had taken possession of Innsbruck, and the treaty of Schonbrunn immediately followed, in which the Tyrolese, again handed over to Bavaria, were ordered to lay down their arms.
The people disobeyed: they were incredulous, believing the official documents to be forged; and, although he knew better, Von Kolb strengthened them in this belief. He, together with Peter Kemenater, a wealthy wirth, and George Lantschner, the priest of Weitenthal, urged the people to rise and fight for their country, setting at naught any treaty of peace. Thus, though the French troops were allowed by the town authorities to enter Bruneck on November 5, the people remained in a state of turbulence, the men of Taufers immediately rising and fighting the French at Gaisz, the first village in their valley, and although defeated and driven back, the neighboring peasants of Aufhofen took up the attack, having in their turn their village plundered and some of the inhabitants killed by the enemy.
Von Kolb and his party next encouraged the Landsturm or people en masse to assail the French general Moreau in Brixen, causing his friend, General Almeras, to leave Bruneck in charge of a small troop and to hurry to his rescue. The very same afternoon (November 30) the priest Lantschner, accompanied by the wirth of Mühlen in the Taufersthal, Johann Hofer, marched at the head of an army of peasants on Bruneck. In the mean time, Almeras, prevented by a general uprising from reaching Brixen, turned back with his troops dressed as a private, and made most of the way by mountain-paths on foot, fearing to remain in his carriage, as immediately after starting his cook had been shot dead on the coach-box. Approaching Bruneck, the general discovered the concourse of the armed peasants to be far greater than he had imagined, and a whole day elapsed before his entry into the town could be effected. On December 2 the insurgents advanced nearer and nearer, pouring down from the neighboring village of Percha, which they had chosen as their head-quarters. At one o'clock they pushed before them two sledges loaded with hay from Edelsheim, and one filled with straw from Percha, and, forming by this means a barricade in front of the Capuchin monastery, began firing, whilst troops of peasants still marched forward from other villages. More used to plough-shares than swords, however, the peasants, numbering ten thousand men, instead of surrounding the town, as they might easily have done, merely attacked it on the north side, thus enabling the French general with a handful of cavalry and infantry to surprise them in the rear. Confusion and a most ignominious defeat ensued, the peasants fleeing across the meadows and fields, some being killed and others taken prisoners. Although repulsed, they were not reduced, and animated by the rash, vindictive Von Kolb, made several fresh skirmishes. Standing up in the village street of Percha, this leader animated them still to fresh attacks, and sent special messengers north, south, east and west, vowing fire and vengeance to all who succumbed; but on December 6, fresh French troops having come to the aid of General Almeras, the peasants saw that their cause was lost and refused to listen. Thus ceased the peasant war.
The town of Bruneck, which had suffered greatly from the double siege, still venerates the memory of General Almeras, who exerted himself on its behalf, whilst his liberality toward the peasants, whom he regarded as ignorant and misguided, was equally praiseworthy, mitigating in many instances the severity of the council of war.
Although the insurgents were dispersed, most of the French officers, unlike General Almeras, condescended to the bitterest revenge against the disarmed people. All the leaders who had not concealed themselves were captured and summarily shot without trial. Von Kolb, however, escaped with his life: disguised as a seller of lemons, he fled over the Redensberg, and passing through Antholz managed to reach Stiermark. Another still more remarkable man, Father Joachim, known amongst the people as Red Beard, wading through deep snow managed to hide himself for many months in the castle of Goldrain. In August of 1810, disguised as an artisan, he reached Switzerland, Milan, and finally Vienna, where the emperor, as a reward for his valiant deeds, presented him with the living of Hietzing in the neighborhood of Vienna.
Our long but necessary preamble now brings us to Peter Sigmair. He too had a price set on his head, having acted as lieutenant in the popular cause, and had accordingly sought a safe retreat in the mountains. Soon, however, a friend brought him word that his old father, George Sigmair, the Tharer-wirth of Mitter Olang, when attending to some business in Bruneck on St. Thomas's Day, had been arrested by command of General Broussier, with orders that he should be shot if his son did not give himself up before three days. The son might have comforted himself with the thought that it would be impossible for the general to put so tyrannical a threat into execution, but the consciousness of his father in such danger conquered all other feelings. He immediately started for Bruneck, and gave himself up. His father was instantly liberated, whilst he, bound in chains, was sent to Bozen, but brought back to Bruneck at the beginning of January, 1810, when in his cell in the castle he quietly heard his sentence—that he should be shot before the door of his father's inn at Mitter Olang, and that his body should then be hung on a gallows as a solemn warning to refractory peasants. His young wife, maddened with grief, penetrated to the presence of the French general, clasped his knees and plead in vain for mercy. He remained perfectly impassive to her entreaties, but granted a favor to a young priest, Franz von Mörl, who accompanied the prisoner in his last moments—namely, that, instead of before the window, the execution should take place at a small wayside chapel on the confines of the village. And so Peter Sigmair was shot at the age of thirty-six, honored for his valor, but still more for his filial piety.
We were now standing on the very spot, before the humble, whitewashed chapel. Above the entrance, which was closed, a rude fresco, much injured by weather, commemorated the deed. Some soldiers in very high-waisted regimentals were taking aim at Peter Sigmair, who knelt blindfolded, wearing the full peasant costume, which, more ordinary in those days, is still used for marriages, and is consequently represented even now on mortuary tablets as indicative of the heavenly wedding-garment.
After seeing the now desolate, forsaken chapel, we bent our steps into the village to visit the Wirth-haus. A friendly, quiet peasant-woman met us in the dark passage, and showed us into a clean, comfortable wainscoted room, the zechstube. We ordered some wine for the good of the house, which was brought by an equally quiet peasant-man. Setting it on the table, he hovered about the room in an uncertain way, but confided to us eventually that he was the landlord. The woman then came and introduced herself as his sister, and they both stood silently before us in a house as silent as themselves, the great festival at the neighboring hamlet having probably thinned their custom. It was evident that they had plenty of leisure to answer any questions, and we had soon learned from them that the old Tharer-wirth was their grandfather.
"You must know," said the sister, "I have read in big printed letters that Onkel Peter's little children, holding up their little hands, prayed the cruel general with tears to spare their father. It is a pity that what is put in print can never be altered, because he had no children. He had only a young wife, who afterward married a bauer at Antholz, where their son is the priest."
"Yes," said the wirth. "If there had been children, they would have succeeded, not my mother. It was before either of us was born, but she often told us of it—how cold it was, in the depth of winter, on the Name of Jesus Day. Onkel Peter marched with a cross placed in his hands, which were bound behind him, from Bruneck, being led to a house near the inn at Nieder Olang, since burnt down, where he confessed. At the wayside chapel he next received the sacrament, and then the soldiers shot him."
Were there any mementoes of him in the house? we asked.
"Oh, not now. His belt used to lie about the house, but had been either carried off or lost." And then one of the good souls intimated that it was sad to have a relation publicly executed: he must pass as a criminal. It did their hearts good to find that strangers from other parts did not look upon him as such. It was natural that they and the villagers should think well of him, but they were poor ignorant people at the best. However, criminal or not, all the school-children in Tyrol read about him now. He was stuck in their primers and called a hero and a patriot; only, even in the lesson-book, the mistake had again been made of giving him children. The wirth thought it must be for effect—to make the tale more thrilling.
"We often puzzle ourselves about the rights and wrongs of Onkel Peter's death," concluded the simple man; "but this will always be clear to us, that three foreign ladies visiting the house out of respect to his memory speaks well for him."
Thus we left the staid brother and sister quietly gratified by our call, and returning to Nieder Olang found the kellnerin of the now deserted inn awaiting us with a nosegay of stately white lilies. The gig too was ready, and with our dear friend E—— at our side we drove homeward in the silent summer evening. We passed Percha, a small group of peaceful houses and a church, contrasting forcibly with the wild, tumultuous scenes which it must have witnessed when the enthusiast Von Kolb and his companions convulsed the peasantry;—and passed over the upland plains where the ten thousand peasants had been repulsed and scattered—a corn-giving land, affluent with myriad golden shocks, like a perpetual Joseph's dream.
The Hof proved too quiet and healthful a resting-place, and its inmates too genuinely good and honest, for us to bid it a lasting farewell in '71. Behold us, therefore, in the following summer again within its friendly walls, where we at first settled down to a harmonious, industrious routine of several weeks: then an extreme desire seizing upon some of us to see more of the glories of mountain and valley around, we set out one and all for six days of pure holiday enjoyment; part of the programme being for the more adventurous, attended by Moidel, to climb to the Olm on a visit to Jakob.
MARGARET HOWITT.
[TO BE CONTINUED]