The Black Spider (New York Review Books Classics)

by Jeremias Gotthelf

  Then the godmother picked up the infant in its eiderdown, the nurse covered the child with the beautiful white baptismal cloth with the black tassels at the corners, careful not to disturb the lovely bouquet at the godmother’s breast, and said, “So go now in God’s holy name!” And the grandmother interlaced her hands and silently prayed a fervent blessing. But the mother accompanied the procession as far as the door, saying, “My sweet, my sweet, now I must go an entire three hours without seeing you, how shall I possibly endure it!” At once her eyes filled with tears; she quickly wiped her face with her apron and went into the house.

  Swiftly the godmother strode down the hill, following the path that led to the church, the child merry in her strong arms, and behind her came the two godfathers, the father, and the grandfather, to none of whom it occurred to relieve the godmother of her burden, and though the hat of the younger godfather bore a splendid sprig of flowers marking him as a bachelor, and though the look in his eyes suggested he’d taken something of a liking to her, still he maintained a façade of perfect nonchalance.

  The grandfather recounted how dreadful the weather had been the day he himself was carried to the church, with so much hail and lightning that the churchgoers scarcely imagined they would escape with their lives. Afterward people had prophesied all sorts of fates for him on account of this storm—some a dreadful death, others great success in warfare; meanwhile he had lived out his life quietly just like everyone else, and now that he had reached his seventy-fifth year, he would neither die young nor experience great military triumphs.

  They were already more than halfway there when the girl came chasing after them who was charged with carrying the child home as soon as it had been baptized, while the relatives and godparents remained in the church to hear the sermon, as the lovely old custom required. This girl, too, had taken pains to look beautiful on this day. But she had tarried too long over her handiwork, and now she offered to relieve the godmother of the child; but the godmother would have none of it and could not be swayed. This was too fine an opportunity to demonstrate to the handsome, single godfather how strong her arms were, and what exertions they could withstand. Strong arms on a woman suit a proper farmer far better than delicate ones, flimsy little sticks that can be blown in all directions by any passing nor’easter; and strong maternal arms have proved the salvation of many a child after a father’s death, when the mother is left alone to wield the rod and hoist the household’s wheels out of whatever potholes and ditches they might encounter.

  But all at once it was as if someone had seized the strong godmother by the braids or struck her forehead; she practically recoiled, handed the baby to the girl, and for a moment lagged behind the others, pretending to adjust her garter. Then she caught up again, joined the menfolk, and began to take part in their conversations. She tried to interrupt the grandfather, bringing up this and that to distract him from the topic of discussion. But as old people are wont to do, he stuck to his subject, and whenever he lost the thread he would pick it up again. Now she attached herself to the child’s father and with questions of all sorts attempted to lure him into a private conversation; but the father, laconic, kept dropping the thread she was attempting to spin. Perhaps he was immersed in thoughts of his own, such as every father should have when his child is being carried to the church to be baptized, particularly his first son. The closer they approached to the church, the more people joined the procession—some of them stood waiting already at the side of the road, psalm books in hand; others came running with greater haste down the narrow footpaths—until the procession seemed grand indeed as it entered the village.

  Hard by the church stood the public house; so often the two are closely conjoined, honorably sharing both joys and sorrows. The company went inside, gave the baby a dry diaper, and the child’s father ordered a jug of wine, ignoring the others’ protests that they’d had their fill and desired nothing more either to eat or to drink. But once the wine was served, everyone took a glass, especially the girl, who must have thought she’d better drink wine when it was offered, since she might not have another opportunity for a long time. But the godmother could not be moved to take a single drop, despite all the attempts made to persuade her—which threatened to go on forever until the publican’s wife finally said they should stop pressing her, pointing out that the girl was growing paler by the moment and needed Hoffmann’s drops more than wine. But the godmother didn’t want any drops either, she was scarcely willing to accept a glass of plain water, though at last she submitted to having smelling salts applied to her handkerchief. It was not her fault that she had become the target of suspicious glances, yet she could not justify herself or even ask for help. The godmother was suffering from the most dreadful fear and was forced to conceal it. No one had told her what name the child was to be given—and according to custom, it was the godmother’s duty to whisper this name to the pastor when she handed him the child, since he might otherwise easily confuse all the names entered in his register when there were many children to be baptized.

  In the general haste of the preparations and their fear of arriving at the church too late, no one had remembered to tell her what name had been chosen for the child; and she had been strictly, peremptorily forbidden by her aunt, her father’s sister, to ask the name unless she meant to ensure the child’s unhappiness; for if a godmother asks a child’s name, the child will suffer from curiosity as long as it lives.

  And so she did not know the name, was not allowed to ask, and if the pastor too had forgotten it and asked her the name loudly in front of everyone, or else accidentally baptized the boy Magdalena or Barbara, how people would laugh, and what disgrace would follow her the rest of her days. This prospect appeared to her ever more frightful, and the legs of this sturdy girl shook like beanstalks in the wind, and perspiration ran in rivulets down her pale cheeks.

  Now the publican’s wife announced that it was time to go on for all who did not wish to hear stern words from the pastor; but to the godmother she remarked, “I’m afraid this will be the end of you, missy, you’re as white as a freshly washed shirt.” The godmother replied that it was from all the walking, and assured the woman that she would feel better once she was out again in the fresh air. But she didn’t feel better, all the faces in the church looked dark and severe, and now the baby started screaming as well, brutally loud shrieks, murderously loud. The poor godmother began to rock him in her arms, fiercely and ever more fiercely the louder he shrieked, until petals began to fall from the sprig pinned at her breast. Her chest felt ever heavier and more constricted; she strained audibly to breathe. The more violently her breast heaved, the higher the child flew up in her arms, and the higher he flew, the louder he shrieked, and the louder he shrieked, the more stentoriously the pastor read out the prayers. Their voices beat a tattoo against the walls, and the godmother no longer knew where she was; all around her was a rushing and roaring like waves in the sea, and the church whirled with her in a dance high up in the air. Finally the minister said “Amen,” and now the terrible moment was here; now it would be decided if she would be made a laughingstock for generations to come; now she was to lift the cloth, to give the child to the pastor, to whisper the name in his right ear. She folded back the blanket, trembling and quaking, and handed over the child, and the pastor took it without looking at her, with no sharp or questioning gaze, he dipped his hand in the water, moistened the brow of the suddenly quiet child, and baptized not a Magdalena or a Barbara but a Hans Uli, an honest, veritable Hans Uli.

  It now seemed to the godmother not only as if the entire range of Emmental mountains were being lifted from her heart but the sun, moon, and stars as well, as if someone were carrying her out of a fiery furnace into a cool bath; but her limbs continued to tremble for the rest of the sermon and refused to come to rest. The pastor’s sermon was lovely; in striking terms he preached that human lives ought to be nothing other than a gradual ascent to heaven; but she could not calm her mind enough fo
r genuine prayer, and by the time the sermon was over and everyone got up to leave, she had forgotten the text. She eagerly awaited the moment when she could reveal her secret fear and the explanation for her pallor. Much laughter ensued, and she was forced to listen to many a joke about curiosity and the way womenfolk feared it while nonetheless passing it on to all their girls, while it did the boys no harm at all. Everyone agreed the godmother needn’t have worried about asking.

  But soon the lovely fields of oats, the charming acres of flax, and the splendid burgeoning of meadow and field drew everyone’s attention and filled their thoughts. They kept finding reasons to walk slowly, to stand still, yet the beautiful May sun climbing up the sky still managed to warm them by the time they got home, and a glass of cool wine was a welcome refreshment, though every last one of them resisted accepting it. Then the company sat down in front of the house while industrious hands flew about in the kitchen and the fire crackled mightily. The nurse glowed like one of the three who came forth from the burning fiery furnace. The call to table came quite early, before eleven, but this was just for the servants, who were fed in advance of the others, and amply, but all were glad to have them, and the farmhands in particular, out of the way.

  Conversation flowed slowly in front of the house, and yet it didn’t dry up; before eating, the stomach’s thoughts disturb the thoughts of the soul, but no one enjoys this state of mind, and often it is cloaked in languorous discussion of indifferent topics. Already the sun stood high in the south when the nurse appeared at the door, her cheeks blazing but her apron still gleaming white, and brought the universally welcome news that if everyone had arrived it was time to eat. But most of the guests had not arrived, and like the servants in the Gospels, the messengers that had been sent to them returned bearing excuses of every sort—with the difference, though, that all of these guests did in fact wish to come, just not yet; one of them had sent for workmen, another had visitors, and a third had a quick errand to run—but they sent word not to wait, the party should proceed. Soon it was decided that they would go ahead, for if they waited for every last guest to arrive, they might be waiting until the moon rose in the heavens. “How idiotic,” the nurse grumbled, “keeping people waiting like that.” Of course in their heart of hearts they were all eager to be there, she said—in fact the sooner the better—but they didn’t want to show it. And so now there would be the extra bother of warming the meal again, and no telling if there would be enough to go round, there was no end to it.

  The question of what to do about the absent guests had been quickly decided, but the guests who were present still remained to be dealt with, and it proved no easy matter to lure them into the dining room and get them to take their places; not a single one of them wanted to be the first to give in. When at last all were seated, the soup was brought to the table, a lovely beef soup tinted and spiced with saffron, and so stuffed with the lovely white bread that the grandmother had sliced that little broth remained visible. Now heads were bared, hands folded, and long and solemnly they all prayed to the giver of these fine gifts. Only then did they slowly take up their tin spoons, wiping them on the beautiful, delicate tablecloth, and set about eating the soup, saying to one another that if such a soup could be had every day, there would be no wanting anything else. When they had finished the soup, they wiped their spoons on the tablecloth once more, and the Züpfe was passed around so that each of them could cut off a piece for himself as the dishes of ragout in saffron broth were brought out: a ragout of brains, one of mutton, and one of pickled liver. When the guests had coolly helped themselves to the ragout, heaping dishes of sliced beef came out—both fresh and smoked, to suit all tastes—along with the dried beans and dried quarters of choke pear accompanied by thick slices of bacon and splendid back cuts from three-hundredweight pigs, so beautifully red and white and juicy. All these dishes were served in succession, and when a new guest arrived, everything was brought out again in order, starting with the soup, and each was compelled to begin where everyone else had begun, with no one spared a single dish. All this while, Benz, the child’s father, kept industriously filling everyone’s glasses from the beautiful white bottles that held more than a liter and a half and were opulently adorned with escutcheons and proverbs. Where his arms would not reach, he delegated the butlership, solemnly compelling his guests to partake with frequent admonitions: “Quaff freely, friends, the wine is there to be drunk!” And every time the nurse brought in a platter, he held out his glass to her, and others held out their glasses as well, and if she’d taken it upon herself to respond, things might have gotten wildly out of hand in the kitchen.

  The younger godfather was taunted for not compelling the godmother to drink enough; his tormenters jeered that if he couldn’t give a better toast, he’d never get a wife. “Oh,” the godmother finally replied, “Hans Uli surely has no desire for a wife.” Single lads nowadays, she explained, had quite other things on their minds than marrying, and most of them weren’t up to it anyway. “Well certainly,” Hans Uli said, declaring himself to be in full agreement. Most girls these days, he went on, were such namby-pamby creatures—what kind of wife would they make! They seemed to think that all it took to be a proper wife was to wear a blue silk scarf about one’s head, dainty little gloves in summer, and delicate embroidered slippers in winter. “If a fellow has no cows in his stable, that’s certainly a misfortune, but it’s possible to change; but if he marries a wife who costs him house and home, he is truly done for since he has to keep her.” It was better, he concluded, for a young man to think of other things than marriage and to let the girls be.

  “Quite right, entirely correct,” said the older godfather, a short, unprepossessing little fellow, humbly dressed, who nonetheless enjoyed a great deal of respect; everyone called him “cousin,” for while he had no children, he had full ownership of a farm and an investment of one hundred thousand Swiss francs. “Yes, that’s entirely correct,” he said, “womenfolk these days are worth nothing at all. I don’t mean to say there isn’t the odd woman here and there who would grace a household, but they’re few and far between. Nothing but foolishness and frippery in their heads, vain as can be, dressed like peacocks and fussing about like bewildered storks, and if they put in half a day’s work, they have a headache for three days after and spend the next four lying in bed. When I was courting my old lady, things were different, you didn’t have to worry that instead of a proper housewife you might wind up with a fool or even a devil in your home.”

  “Not so fast, godfather Uli,” said the godmother, who had been waiting to speak for some time. “Listening to you, you’d think there hadn’t been a decent farmer’s daughter since the days of your youth. You just don’t know them. You’ve stopped casting your eye on young girls, as is only right for a man your age, but they still exist and they’re just as fine as back in the days when your old lady was a girl. Not to boast, but my father sometimes says that if I keep on as I have been I’ll even outdo my blessed mother, may she rest in peace, and she was a famous one. The pigs my father brought to market this year were the fattest ever. The butcher told him he’d like to see the girl who fattened up those pigs. But boys these days—now that’s something to complain about. What’s wrong with them? Smoking their pipes, sitting about in public houses, with their white hats cocked to the side, gaping and staring with eyes as wide as the city gates while they chase after every game of ninepins, every shooting match, every wanton creature. They’re great masters of all that. But when the time comes to milk a cow or till a field, the lad’s on his last legs, and when he picks up a tool, he’s as helpless as some fine gentleman or scholar. Sometimes I’ve even sworn to myself that it’s no use taking a husband if you don’t know how he’ll turn out, and even though here and there you’ll find a boy who has the makings of a good farmer, that’s not the same as knowing what sort of husband he’ll be.”

  At this, the others burst into laughter, so that the blood rose to the girl’s cheeks, and they
made fun of her even more, asking how long a trial period she would recommend if you wanted to know for sure what sort of husband a man would be.

  The laughter and joking went on and a great deal of meat was consumed, nor were the slices of dried pear neglected, until at last the older godfather said it was time to take a rest and get up from the table for a little while, his legs were stiff from sitting, and a pipe never tasted better than after eating meat. This advice met with general approbation, though the parents of the newly baptized child went out of their way to convince their guests not to get up from the table; for once they’d left, it would be nearly impossible to coax them back again. “Have no fear, cousin,” the older godfather said, “if you put something tasty on the table, you’ll have us back again in a trice, and once we’ve stretched our limbs a little, we’ll be all the better prepared to do some proper eating.”

  The men now made the rounds of the stables, had a look at the hayloft to see if there was still old hay up there, praised the lovely grass, and peered up into the trees to gauge the bounty that might be expected come harvesttime.

  Beneath one of the trees that was still in blossom, the godfather they all called “cousin” paused, saying that this was surely the best spot to sit for a while and light a pipe; it was nice and cool, and they would still be near at hand when the womenfolk had prepared the next course. Soon the godmother came to sit with them, having visited the garden and seedbeds along with the other women. The rest followed, and one by one they sat down in the grass, careful not to soil their pretty skirts, while their petticoats with their bright red trim were in danger of receiving a souvenir from the green grass.