The Black Spider (New York Review Books Classics)

by Jeremias Gotthelf

  The tree around which they had all gathered stood above the house at the bottom of a gently sloping hill. To glance over the scene was to see first of all the lovely, new house; and then the eye might drift beyond it to the far rim of the valley, taking in many a flourishing farm along with the green hills and dark valleys.

  “So now you have a splendid house, with everything just as it should be,” the cousin said. “Now you can make your home here and everything will have its place. I could never understand why some people go on living in cramped conditions when they have money and wood aplenty to build a new house, like you, for example.” “You must be joking, cousin,” the grandfather said. “The one way isn’t better than the other; building’s a thorny business: Even if it begins well, there’s no knowing it won’t end badly, and sometimes an obstacle will come up, or something else; it’s different wherever you are.”

  “I find this house quite exceptionally beautiful,” one of the women said. “We’ve been talking about having a new one built for some time now, but we’re afraid of the cost. When my husband comes, he’ll have to take a proper look at this one. I’d be in heaven if we could have one like this. I can’t help asking though—and please don’t take the question amiss—why you left that rough black window post beside the first window, it’s not very attractive.”

  The grandfather’s face grew thoughtful. He drew harder on his pipe, and finally remarked that they’d been short on wood when they were putting up the house. There hadn’t been enough new wood handy, and in their hurry to get done they’d taken some from the old house. “But that can’t be,” the woman said. “You can see that black piece of wood’s too short for the window. It’s been braced on both the top and the bottom. I’m sure one of your neighbors would have been happy to give you a new one.” “Well, yes,” the old man replied, “we didn’t plan it well, but we couldn’t keep bothering our neighbors. They’d already helped us out quite enough with wood and carting.”

  “Listen, Grandpa,” the cousin said, “you’re leading us on a merry chase; why not tell us the honest truth. I’ve heard rumors, but no one ever tells the whole story the way it was. How better to while away the time until the womenfolk have finished preparing the roast than to share the tale? Tell us everything that happened!” The grandfather continued to duck and dodge, but at last he was persuaded; the cousin and the women refused to relent until he’d given his word, though he told them outright that he hoped that what he was about to relate would remain with them and go no farther. A story like the one he was about to tell could make some people shun a house, and he didn’t want to bring trouble on his kinfolk in his old age.

  * * *

  Whenever my eyes fall on this piece of wood (the venerable old man began), I cannot help but feel amazed that from the distant Orient, where the human race is said to originate, human beings came as far as this place and found this sheltered nook within this narrow valley, and I then think of all the hardships endured by those who were cast or driven this way, and who they might have been. Often I sought to discover more, but learned only that this region was populated very early on, indeed that Sumiswald is said to have been a township even before our Savior walked the earth; but no chronicle tells of this. And yet it is known that more than six hundred years have passed since the castle that is now the hospital was built, and probably already then a farmhouse stood here that belonged to the castle along with a large portion of the surrounding lands and had to pay taxes and fees and perform feudal service; indeed, the people were serfs and had no rights of their own such as every man now enjoys when he reaches maturity. The lots of men differed greatly in that time, and serfs who were well treated by their lords might be neighbors to others who were brutally, almost unendurably oppressed, not even sure of their lives. Their circumstances depended on their lords, who differed greatly in their natures, but who all had almost limitless power over their serfs. The serfs had no one to go to with their grievances. It is said that things were at times far worse for the serfs bound to this castle than for the serfs bound to other castles in the region. Most of these were held by families and passed down from father to son, and so a lord and his serfs might grow up together, and many a lord was like a father to his men. This castle, however, passed into the hands of knights who were known as the Teutons, and the one who had charge of it was called the Comthur or commander. These superiors came and went, and so now there would be a Saxon in the castle and now a Swabian. No loyalties arose, and each new lord brought with him the customs of his land.

  These knights were sent off to Poland and Prussia to fight the heathen, and there—although they were in fact a religious order—they grew accustomed to an almost heathen way of life and comported themselves in a most ungodly manner, and when they came home again, they thought themselves still in the land of the heathen and continued to live in this way. Those knights who preferred an easy life and shady bowers to bloody battles fought in desert lands, as well as those who needed to rest, to tend their bodies and recover from their wounds, came to these estates that the Order—as this fellowship of knights was called—owned in Germany and Switzerland, and each behaved according to his nature and pleasure. Among the most brutal was Hans von Stoffeln of Swabia, and it was under him that the events you wish me to recount took place. The story has been passed down among us from father to son.

  This Hans von Stoffeln got an idea in his head to build a large castle up there, on the hill called Bärhegen; it stood just at the place where even now you can see the castle spirits sunning their jewels when a storm is brewing. Usually the knights would build their castles above a road, just as inns are now built beside the road, the better to plunder the people going past, though admittedly in different ways. Why it was the knight wanted his castle built upon this wild, desolate hill amid these barren wastes none can penetrate; in any case, this was what he wanted, and the peasants who were bound to the castle had to build it. The knight did not ask what labors the season required; haymaking did not interest him, nor did the harvest or sowing. So many cartloads were to be delivered, so many hands were to contribute their labors, at such-and-such a time the last roof tile was to be laid, the last nail driven in. This work was rewarded by no reduction in the bushels of wheat he demanded as tax or the fees to be paid; he did not forgo the customary tribute of a Shrove Tuesday hen, nor so much as a Shrove Tuesday egg. Mercy was unknown to him, and the needs of the poor were no concern of his. Like a heathen he drove his men to work with curses and blows, and when one of them grew weary, his strength flagging, or tried to rest, he had him whipped, sparing neither age nor weakness. Up on their hill, these savage knights delighted in hearing the whip crack and abused the laborers in other ways too, maliciously doubling their labors without hesitation. They took pleasure in the poor men’s sweat and fear.

  At last the castle was finished, its walls five ells thick, no one knew why it had been built up on the hill, but the peasants were happy that there at last it stood, if stand it must, the last nail driven in, the last roof tile in place.

  They wiped the sweat from their brows, looked with sorrowful hearts upon their holdings, sighing as they saw how far this unholy construction had set them back. But a long summer still lay before them, and God above, and so they summoned their courage and took up the plow and consoled their wives and children who had suffered severe hunger and now found new torment in these labors.

  But no sooner had they driven their plows to the field when a message arrived proclaiming that all peasants bonded to the castle were to present themselves one evening at a given hour at Sumiswald. They trembled and they were filled with hope. For although they had never been treated well by the castle’s present occupants, experiencing only wanton cruelty at their hands, yet it seemed to them right and proper that the lords should reward them for their extraordinary service, and since they thought this, many of them imagined the lords thought so as well and would present them with gifts or announce a reduction in their fees.
/>   They arrived punctually on the appointed evening, their hearts pounding, but had to wait for a long while in the courtyard, where the squires mocked them. These squires too had been in heathen lands. Besides, then as now, even the lowliest gentlemen’s squire supposes himself entitled to despise and mock worthy peasants.

  At last they were summoned to the great hall; before them, the heavy door swung open; inside, around the heavy oak table, sat the knights all in black and brown, savage curs at their feet. At the end of the table was von Stoffeln, a savage, mighty man with a head like a double Bernese bushel, eyes big as plow wheels, and a beard like the mane of an old lion. None wanted to be the first to enter, each kept pushing the others forward. At this, the knights laughed till the wine splashed out of their cups and the dogs lunged in fury; for when dogs see timid, trembling limbs, they smell blood. Utterly ill at ease, the peasants wished themselves back home again, and tried to hide behind one another. Then the dogs and knights fell silent, and von Stoffeln began to speak, his voice as resonant as the voice of a hundred-year-old oak: “My castle is finished, but something is wanting still. Summer will be here soon, and the castle wants a shady walk lined with trees. You have one month to plant it. Take one hundred full-grown beeches from atop the Münneberg with their branches and roots and plant them upon Bärhegen, and if a single tree goes missing, you will pay for it with chattel and blood. Outside you will find food and drink, but tomorrow the first beech must stand upon Bärhegen.”

  Grateful for the food and drink, one peasant supposed the knight to be inclined to mercy and kindness. He began to speak of all the work they had to do, of their hungry wives and children, of the winter to come, when this task would be easier to accomplish. At this, the knight’s face throbbed furiously, and his voice burst forth like thunder blasting from a cliff, and he declared that if he was merciful, they were insolent. In the land of the Poles, a man would kiss a knight’s feet in gratitude when his life had been spared, and here they had children and cattle, and roofs over their heads, and still they were not satisfied? “I shall humble you and teach you to obey as sure as my name is Hans von Stoffeln, and if within a month the hundred beeches do not stand in their places, I shall have you whipped until not a trace of you remains, and your babes and women will be thrown to the dogs.”

  No one dared to protest, nor did any man wish to partake of drink or food; hearing the baleful command, they rushed to the door, jostling one another to go out, with the knight’s thunderous voice at their heels, followed by the laughter of the other knights, the squires’ taunts and jeers, and the howling of the dogs.

  After the first bend in the road, out of sight of the castle, they sat down and wept. No one could find consoling words, and true outrage was beyond them, for deprivation and torments had left them only enough strength to bewail their lot. From a spot three hours away they were to transport the beeches with their branches and roots along overgrown roads up the steep mountainside, and yet quite near this mountain grew many lovely beeches, and these they were to leave standing! The work was to be completed in a month, so they must haul three trees a day for two days in a row and four on the third, carting them through the long valley and up the steep slope with their exhausted beasts. And all this in the month of May, when a farmer must be diligent in his fields, working day and night and scarcely ever ceasing in his toil if he wants to have bread and sustenance for the winter.

  As they wept there, disconsolate, none able to look on the other, to behold his fellow’s misery, since each was overwhelmed with misery of his own and none able to return home to wife and child with news of this misery, suddenly they saw before them—they did not know how he’d come there—a tall, spindly huntsman, dressed in green from top to toe. Upon his jaunty cap swayed a red feather, a little red beard blazed in his swarthy face, and, nearly concealed between curving nose and pointy chin, like a cave under an overhang, a mouth opened and asked, “What is the matter, good people, that you sit here wailing so piteously as to drive the very stones from the earth and the branches from the trees?” Twice he spoke and twice received no response.

  Then the green man’s face grew even blacker, the red beard so red it seemed to crackle and sparkle like fir twigs on the fire; the mouth contracted to an arrow-like point before it opened to inquire in the sweetest, gentlest tones: “But, good people, what use is it to sit here wailing? You can weep until a new Flood comes, or until your cries drive the stars from the sky, but surely this will be of little avail. But if someone asks you what the matter is, someone who means well by you, who might even be able to help, then instead of weeping you should answer sensibly; that would be of far greater use.” But then an old man shook his white head and said, “No offense, but no huntsman can relieve our sorrows, and a heart swollen with misery cannot speak.”

  The green man shook his pointy head and replied, “Father, your words are not foolish, but it is not as you say. Strike what you will, a stone or a tree, and a sound will be heard, it will lament. So too must man lament—must lament all that he suffers, and to every man he meets, for perhaps the next one will come to his aid. I am a mere huntsman, but who knows if I have in my stables a stalwart team of horses capable of hauling loads of stone and wood, or beeches and firs?”

  The word “team” slipped into the poor peasants’ hearts and became a spark of hope, until all fixed their eyes on the green man, and the old man’s mouth gaped even wider. It was not always right, he said, to confide one’s burdens to just anyone; but since all could hear that he meant well, that he might be able to help, they would keep no secrets. For more than two years, he went on, they had suffered cruelly to build the new castle, and not a single household in all the lordship had been spared the most bitter hardships. Now when they had just breathed a sigh of relief, thinking themselves free at last to toil on their own behalf and drive their plows out into the fields with fresh courage, now the Comthur had ordered them to plant beside the new castle a double row of Münneberg beeches before the month was out. They did not know how, with their worn-out beasts, they would ever get the job done in the time allotted, and even if they did, what good would it do them? They would not be able to plant their fields, and they would perish of hunger when winter came if the work hadn’t killed them first. How could they return home with such news, adding new woe to old?

  Here the green man’s face assumed a pitying expression; he raised his long, thin, black hand threateningly in the direction of the castle, vowing harsh revenge against tyranny. And he promised to help them. His team, the like of which was not to be found in all the land, would load up the beeches, as many as they could bring to Kilchstalden on this side of Sumiswald, and cart them to Bärhegen, as a kindness to them and in defiance of the knights, and for a modest payment.

  The poor men pricked up their ears at this unexpected offer. If they could agree on the terms, it would be their salvation, for they could cart the beeches to Kilchstalden, the hill upon which the church stood, without neglecting their own fields to their ruin. And so the old man said, “Tell us, then, what you would ask of us, that we might come to an agreement.” Here the green man’s face took on a sly expression; there was a crackling in his beard, his eyes began to flicker like the eyes of a snake, and a ghastly smile played about the two corners of his lips as they parted to speak the words: “As I said, it is not much; all I ask is an unbaptized child.”

  Like a lightning bolt these words shot through the men, the scales fell from their eyes, and like chaff in a whirlwind they flew in all directions.

  The green man howled with laughter until the fish in the brook hid themselves and the birds sought their thicket; gruesomely the feather swayed to and fro atop his hat, and the little beard bobbed up and down. “Consider,” he cried shrilly after the fugitives, “and take council with your wives. Three nights from now you will find me here again!” The words stuck in their ears like barbed arrows in flesh.

  Pale and trembling in soul and in every limb, the men flew home, a
voiding each other’s eyes. Not for all the treasure in this world would any of them have turned his head. And as the men, distraught, flew into their homes, the way doves shoot into their dovecotes when pursued by hawks, they brought their terror home with them. Everyone trembled to learn the news that had sent their limbs flying in all directions.

  Tremulous with curiosity, the wives crept after their husbands until they could speak a private word undisturbed. Each man told his wife what he had heard in the castle, and the wives listened with anger and curses; and each man said whom they had met and what he had offered. Then the women were seized with nameless terror, cries of lamentation rang out above mountain and valley, and every woman felt as if it were her own child that the unholy one had demanded. But one woman did not cry out like the rest. This frightfully clever, daring woman was said to hail from Lindau on the Bavarian side of Lake Constance, and she lived right here, on this very farm. She had fierce black eyes and little fear of God or man. She was already angry at the men for not rejecting the knight’s demands straightaway; had she been there, she would have known what to say. When she heard of the green man and his offer, and of how the men had flown before him, she became even angrier and reproached the men for their cowardice, for not having looked the green man boldly in the eye, perhaps he would have declared himself satisfied with some other payment, and since this was castle work, it would do their souls no harm if the devil did it for them. Her soul was filled with fury that she hadn’t been there herself, if only to have seen the devil with her own eyes and to know what he looked like. Fury brought no tears to this woman’s eyes; instead, she spoke harsh words against her own husband and all the other men.