“Grandfather never allows the pram to be taken,” the young wife said. “He believes that a child which is not carried to its christening, but is led on wheels, will grow up lazy and never learn to use its legs properly its whole life through. If only the grandmother were here, she’ll hold us up longest, the godfathers make shorter work of things, and if the worst came to the worst they could always hurry along behind.” Anxiety about the godparents spread through the whole house. “Aren’t they coming yet?” could be heard everywhere; from all corners of the house faces peered out for them, and the dog barked for all it was worth, as if it was trying to summon them too. But the grandmother said, “It used not to be like this in the old days; then you knew that you had to get up at the right time on such a day and the pastor wouldn’t wait for anybody.” Finally, the farmer’s boy rushed into the kitchen with the news that the godmother was coming.
She came bathed in sweat and loaded up as if she were the Christ child going to give the New Year presents. In one hand she had the black strings of a large, flower-patterned holdall in which was a big Bernese cake wrapped in a fine white cloth, a present for the young mother. In the other hand she was carrying a second bag, and in this there was a garment for the child as well as a few articles for her own use, in particular, fine white stockings; and under the one arm she had something else, a cardboard box which contained her wreath and her laced cap with its wonderful black silk hair trimmings. Joyfully the greeting of “Welcome in God’s name” was given her from all sides, and she scarcely had time to put down one of her parcels so that she could free her own hand to meet the hands stretched towards her in friendly welcome. From all directions helpful hands reached for her burdens, and there was the young wife standing by the door, and so a new series of greetings began, until the midwife summoned them into the living room: they could surely say to each other inside there what custom demanded on such an occasion.
And with neat gestures the midwife placed the godmother at the table, and the young wife came with the coffee, even though the godmother refused and asserted that she had already had some. Her father’s sister wouldn’t let her leave the house without having something to eat, that was bad for young girls, she said. But after all her aunt was getting old now, and the maids didn’t like getting up early either, that was why she was so late; if it had been left to her, she would have been here long ago. Thick cream was poured into the coffee, and although the godmother protested and said she did not like it, the wife threw a lump of sugar in all the same. For a long time the godmother would not have it that the Bernese cake should be cut for her, but then she had to let a good-sized piece be placed in front of her and to eat it. She didn’t want any cheese, she said; she didn’t need it a bit. The wife said she believed it was made from skimmed milk and did not think much to it on that account, and the godmother had to give in. But she didn’t want any fritters, she said; she just wouldn’t know where to find room for them. It was only that she believed they were not clean and she was used to better quality, was the answer she finally received. What else could she do except eat fritters? While she was being pressed to eat in all kinds of ways, she had drunk her first cup of coffee in short measured sips, and now a real dispute started. The godmother turned the cup upside down and claimed that she had no more room for any further good things, saying people should leave her in peace, or else, what is more, she would have to refuse in even stronger language. Then the wife said she was really sorry that she didn’t like the coffee, she had ordered the midwife most emphatically to make it as good as possible, it really wasn’t her fault that it was so bad that nobody wanted to drink it, and there surely couldn’t be anything wrong with the cream either, she had taken it off the milk in a way she certainly didn’t every day. What was the poor godmother to do except to let them pour her another cup?
For some time now the midwife had been hovering around impatiently, and at last she could restrain herself no longer, but said, “If there’s anything you’d like me to do for you, just tell me, I’ve got time for it!”
“Oh, don’t be rushing us!” the wife said.
The poor godmother, however, who was steaming like a kettle, took the hint, dispatched the hot coffee as quickly as possible, and said, during the pauses forced on her by the burning drink, “I should have been ready long ago, if I hadn’t had to take more than I can get down me, but I’m coming now.”
She got up, unpacked her bags, handed over the Bernese cake, the infant’s garment and the godmother’s own present – a shining neuthaler coin, wrapped up in a beautifully painted piece of paper which had a christening text on it – and made many an apology because everything was not as good as it might be. But the mother interrupted with many an exclamation that that really wasn’t the way to go about it, putting yourself to so much expense that they almost felt they couldn’t accept it; and if they’d known it, they wouldn’t have thought of asking her to be godmother in the first place.
Now the girl too set to work, assisted by the midwife and the lady of the house, and did her utmost to be a beautiful godmother, from shoes and stockings up to the little wreath on top of the precious lace cap. The business took its time in spite of the midwife’s impatience, and the godmother kept on finding something that was not as it should be, now one thing, and now another was not in the right place. Then the grandmother came in and said, “But I want to come in as well and see how lovely our godmother is.” At the same time she let out that the church bells were ringing for the second time, and that both godfathers were in the outer room.
Indeed the two godfathers, an older man and a young man, were sitting outside, scorning the newfangled coffee, which they could have any day, in favour of the steaming mulled wine, this old-fashioned but good Bernese soup, consisting of wine, toasted bread, eggs, sugar, cinnamon and saffron, that equally old-fashioned spice which has to be present at a christening feast in the soup, in the first course after the soup and in the sweetened tea. They were enjoying it, and the older godfather, who was called “Cousin”, made all sorts of jokes with the father of the newborn child and said to him that they didn’t want to spare him today, and judging from the mulled wine he didn’t begrudge it them, and nothing had been stinted in making it, you could see that he must have given his four-gallon sack to the messenger last Tuesday to fetch his saffron from Berne. When they did not know what the cousin meant by this, he said that a little while back his neighbour had had to have a christening and had given the messenger a large sack and six kreuzer with the request to bring him in this sack six centimes’ worth of the yellow powder, a quart or a bit over, that stuff you have to have in everything at christenings, his womenfolk seemed to want it that way.
Then the godmother entered like a young morning sun and was greeted by the two godfathers and brought to the table and a big dishful of mulled wine put in front of her, and she was to get that inside her, she’d got time enough while the baby was being put straight. The poor lass resisted with might and main, and asserted that she had had enough to eat to last her for days, she really couldn’t even breathe any more. But it was no use. Old folk and young were urging her, both seriously and in fun, until she picked up the spoon and, strangely enough, one spoonful after another found its way down. Now, however, the midwife appeared again, this time with the baby beautifully wrapped in his swaddling clothes, and she put his embroidered cap with its pink silk ribbon on him, wrapped him in the lovely quilt, popped the sweetened dummy into his little mouth and said that she didn’t want to keep anybody waiting and had thought she’d get everything ready so that they could start whenever they wanted. Everyone stood round the baby and made complimentary remarks about it, and he was indeed a bonny little boy. The mother was pleased at the praise and said, “I should have liked to come to church too and help to recommend the child to God’s care; for if you’re there yourself when the baby is being christened, you can think better about what you’ve promised. Besides, it’s such a nuisance if I’m not allowed outsi
de the house for a whole week, especially now when we’ve got our hands full with the planting.” But the grandmother said it hadn’t got quite that far, that her daughter-in-law had to go to be churched within the first week like a poor woman, and the midwife added that she didn’t like it at all when young women went with the children to christening. They were always afraid of something going wrong at home, didn’t have the proper spirit in church, and on the way home they were in too much of a hurry, so that nothing should be missed, then they got too hot and sometimes became really ill and even died.
Then the godmother took the baby in his coverlet in her arms, and the midwife laid the beautiful white christening cloth with black tassles at the corners over the child, being careful to avoid the lovely bunch of flowers on the godmother’s breast, and said, “Go on now, in God’s holy name!” And the grandmother put her hands together and quietly said an ardent prayer of blessing. The mother, however, accompanied the procession as far as the door and said, “My little boy, my little boy, now I shan’t be seeing you for three whole hours. I don’t know how I can stand it!” And at once tears came to her eyes, quickly she wiped them away with her apron and went back into the house.
With rapid steps the godmother walked down the slope along the way to the church, bearing the fine child in her strong arms, behind her the two godfathers, the father and the grandfather, none of whom thought of relieving the godmother of her burden, although the younger godfather was wearing on his hat a good sprig of may, the sign that he was a bachelor, and in his eyes was a sparkle of something like approval of the godmother, hidden though this was behind an appearance of great nonchalance.
The grandfather informed everybody how terrible the weather had been when he himself had been carried to church to be christened, and how the churchgoers had hardly believed they would escape with their lives from the hail and lightning. Later on people had made all kinds of prophecies to him on account of this weather, some predicting a terrible death, others great fortune in war; but things had gone quietly for him just as they had for everybody else, and now that he was seventy-five he would neither die an early death nor have great fortune in war.
They had gone more than halfway when the maid came running after them; she had the duty of carrying the baby back home as soon as he had been christened, while relatives and godparents stayed behind, according to the grand old custom, in order to listen to the sermon. The maid had not spared any efforts so that she too might look beautiful. This considerable labour had made her late, and now she wanted to relieve the godmother of the baby; but the godmother would not allow this, however much she was pressed. This was too good an opportunity to show the handsome, unmarried godfather how strong her arms were and how much they could put up with. For a real peasant farmer strong arms on a woman are much more acceptable than delicate, miserable little sticks of arms that every north wind can blow apart if it sets its mind to it; a mother’s strong arms have been the salvation of many children whose father has died, when the mother has to rule the family alone and must lift unaided the cart of housekeeping out of all the potholes in which it might get stuck.
But all at once it is as if somebody is holding the strong godmother back by her plaits or giving her a blow on the head, she actually recoils, gives the maid the child, then stays behind and pretends that she has to see to her garter. Then she catches up, attaches herself to the men, mixes in their conversations, tries to interrupt the grandfather and distract him, now with this, now with that, from the subject which he has taken up. He, however, holds firmly on to his subject, as old people usually do, and imperturbably takes up afresh the broken thread of his narrative. Now she makes up to the father of the child and tries through all sorts of questions to lead him into private conversation; yet he is monosyllabic and keeps on letting the conversation drop. Perhaps he has his own thoughts, as every father should, when his child, and what is more the first boy, is being taken to be christened. The nearer they came to the church, the more people joined to the procession, some were already waiting by the wayside with their psalters in their hands, others were leaping more hurriedly down the narrow footpaths, and they came into the village like a great, solemn procession.
Next to the church was the inn, for these two institutions so often stand close to one another, sharing joy and suffering together, and what is more, in all honour. There a halt was made, the baby was changed, and the father ordered three litres of wine, although everyone protested that he shouldn’t do it, they’d only just had all the heart could desire, and they wanted nothing, great or small. Even so, once the wine was there, they all drank, especially the maid; she presumably thought she had to drink wine whenever anybody offered it to her, and that wouldn’t happen often from one year’s end to the next. Only the godmother could not be persuaded to touch a drop, in spite of her being pressed as if they would never stop, until the innkeeper’s wife said they ought not to force her, the girl was becoming visibly paler, and Hoffmann’s Drops would do her more good than wine. But the godmother did not want anything like that, scarcely wanted even a glass of wine, in the end had to allow a few drops from a bottle of smelling salts to be shaken onto her handkerchief, attracted in her innocence many a suspicious glance and could not justify herself or say what she needed. The godmother was suffering from a ghastly fear and could not say anything about it. Nobody had told her what name the baby was to have, and according to old custom it is the godmother’s duty to whisper the name to the pastor on handing the child over to him, since the pastor could easily confuse the names that have been registered with him if there are many children to be baptized.
In their hurry about the many things that had to be done and in their fear of coming too late, they had forgotten to inform her of the name, and her father’s sister, her aunt, had once and for all strictly forbidden her to ask what the name was, unless she really wanted to make a child unhappy; for as soon as a godmother asked about a child’s name, this child would become inquisitive for his whole life. Thus she did not know the child’s name, might not ask about it, and if the pastor had also forgotten it and asked what it was loudly in public or else made a mistake and christened the boy Magdalena or Barbara, how people would laugh and what a humiliation this would be her whole life through! This appeared to her as ever more terrible; the strong girl’s legs trembled like bean plants in the wind, and the sweat poured off her pale face in streams.
At this point the innkeeper’s wife urged them to depart, if they wanted to avoid being hauled o’er the coals by the pastor; but to the godmother she said, “You’ll never go through with it, lass, you’re as white as a newly washed shirt.” That was from running, the godmother asserted, it would get better again when she came into the fresh air. But it would not get better, in church all the people looked quite black to her, and now the baby began to scream with an increasingly murderous yell. The poor godmother began to rock him in her arms, and the louder he cried, the more vigorously she rocked him, so that the petals scattered from the flowers on her breast. Her breast felt more constricted and heavier, and her breathing could be heard loud. The higher her breast rose, the higher the child flew up in her arms, and the higher he flew, the louder he screamed, and the louder he screamed, the more forcefully the pastor read the prayers. The voices actually resounded against the walls, and the godmother no longer knew where she was; there was a whistling and roaring around her like the waves of the sea, and the church danced around with her in the air. At last the pastor said “Amen,” and now the terrible moment had come, now it was to be decided whether she was to become a laughingstock for children and grandchildren; now she had to take off the covering, give the child to the pastor and whisper the name into his right ear. She removed the cloth, though trembling and shaking, handed over the child, and the pastor took him, did not look at her, did not ask her with sharp eyes, dipped his hand in the water, wetted the forehead of the suddenly silent child and did not christen him a Magdalena or a Barbara, but a Hans Uli, a
n honest-to-goodness real-life Hans Uli.
At that the godmother felt not only as if all the Emmental hills were falling off her heart, but sun, moon and stars too, and as if someone were carrying her from a fiery furnace into a cool bath; but all through the sermon her limbs trembled and would not be still again. The pastor preached very finely and penetratingly, all about man’s life being nothing more nor less than an ascension towards heaven; but the godmother could not arrive at a proper devotional state of mind, and by the time they left the church she had already forgotten the text. She could hardly wait to reveal her secret fear and the reason for her pale face. There was a lot of laughter, and she had to hear many a joke about inquisitiveness, and how scared the womenfolk were of this, and how all the same they saw to it that their daughters became inquisitive, although they left the boys out of it. She really needn’t have worried about asking.
Soon, however, fine fields of oats and plantations of flax and the magnificent growth in meadows and fields came to be noticed and attracted everyone’s attention. They found a number of reasons for going slowly and standing still, but by the time they arrived home the beautiful May son, which was higher in the sky now, had made them all feel warm, and a glass of cool wine did everybody good, however much they resisted it. Then they sat down in front of the house, while in the kitchen busy hands were at work and the fire was crackling mightily. The midwife was gleaming like one of the three men from the fiery furnace[1]. Already before eleven o’clock came a summons to the meal, but only for the servants, who were given their food first, and in ample quantity of course, but all the same one was glad when the servants were out of the way.
The Black Spider Page 2