
San Pietro of Sorres by Grazia Deledda translated by Anne Schuchman
Some time ago in a Sardinian literary magazine, La terra dei nuraghes, The Land of Nuraghes, I read this legend, charmingly recorded by Pompeo Calvia, one of the finest Sardinian writers.
It tells the story of the church of San Pietro in Sorres, near Torralba. It is an old historical church, now almost entirely in ruins, considered by Calvia to be the oldest medieval building in the province of Sassari. According to this curious and poignant tale, long ago, perhaps around the year 1000, there lived a young master from Sorres, a gentle poet and artist, who returned to his village after studying overseas with a famous painter and architect. There in the village, he noticed a mysterious window “where roses grew gracefully and abundantly, and bellflowers wound along the columns’ spirals.” The window was never opened, and no one was ever seen tending the flowers. Every month a tapestry woven with stars, figurines, and laurel leaves would flutter lightly as it hung down from the windowsill, although no one ever saw the hand that put the tapestry out and brought it back in.
Moved by curiosity, the young artist asked about this unusual cottage. But nobody could tell him anything. A great mystery surrounded it.
One night, as the youth was eavesdropping near the window, he heard a woman’s sweet voice singing “like the song of a dying swan,” accompanied by the gentle clacking and whooshing sounds of a weaving loom.
Another night, driven by curiosity, the artist took his mandolin and sang a sad, passionate song under the mysterious window. Since it was a cold, snowy night, he knocked and said he was a lost traveler seeking shelter. A gentle voice answered, “I have no bread to give you, my bed is full of thorns, and although I seem close, you must climb thousands and thousands of garnet stone steps to reach me. When you arrive, I will be as cold as death. Traveler, be gone!”
Since he continued to insist, the voice advised him to take refuge in a nearby church. But he argued that the church was crumbling, and it was snowing inside the church as much as it was snowing outside.
“Then build one yourself!” the voice exclaimed.
“I will do it if you provide the design,” he replied.
“I will do that for you. Now, go!” And the voice said no more.
The young artist left, and after many months, he returned to find a magnificent tapestry hanging from the window, embroidered with a Romanesque church. It was marvelous, showing every detail inside and out. The artist immediately memorized and engraved the design in his mind. It would require a lot of money to build such a church and the village was extremely poor. What to do? The artist, who’d fallen madly in love with the mysterious weaver of Sorres who’d designed the church, decided to fulfill his promise in order to get to know her. He painted a Madonna in a golden field with a blooming almond tree in her hand and donated his lovely painting to the crumbling, old church where everyone admired his artwork.
One morning, instead of an almond tree, the Madonna in the painting held a church in her hand that resembled the one in the tapestry. The young artist had secretly entered the church at night to paint it, covering the almond tree. People said it was a miracle and that it meant the Madonna wanted a church like the one in the painting!
A friar took the miraculous painting and went around to castles, villages, and villas, collecting money and donations for the construction of the church. When he had filled a great number of coffers with gold, he proposed that the young master from Sorres should build the church. The young master accepted, and they hired many laborers to help. In no time at all—despite the evil spirits that tried to destroy the building every night—the church was completed. It was exquisite and elaborate, just like the tapestry’s design!
On the night before the consecration, while the entire village was celebrating the grand event along with people from nearby villages, the young artist went to the odd little house and knocked on the door.
“Who are you?” asked the enchanting voice.
“I’ve come to take a flower from your hand and place it before the Madonna,” sighed the young man. “Open the door!”
“Very well, I’m coming.” The door opened by magic, and the young man found himself before the mysterious woman, who was dressed in silver with a black stole. Her blonde hair flowed over her shoulders, and her very pale face stood out sharply in front of the constantly changing tapestry behind her. The embroidery displayed intertwining arabesques and perfectly woven and designed figures, creating a mesmerizing backdrop. The only part of the design that never changed was the church of San Pietro of Sorres, which stood in the middle of the tapestry.
In one corner of the room was the loom, and all its threads appeared to be made of gold.
The beautiful woman looked at him with peaceful eyes, her demeanor fixed like a figure in a Byzantine mosaic. There were olive branches at her feet and in her hands were laurel branches with golden berries.
The lovely woman let one laurel leaf fall, and the young man bent to pick it up. She was as lovely as she had been in his dreams. When she gestured for him to draw near, he did so, and then placed a kiss on her divine lips. But as soon as he kissed her, he felt a chill pass through his body. The young master fell at her feet, his eyes still gazing lovingly up at her—he was dead!
(1894)
SAN PIETRO DI SORRES
Questa leggenda la lessi tempo fa in un giornale letterario sardo, La terra dei nuraghes, diafanamente scritta da Pompeo Calvia, uno dei più gentili poeti sardi.
È sulla chiesa di S. Pietro di Sorres, vicino a Torralba: un’antica chiesa storica, ora quasi rovinata, ritenuta, dice il Calvia, per il più antico monumento dell’arte medioevale che vanti la provincia. La dolce e misteriosa leggenda narra che viveva anticamente, forse verso il mille, un giovine mastro di Sorres, artista, poeta gentile; il quale tornando nel suo paese dopo aver studiato oltremare, presso un pittore ed architetto famoso, rimarcò nel villaggio una finestra misteriosa «dove con molta grazia ed abbondanza crescevano le rose, e le campanule s’intrecciavano alle spirali delle colonnine», che non si apriva mai, e tra i cui fiori non appariva mai nessuna testa. Solo ogni mese un arazzo intessuto di astri, di figurine e di foglie d’alloro, sventolava leggero sul davanzale, ma invisibile era la mano che lo spargeva e lo ritirava. Mosso dalla curiosità il giovane artista chiese informazioni su quella casetta arcana; ma nessuno gliele seppe mai dare. Il mistero più intenso regnava là intorno.
Allora il giovine si recò una notte ad origliare presso quella finestra e sentì solo una soavissima voce di donna cantare «come un canto di cigno che muore», e sentiva pure il muoversi leggero delle spole di un telaio.
Arso dalla curiosità l’artista un’altra notte prese la sua mandola e cantò una triste appassionata canzone sotto la finestra bizzarra. Poi, siccome la neve cadeva e la notte era cruda, picchiò chiedendo asilo e dicendosi un viandante smarrito. Ma una voce soave gli rispose: «Io non ho pane da darti, nel mio piccolo giaciglio non sono che spine; mille e mille gradini granati devi salire per arrivare a me che sì vicina ti sembro. Quando vi arrivi sono fredda come la morte. Viandante, va!». E siccome lui insisteva lo consigliò di ricovrarsi nella chiesa vicina, ma egli replicò che la chiesa cadeva in rovina e dentro ci nevicava come fuori.
«Fatene una voi, allora!», esclamò la voce.
«Io farolla se voi m’ispirerete il disegno!»
«Te lo darò, va!» E la voce non parlò più.
Il giovine se ne andò, e dopo molti mesi vide nella finestra sparso un magnifico arazzo con una chiesa pisana ricamatavi. Era meraviglioso: vi si scorgeva tutto l’interno, coi più minuti particolari, e l’artista capì subito e si scolpì in testa quel disegno. Ma abbisognavano molti denari per costrurre un simile tempio e il paese era poverissimo. Come fare? Il giovine, innamorato perdutamente della misteriosa abitatrice di Sorres che gli aveva proposto la costruzione della chiesa, deciso di adempiere la sua promessa pur di giungere a conoscerla, dipinse una Madonna in campo d’oro, con un mandorlo fiorito inmano, e regalò la squisita sua dipintura alla vecchia chiesa cadente. Tutti ammirarono il quadro, e una mattina videro che la Madonna invece del mandorlo teneva in mano, una chiesa. Era simile a quella dell’arazzo, ed era stato il giovine che, introdottosi furtivamente nella notte in chiesa, l’aveva dipinta, cancellandovi il mandorlo. Si gridò al miracolo, e si disse subito che la Madonna voleva una chiesa così! Allora un fraticello prese il dipinto miracoloso e corse per i castelli ed i contadi e le ville raccogliendo denari e offerte per la costruzione della chiesa. E quando ebbe riempito d’oro molti forzieri propose al giovine mastro di Sorres di edificare il tempio. Egli accettò: molti operai vennero chiamati all’opera e in breve – non ostante i mali spiriti che ogni notte distruggevano il fabbricato –, la chiesa sorse, bella e ricca come nel disegno dell’arazzo!
Nella notte precedente il dì della consacrazione, mentre tutto il villaggio, animato dalle genti dei villaggi vicini, festeggiava il grande avvenimento, il giovine mastro si recò alla casetta misteriosa e batté alla porta.
«Chi sei tu?», chiese la dolce voce incantatrice.
«Son venuto a prendere un fiore dalle tue mani e porlo alla Madonna, sospirò il giovine, aprimi!…»
«Bene sta, vengo.» La porta si aperse per incanto ed il giovine si trovò dinanzi alla misteriosa, che pareva vestita d’argento, con una stola nera sulla veste, sparsi i biondi capelli sulle spalle e pallidissimo il viso che spiccava nettamente innanzi ai ricami delle pareti, i quali sempre s’andavano cangiando, in intrecci di rabeschi e figure perfettamente intessute e disegnate. Nel mezzo di dette stoffe, immutabile campeggiava la chiesa di San Pietro di Sorres. In un canto stava il telajo, e d’oro tutti parevano i fili. La bella accennò con gli occhi sereni, senza mutamento, tutta composta nella soavità dell’atto come le figure che si vedono nei mosaici bizantini. Aveva al piedi ramoscelli d’olivo e nelle mani rami di alloro con le bacche d’oro.
La bella lasciò andare una foglia di lauro, ed egli si chinò per raccoglierla, e come vide che la donna accennava d’avvicinarglisi, bella così come i sogni dell’ideale, il giovine si avvicinò ed un bacio pose su quelle labbra divine. Ma non appena ebbela baciata, che tutto si sentì un gelo come di sfinimento per le membra, e cadutole ai piedi, dolcemente guardandola morì!
Born 1871 in Nuoro, Italy, Grazia Deledda was a self-taught writer from a middle-class Sardinian family. She wrote over sixty novels, blending Sardinian traditions with themes of beauty, morality, and social change. In 1926, she was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, the second Italian, and the only Italian woman, to receive the honor.
Anne Schuchman is a writer and translator published in both academic and literary journals, and the recipient of awards from the Fulbright, NEH, and Folger Library, among others. She holds a Ph.D. in Italian Studies from NYU and an MFA in Creative Nonfiction and Literary Translation from Fairleigh Dickinson University.
29 January 2025
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