The Black Spider (New York Review Books Classics)

by Jeremias Gotthelf

  The following day, when the shrieks of misery had subsided, leaving behind only laments and moans, the men sat together, seeking council and finding none. At first they spoke of petitioning the knight once more, but no man was willing to risk life and limb by bearing such a message. One proposed sending the women and children with their wails and laments, but he soon fell silent as the women began to speak; for even in those days women were always nearby when the men sat in council. They knew not what else they could do but in God’s name to try to obey, they would have masses said to implore God’s succor, and they would ask their neighbors to help them under the cover of night—for their masters would not have permitted them to receive help openly. They would divide themselves into two groups, half toiling over the beeches while the other half sowed the oats and tended the livestock. They hoped that in this way and with God’s aid they would succeed in carting at least three beeches up to Bärhegen each day; no one spoke of the green man; whether anyone thought of him is not recorded.

  They split up, prepared their tools, and as the first of May crept over its threshold, the men gathered at Münneberg and set to work with determination. A wide ring had to be dug around each of the beeches, carefully preserving its roots, and then each tree had to be lowered carefully to the earth to spare it injury. The morning had not yet climbed high in the sky when three trees lay ready to be transported, for they had resolved to cart three at a time, that they might come to each other’s aid by sharing hands and beasts along the difficult road. But already the sun stood at the center of the sky, and still they had not emerged from the forest with the three beeches; already the sun stood behind the mountains and still the teams had not passed Sumiswald. Only the next morning did they reach the foot of the mountain where the castle stood, and still the beeches had to be planted. It was as if an unlucky star ruled over them. One misfortune after the other befell them: harness straps burst in twain, carts broke down, horses and oxen fell or refused to obey. On the second day, it was even worse. New troubles called forth new efforts, the unfortunates struggled unrelentingly, and yet not a single beech stood in place, and the fourth had not yet been brought as far as Sumiswald.

  Von Stoffeln cursed and berated them; and the more he berated and cursed, the mightier their unlucky star became, the more intractable their beasts. The other knights laughed and mocked; the spectacle of the peasants’ struggles and von Stoffeln’s wrath seemed to give them a good deal of pleasure. They had laughed at von Stoffeln’s new castle atop its naked peak. And so he had vowed that one month hence a double row of beautiful shade trees must be standing there. And so now he cursed, and the knights laughed, and the peasants wept.

  The peasants were seized by terrible despondency; not a single cart had escaped damage, not a single team been spared injury, two days’ labor had not sufficed to transport even three trees to their new homes, and their strength was exhausted.

  Night had come, black clouds rose up, lightning flashed for the first time in the year. Men had sat down at the road’s edge, the same bend in the road where they had sat three days before, but of this they were unaware. The peasant Hornbach—the husband of the woman from Lindau—sat there with two farmhands, and others sat beside them. They were awaiting the arrival of the beeches from Sumiswald, reflecting on their misery and resting their shattered limbs.

  Just then, with a whistling rush as the wind whistles when it escapes from a chamber, a woman flew up with a large basket on her head. It was Christine of Lindau, wife of the peasant Hornbach, who had come into possession of this female when he had followed his lord into battle. She was not the sort of woman who is content to stay at home, quietly going about her duties with no other concern than household and children. Christine always wanted to know what was afoot, and any matter on which she was prevented from giving her opinion she took to be going badly.

  For this reason she had not sent a maidservant to bring the men their noon meal, but had loaded the heavy basket onto her own head and had sought out the men, for a long time in vain, for which she reproached them. Nor was she idle meanwhile, for she could speak and work at the same time. She set the basket down, uncovered the pail filled with porridge, laid out the bread and the cheese, and stuck spoons in the porridge, one for every man present, master and servant, and bade anyone with an empty stomach come and eat. Then she asked how the men’s work had gone that day, and how much had been accomplished in the two days past. The men, however, had neither appetite nor words. Not one picked up a spoon. Not one answered her. Only one flippant little farmhand, who found it a matter of indifference if it rained or the sun shone on harvest day as long as the year went round and his wages were paid and there was food on the table at every meal, took up his spoon and told Christine that they had not yet planted a single beech and that everything was going as if an evil spell had been cast on them.

  How she scoffed then, calling these fears idle imaginings, and the men as weak as women in childbed; working and weeping, wailing and waiting would not, she declared, put beeches on Bärhegen. Should the knight unleash his malice on them, it would be no worse than they deserved; but for the sake of their wives and children, the matter would have to be taken in hand quite differently. At this, a long black hand slid suddenly down over the woman’s shoulder, and a shrill voice cried out, “Quite right she is!” And there in their midst stood the green huntsman, a grin upon his lips, and the red feather atop his hat swayed merrily to and fro. In their terror, the men scattered, flying up the slope like chaff in a whirlwind.

  Only Lindau Christine was unable to flee, and she learned the meaning of the old saying: Paint the devil on the wall, and you will meet him in the flesh! She remained rooted to the spot, transfixed, unable to avert her eyes from the red feather on his cap and the little red beard flapping merrily up and down in his swarthy face. The green huntsman’s shrill laughter pursued the fleeing men, but the face he turned to Christine was gentle, and with a courtly gesture he took her hand. Christine tried to draw her hand away, but she could not escape him, it was like meat sizzling in the grip of red-hot tongs. And now he began to speak prettily, and his red beard flicked lustily up and down as he spoke. He had not beheld so fine a woman in quite some time, he said, and the sight made his heart laugh in his breast; besides, he liked his women bold, and the ones he liked best were those strong enough to hold their ground when their menfolk ran away.

  As he spoke thus, the green man appeared less and less fearsome to Christine. Surely he can be reasoned with, she thought, and she didn’t see any cause to run away; she’d seen far rougher men than this. Something could be arranged, she was ever more confident, and if one knew how to speak to him, he might do one a favor; perhaps in the end one could even outwit him just like any other man. The green man was saying he couldn’t understand why he was so feared, he meant well by humankind, and if people received him uncharitably, why should they be surprised if he didn’t always treat them the way they wanted. Christine summoned her courage and said that he had only himself to blame if he frightened people so atrociously. Why did he demand an unbaptized child, he might have spoken of some other form of payment, talk like that aroused suspicion, a child was human, after all, and no Christian would hand over a child before its baptism. “This is my customary payment, and I will accept nothing else; who cares about an infant that no one even knows yet? It’s best to give them away early when no one has taken pleasure in or cared for them. For me, the younger the better; the earlier I begin raising a child in my own way, the further I can bring it. Baptism is unnecessary for my purposes. I don’t want it.” Now Christine understood that he would not be satisfied with any other payment; but the thought continued to grow within her: Why should this be the only man who couldn’t be tricked?

  She said that a person who wanted to earn something had to be content with what others could give; at present there was not a single unbaptized child in any of their homes, and none would be born within the month, but the beeches still had to
be transported by then. Now the green man became courteous and attentive, saying, “I don’t insist on receiving the child in advance. As long as I am promised that the first child born will be brought to me unbaptized, I will be satisfied with that.” These words were very much to Christine’s liking. She knew that no child would be born in her lord’s lands for quite some time. Once the green man had kept his promise and the beeches were planted, they wouldn’t have to give him anything at all, neither a child nor anything else; they would have masses read to shield and protect them and enjoy a hearty laugh at the green man’s expense—these were Christine’s thoughts. And so she thanked him boldly for his kind offer and said it was worth thinking about, she would speak to the men. “There is nothing left to think about, nothing to speak of,” the green man said. “I instructed the lot of you to appear here today, and I will have my answer; I have business in many other places as well; you are not my sole concern. You must either accept or refuse my offer, for afterwards I will hear no more of it.” Christine tried to turn matters to her advantage, being reluctant to shoulder this burden alone; she might even have resorted to caresses in the hope of gaining time, but the green man was in no humor for this and did not waver. “It is now or never!” he said, adding that as soon as the bargain had been struck for the child, he would cart as many beeches to Bärhegen each night as the peasants could bring to Kilchstalden by midnight. He’d be here to fetch them. “Think no more of it, my lovely,” he said, tapping Christine sweetly on the cheek. Her heart palpitated; she would have preferred to draw the men into this business so they could take the blame later. But there was no time to lose, no man stood by to serve as scapegoat, and still the belief had not abandoned her that she was craftier than the green man and would later surely come up with a way to outsmart him. For this reason, Christine said that for her part she agreed; but if later the men refused, there was nothing she could do about it, and he shouldn’t hold her responsible. She promised to do what she could, and the green man declared himself passably satisfied. Christine’s limbs and soul began to quake; now, she realized, would come the fearful moment when she must sign the green man’s contract with blood of her blood. But the green man made things easy, saying that he never required a signature from a beautiful woman, just a kiss. At once he pursed his lips before Christine’s face, and there was no escape, she stood transfixed, rigid, immobile. And now the pointy mouth touched Christine’s face, and it seemed to her a sharp iron made of fire pierced through her very marrow, her body and soul; and a yellow lightning bolt flashed between them, showing Christine the green man’s devilish countenance twisted in pleasure, and a thunderclap crashed down over her as though the skies had burst in two.

  The green man was gone, and Christine stood as if turned to stone. Her feet seemed to have sent roots shooting deep into the earth in that fearful moment. At last she regained control of her limbs, but her mind was filled with a tumultuous roaring as if a mighty flood were hurling its waters down cliffs as high as towers into a black ravine. Just as one cannot hear one’s own voice amid the thundering of water, Christine was not conscious of her own thoughts amid the great roar thundering in her mind. Unconsciously she flew up the mountainside, and felt, glowing ever hotter, a burning on her cheek where the green man’s mouth had touched it; she rubbed at it and washed, but the flames would not subside.

  A tempestuous night followed. Every peak, every crevasse howled and roared as though the spirits of night were celebrating their nuptials high aloft in the black clouds, winds striking up wild roundelays for a grisly dance, with lightning bolts for wedding torches and thunder the marriage blessing. Never had such a night been seen at this time of year.

  Now there was furious activity at a large house in the dark mountain valley, with many people clustered beneath its sheltering roof. Ordinarily a farmer will stay on his farm during a storm, fearful for the safety of hearth and home; to guard and protect his homestead, he keeps watch as long as thunderheads fill the heavens. But shared adversity outweighed the peasants’ fear of the storm. Adversity brought them together in this house which those driven from Münneberg by the storm had to pass, as did those fleeing Bärhegen. The misery made them forget the terrors of the night, and they lamented and bemoaned their misfortune. Nature raging out of doors only compounded their wretchedness. Horses and oxen had taken fright or balked, they had kicked their carts to splinters or plunged over cliffs, and now many of the injured groaned in pain, while others shrieked as their dislocated limbs were set and bound.

  Those who had beheld the green man also fled to this place of misery, gripped by ghastly fears. They quaked as they told of his renewed appearance. Quaking, the company listened to the men’s report, emerging from the room’s darkest reaches to gather around the fire where the men sat, and when the wind wailed in the rafters or a thunderclap crashed above the house, the whole assembly cried out in terror, convinced that the green man was breaking through the roof to appear in their midst. But he did not come, and their fear subsided, and as the old misery persisted and the laments of the suffering increased, thoughts began to rise within them of the sort that can easily cost a man his soul. They began to calculate how much more all of them together were worth than a single unbaptized child, gradually forgetting that a crime against a soul weighs a thousand times heavier than saving even thousands and thousands of human lives.

  Slowly they came to give voice to these thoughts; their words mingled with the tortured moans of the suffering. The peasants began to ask about the green man, expressing dissatisfaction at not having engaged him properly; he had taken no one, and the less fear they had of him, the less harm he would do. If only they’d been braver they might have helped the whole valley. Then the men began to make excuses. They didn’t say that it was dangerous to toy with the devil—that a person who lent him his ear would soon give his whole head—but instead spoke of the green man’s terrifying figure, his flaming beard, the fiery feather atop his hat, making it look like the turret of a castle, and the horrific unendurable smell of sulfur. But Christine’s husband, who had grown used to his wife’s backing, said that they should just ask her; she could tell them whether the smell could be endured; everyone knew how courageous she was. So they looked for Christine, but no one saw her. Each had thought only of his own salvation, not that of others, and now sitting in safety, each assumed all the others to be safe too. Only now did it occur to them that no one had seen Christine since that fateful moment, and she had not come into the house with them. Her husband began to wail most bitterly, and the others with him. Only she could help them, they all thought.

  Suddenly the door flew open. Her hair dripping, her cheeks red, and her eyes burning darker than ever with an unholy fire, Christine stood in their midst. They welcomed her with a warmth to which she was not accustomed, and each wanted to be the first to tell what had been thought and said, and how worried about her they’d been. Christine soon saw what they were getting at and, concealing her inner fury behind scornful words, she reproached the men for their overhasty flight; not one of them had stopped to help a poor woman, nor turned back to see what might befall her at the green man’s hands. At this, a storm of curiosity broke out. Everyone was impatient to hear how she had fared, and those in back craned their necks to hear better and get a closer look at this woman who had stood so close beside the green man. At first Christine said that they didn’t deserve to hear a thing, not after tormenting her as a stranger in their valley, with the women calling her wicked names, and the menfolk failing her at every turn, and if she were not more good-hearted than the rest of them, and more courageous, there would be no hope and no way out of their misery. Christine went on like this for quite some time, hurling harsh words at the women who had never been willing to believe her when she said that Lake Constance was larger than the castle pond, and the more they tried to sway her, the more unrelenting she became, insisting in particular that they were sure to put the worst possible interpretation on what she was ab
out to say, and that if things went well, they wouldn’t be grateful at all, and if they went badly, they would saddle her with all the blame.

  At last the entire group was practically down on its knees before Christine, begging and entreating her, with the wounded crying out imploringly. Christine appeared to soften, and she began to relate how she had held her ground and come to an agreement with the green man; but she said nothing of the kiss, of the way it burned upon her cheek, and the tumult it unleashed in her brain. But she did explain her devious thoughts since then. The most important thing was to have the beeches brought to Bärhegen; once they stood in their places, there would be time to decide what to do next; the main thing was that until that time—as far as she knew—no child would be born among them.

  Many felt a chill ripple down their spines as she spoke, but the thought that there would still be time to consider what to do next pleased all of them.

  One young woman, though, began to weep most bitterly—you might have washed your hands beneath her eyes—without saying a word. An old, venerable woman, however, tall and with a face fit to bow down to or flee, stepped forward and declared it was ungodly to wager certainties upon uncertainties and to gamble with eternal life. Those who enter into relations with the Evil One, she said, will never be rid of evil; if you give him a finger, your body and soul will belong to him. No one, she said, could help them escape this misery but God; and if someone forsakes Him in his misery, in misery he will drown. But the venerable old woman’s council was met with disdain, and they bade the young woman be silent, saying that weeping and wailing were no help, they needed a different sort of help.