JEREMIAS GOTTHELF (the pen name of Albert Bitzius; 1797–1854) was a Swiss pastor and the author of novels, novellas, short stories, and nonfiction, who used his writing to communicate his reformist concerns in the field of education and with regard to the plight of the poor. After the success of his first novel, Der Bauernspiegel oder Lebensgeschichte des Jeremias Gotthelf: Von ihm selbst beschrieben (The Peasants’ Mirror; or, The Life History of Jeremias Gotthelf: Described by Himself; 1836), the author adopted the name of the story’s protagonist. Among his major works to have appeared in English translation are The Black Spider (1842); Ulric, the Farm Servant (1846; English translation edited and annotated by John Ruskin, 1886); and The Story of an Alpine Valley (1847).
SUSAN BERNOFSKY is the chair of the PEN Translation Committee and teaches in the Writing Program at Columbia University. She has translated Robert Walser, Jenny Erpenbeck, Yoko Tawada, Hermann Hesse, Gregor von Rezzori and others. The winner of the 2006 Helen and Kurt Wolff Prize and the 2012 Herman Hesse Prize, she blogs about translation at www.translationista.org.
THE BLACK SPIDER
JEREMIAS GOTTHELF
Translated from the German by
SUSAN BERNOFSKY
NEW YORK REVIEW BOOKS
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Translation copyright © 2013 by Susan Bernofsky
All rights reserved.
Cover image: Allegory of Vanity, wax figure, c.18th century; © Science Museum/Science & Society Picture Library/The Image Works
Cover design: Katy Homans
The Library of Congress has cataloged the earlier printing as follows:
Gotthelf, Jeremias, 1797–1854.
[Schwarze spinne. English]
The black spider / Jeremias Gotthelf ; Translated by Susan Bernofsky.
pages cm.
Originally published by Krailling vor München : E. Wewel in German entitled Die Schwarze spinne.
ISBN 978-1-59017-668-9 (pbk.)
I. Spiders—Fiction. I. Bernofsky, Susan, translator. II. Title.
PT1819.B6S3513 2013
833'.7—dc23
2013019760
eISBN: 978-1-59017-695-5
v1.0
For a complete list of books in the NYRB Classics series, visit www.nyrb.com or write to:
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CONTENTS
Biographical Notes
Title page
Copyright and More Information
THE BLACK SPIDER
THE BLACK SPIDER
ABOVE the mountains rose the sun, shining in limpid majesty down into a welcoming but narrow valley, where it woke to joyous life creatures that had been created to take pleasure in the sunshine of their days. From the forest’s gilded edge the blackbird trilled its aubade while the amorous quail intoned monotonous minnelieder from amid the flowers sparkling in the dew-bespangled grass, and high above the dark firs, lusty crows danced nuptial roundelays or else cawed tender lullabies above the thorny little beds of their unfledged chicks.
Halfway down this sunny slope, Nature had placed a dell filled with fertile, sheltered farmland, and there, stately and gleaming, stood a beautiful farmhouse framed by a splendid orchard in which a few tall apple trees were still resplendent with the season’s last blossoms; half the succulent hay watered from the well behind the house was still unharvested, the other half had already found its way to the stables. All about the house lay a Sunday gleam such as cannot be produced with just a few strokes of the broom applied of a Saturday evening between day and night; such gleaming splendor bears witness to a precious inheritance—inborn purity—that like family honor must be upheld day after day, for a single unguarded moment can besmirch it for generations with stains as indelible as bloodstains, which are impervious to whitewash.
It was no wonder that both the earth made by the hand of God and the house built by human hands now shone out in their purest resplendence; a star shone above them in the blue heavens on this day, a blessed day of celebration. It was the day on which the Son returned to the Father as a sign that Jacob’s ladder still stands, the stairway to heaven that angels climb and descend, as do the souls of human beings once they have disentangled themselves from their mortal husks, assuming they sought their salvation in the realm of the Father and not here on earth; it was the day on which all the world’s vegetation burgeons heavenward, opulently blooming and providing a symbol, renewed each year, of human destiny. There was a glorious ringing from beyond the hills without it being possible to tell where it was coming from, a general tintinnabulation. It came from the churches down in the broad valleys, where the bells proclaimed God’s temple open to all whose hearts are open to the voice of their God.
All around this lovely house was a great bustling and activity. Beside the well, horses were being curried with particular care, stately mothers with playful foals frolicking about them; in the wide trough beside the well, contented-looking cows slaked their thirst, and twice the boy had to take up broom and shovel because he had not cleared away the traces of their contentedness thoroughly enough. Sturdy maids gave their own red-cheeked faces a lusty scrubbing with handy cloths woven of coarse linen, their hair twisted into two knots above their ears; with industrious zeal they fetched in buckets of water through the open door; and in mighty bursts the dark column of smoke rose up straight and tall from the low chimney into the blue air.
Slowly, bent over, the grandfather walked around the house leaning on his cane, silently observing the bustling of the farmhands and maids, here he patted a horse, there set a blundering cow back on course, used his stick to show the inattentive boy the scattered straw he’d overlooked, all the while at regular intervals taking the tinderbox from the deep pocket of his long waistcoat to relight the pipe that gave him such pleasure in the morning, even if it drew poorly.
In front of the house, the grandmother sat beside the door upon the bench that had been swept nice and clean, slicing excellent bread into a heavy earthenware bowl, each piece thin and trim, not in the chunks some cooks and chambermaids wantonly hack off, many of them big enough to choke a whale. Proud, well-nourished chickens and beautiful doves fought over the crumbs at her feet, and whenever a bashful little dove failed to get her share, the grandmother would toss her a crumb of her own along with a friendly word to console her for the others’ impetuousness and ignorance.
Inside, in the spacious, immaculate kitchen, a mighty fire of fir twigs blazed, coffee beans crackled in a wide pan that an imposing woman kept stirring with a wooden spoon, while beside it the coffee mill creaked between the knees of a freshly washed maid; but at the parlor door, which was open, stood a beautiful, rather pale woman, still holding the open sack of coffee in her hands, saying, “Nurse, don’t roast the coffee so dark today, people might think I was trying to stretch it. The godfather’s wife is dreadfully mistrustful and always sees things in the worst possible light. Half a pound more or less makes no difference today. And don’t forget to have the wine soup ready to serve when it is time. Grandfather would say it isn’t really a baptism if the godparents aren’t served a bowl of wine soup before they set out for the church. No scrimping, no saving, do you hear? There in the bowl on the tile shelf you’ll find saffron and cinnamon, the sugar is here on the table, and use enough wine that you’ll think you’ve used too much by half; at a baptism, there’s never any need to worry about things going to waste.”
As you can hea
r, a child’s baptism is about to be celebrated in this household, and the nursemaid is proving herself every bit as skillful a cook as she was a midwife when the woman’s child was born; but she’ll have to hurry if she wants to cook all the dishes tradition requires on this simple stove and still finish in good time.
A strapping fellow bearing a prodigious piece of cheese now emerged from the cellar; he chose a plate at random from the shiny tile shelf, placed the cheese upon it, and was about to carry it into the parlor to put it on the brown walnut table. “Oh, Benz, oh Benz,” the beautiful pale woman exclaimed, “how they’ll laugh if we have no better plates than these for a baptism!” And she went over to the gleaming cherrywood cupboard that went by the elegant name buffet, where the household’s treasures were displayed behind glass. She took out a beautiful platter edged in blue, at its center a large spray of posies surrounded by proverbs, for example:
Let this be known where men are found:
Three lumps of butter make a pound.
On man God showers grace;
In Maad it’s another case.
In hell hot fires burn,
And the potter’s up at dawn.
The cow on grass doth graze;
But man must to his grave.
Beside the cheese she placed the mighty Züpfe, that specialty of bakers in the Bern region, woven like a woman’s braids, beautifully brown and yellow and baked using the finest flour, eggs, and butter, as big around as a one-year-old child and almost as heavy; and above and below this she set two additional plates. Piled high on these plates were appetizing little cakes, the yeast cakes called Habküchlein, and Eierküchlein or egg cakes. Warm, thick cream already filled the prettily flowered crockery pitcher that stood ready on the stove, and coffee boiled in a three-legged gleaming pot with a yellow lid. A breakfast had been made ready for the baptismal party such as is rarely enjoyed even by princes let alone peasants, except for the Bernese. Thousands of Englishmen race around Switzerland, but not one of these harried lords or their stiff-legged ladies is ever served such a breakfast.
“Everything is prepared! If only they would come soon,” the nurse sighed. “It always takes time before all are ready and have eaten their fill, and the pastor is unforgivingly punctual and scolds anyone who doesn’t come on time.” “And Grandfather will never let us take the cart,” the young woman said. “He believes that if a child is driven to its baptism rather than carried, it grows up lazy and never learns the proper use of its legs. If only the godmother would come, she always takes the longest; the godfathers are quicker and can always run to catch up if need be.” Soon the whole house was just as nervous about the guests’ delay as the woman herself. “Are they here yet?” was heard on all sides, while faces peered from corners everywhere, hoping to catch a glimpse of the guests, and Türk barked with all his might to summon them. But Grandmother said, “Things used to be different; everyone understood the importance of rising early on these days, because the good Lord waits for no one.” Finally the boy raced into the kitchen with the news that the godmother was on her way.
She came, covered in perspiration and laden with gifts like the Neujahrkindlein, that child of Bernese legend said to bring treats to every boy and girl on New Year’s Day. In one hand she gripped the black strings of a large bag with a decorative pattern of flowers containing a nice big Züpfe wrapped in a fine white cloth, a gift for the new mother. In her other hand was a second bag, a little one, which held a garment for the child along with a few items for the mother, above all beautiful white stockings; then squeezed beneath her arm she carried the box with the little wreath and the lace cap with its splendid black silk hair ribbons. Joyful cries of welcome resounded on all sides, and so many hands reached out in friendly greeting that she could barely unburden herself to respond. From all sides, eager hands relieved her of her load, and then the young wife came to the parlor door, and a new round of greetings commenced, until the nurse summoned everyone into the parlor, opining that they could just as well exchange these traditional pleasantries there.
Nimbly, the nurse seated the godmother at the table, and the young wife came in with the coffee, ignoring the godmother’s protest that she’d already had her coffee. Her aunt, she said, would not hear of her leaving the house without breakfast, as she considered this harmful to young girls. But she wasn’t young anymore, and the maids hated getting up early, that’s why she was so late; if it had been up to her, she’d have arrived long ago. The thick cream was poured into the coffee, and despite the godmother’s protestations that she didn’t like sugar, the woman tossed in a lump of it. For a long while the godmother would not hear of them cutting into the Züpfe for her sake, but in the end a thick slab was placed in front of her and she submitted to eating it. She long resisted the cheese as well, saying there was no need. The hostess replied that her guest must be under the impression she was serving her a skimmed-milk cheese, as only this could explain her repugnance; the godmother was forced to give in. But she absolutely refused the cakes, saying she wouldn’t know where to put them. The woman countered that the godmother must think there was something wrong with the cakes and be accustomed to better, and then what could she do but to eat them? As this coercion continued, the godmother slowly, carefully sipped at her cup of coffee until it was finished, and now an actual dispute broke out. She turned the handleless cup upside down, declaring that she had no room left for anything more and that if they did not leave her in peace she would have to play some tricks of her own. The housewife replied that she truly regretted the godmother was so displeased with the coffee, she’d given the nurse the most urgent orders to make it as good as possible, there was indeed nothing she could have done to prevent it turning out so badly that no one wanted to drink it, and the cream was surely not to blame, she’d skimmed it herself, which was certainly not her daily custom. What could the poor godmother do but accept another cup?
All this time the nurse had been scurrying impatiently about, until finally she couldn’t restrain herself. She blurted out, “If there’s anything I can do to help you get ready, just say so, I have plenty of time!” “Please don’t make such a fuss,” the housewife said. But the poor godmother, who was bursting at the seams, now felt driven to finish her coffee quickly, saying between sips of the scalding drink, “I’d have been ready long ago if I hadn’t been forced to take more than I can put away, but I’m coming now.”
She got up, unpacked her little bags, handing over the Züpfe, the clothes, and the traditional godmother’s gift of a shiny thaler coin wrapped in paper on which a baptismal proverb had been beautifully written out, repeatedly apologizing for the poor quality of these offerings. Her hostess regularly interrupted her to proclaim her dismay that the godmother had gone to such expense, it was almost too much, and if they had known they would never have dared ask her in the first place.
And now the girl set to work with the help of the nurse and housewife, sparing no effort to transform herself into a lovely godmother from her shoes and stockings all the way up to the little wreath atop the luxurious lace cap. The nurse was impatient, but these intricate preparations took time, and the godmother kept discovering flaws. Then the grandmother came in and said, “I’ve come to see for myself how lovely our godmother is.” And she casually remarked that the bells had already rung for the second time and that both godfathers had arrived and were waiting out in the front room.
And indeed the two godfathers sat there, an old one and a young one, having refused the newfangled coffee, which they could drink any day of the week, in favor of the steaming wine soup, this old-fashioned but tasty Bernese concoction made from wine, toasted bread, eggs, sugar, and cinnamon along with saffron, that equally old-fashioned spice that was a requirement at any baptismal feast, whether in the soup, ragouts, or sweet tea. They tucked right in, and the old godfather—known to all as “cousin”—allowed himself no end of jokes at the expense of the child’s father, saying they didn’t intend to spare him anything today and
that they assumed, judging by the soup he’d served, that he begrudged them nothing, as he’d clearly spared no expense: Indeed, he must have handed over a twelve-measure sack the previous Tuesday when he sent to Bern for the saffron. When no one understood the cousin’s meaning, he explained that a neighbor of his who had recently hosted a baptismal feast had given his messenger a big sack and six Kreuzers, instructing him to bring back six Kreuzers’ worth of the precious yellow powder since his womenfolk had insisted it be used in all the dishes served at the celebration—but all he got was a measure or two.
Then the godmother came in like a young morning sun and was welcomed by her fellow godparents, who made her sit down at the table, where a large dish of wine soup was set in front of her, and this she was to eat, for after all there was surely time yet while the child was being prepared. The poor thing resisted with all her might, claiming she had already eaten enough for several days and could scarcely breathe. But to no avail. Old and young pursued her with jests and earnest protestations until she picked up the spoon, and strange to say, one spoonful after the other found its way into her. But then the nurse returned with the beautifully swaddled infant, put on its little embroidered cap with the pink silk ribbon, laid it in the lovely ceremonial eiderdown, placed the sweetened pacifier in its little mouth, and said she had no wish to delay anyone, she just wanted to make sure all was in readiness, then they could set out as soon as they pleased. Everyone gathered about the child, praising it, as custom demanded, and indeed it was a plump, attractive little boy. The mother was delighted and said, “I so wish I could go to the church with you and join you in entrusting my child to God’s care; when you witness a child’s baptism, it helps you remember your promises. Besides, it’s such a burden to be forbidden to set foot beyond the eaves of the house for an entire week, especially now with all the planting to be done.” But the grandmother said that they were not yet so impoverished that her daughter-in-law should have to make her first church visit within a week of giving birth, like a pauper’s wife, and the nurse added that she didn’t like it at all when young mothers went to church with their babies: They never stopped worrying that something might be amiss at home and so were never fully at their devotions in the church, and then on the way home they would hurry, fearing some neglect, and become overheated, and some fell gravely ill and even died.
The Black Spider (New York Review Books Classics) Page 1