The Black Spider (New York Review Books Classics)

by Jeremias Gotthelf

  And soon they had reached an agreement: They would hazard it. Even in the worst possible case, they would be no worse off than before; and this would not be the first time men had tricked the wickedest spirits. And if they should find themselves at a loss, surely a priest could give them council and succor. But not a few of them, as they later confessed, thought secretly in the depths of their hearts that it was not worth parting with so much money or going to such pains merely for the sake of an unbaptized child.

  When the decision was made to do as Christine proposed, it was as if all the whirlwinds were colliding above the house, like hosts of wild hunters hurtling past; the house posts swayed, the beams buckled, and trees splintered against the walls like spears against an armored breast. The people within grew pale, overcome with horror, but they did not reverse their decision; and as morning dawned, they began to act on it.

  The morning was beautiful and clear, all traces of storm and wizardry gone, their axes hewed twice as sharp as before, the ground was loose, and each of the beeches fell just as they wished it to, not a single cart broke down, the animals were willing and strong, and the men protected from every mishap as if by an invisible hand.

  There was just one strange thing. Down below Sumiswald in those days there was not yet a road leading to the far end of the valley, it was still marshland there, fed by the unbridled stream called Grüne, and so one drove up the Stalden by the village road that went past the church. Just as in the days before, they drove three carts at once so that they could give each other aid, be it with word, deed, or beasts, and now they had only to pass through Sumiswald and descend Kilchstalden, beside which a small chapel stood; below it, on the level road, they were to unload the beeches. But as soon as they had driven up Stalden and approached the church on the level road, the weight of their carts grew not lighter but heavier and heavier; they had to hitch up additional animals, as many as they had, and then whip them cruelly and seize hold of the wheel’s spokes, and all the while even the gentlest nags balked as though something invisible had come from the churchyard and was blocking their path; and the faint tolling of a bell, almost like the errant echo of a distant death knell, came from the church, so that a peculiar horror seized the strongest men, and both men and beasts trembled as they approached the church. Once they had passed it, the way became smooth again, and they could easily unload their carts, easily return for a new load.

  Six beeches were unloaded side by side at the appointed place that very day, and the next morning six beeches stood planted upon Bärhegen, and throughout the valley no one had heard so much as an axle turning about its hub, the cries that carters make as they work, the neighing of horses, the oxen’s monotonous bellows. But six beeches stood planted there and could be seen by all who wished to look, and they were the same trees that had been laid out at the foot of the Stalden and none other.

  The entire valley marveled, and curiosity was widespread. The knights were especially eager to learn what sort of pact the peasants had entered into, and how the beeches had been transplanted. They would have liked to use heathen methods to press the peasants to reveal their secret. But they soon saw that even the peasants did not quite understand and were half terror-struck. Moreover, von Stoffeln forbade the knights to intervene. He wasn’t indifferent to how the beeches got to Bärhegen; as long as the beeches were being brought up the hill, he was just as happy to see the peasants spared. His knights’ jeers, he now saw, had driven him to commit an act of foolishness, for if the peasants were destroyed and the fields remained unplanted, it was the lords who would suffer the greatest loss; nonetheless, once von Stoffeln made a decree, he stood by it. And so it suited him that the peasants had sought and found relief, even if they had ransomed their souls; for what were the souls of peasants to him once Death had taken their bodies! He laughed now at his knights and protected the peasants from their malice. The knights, however, wanted to get to the bottom of this matter and sent their squires to keep watch; these squires were then found the next morning half dead in ditches where an invisible hand had thrust them.

  Two knights now betook themselves to Bärhegen. These were men of great mettle, and in the land of the heathen, no perilous venture had proved too much for them. The next morning they were found lying on the earth as if paralyzed; when they were once more capable of speech, they said that a red knight with a flaming lance had run them down. Now and then an inquisitive female could not resist peering in the midnight hour through a crack or chink at the road leading through the valley. At once a poisonous wind would blow upon her; her face would swell, and for weeks neither nose nor eyes could be seen, and her mouth found only with difficulty. Under these circumstances, people soon gave up peeking, and not a single eye gazed down the valley at midnight.

  Once, though, a man suddenly found himself on the point of death; he was in need of a priest’s final solace, but no one dared go for the priest, for midnight was near, and the road lead past Kilchstalden. Then an innocent little boy, beloved of God and men, set off unbidden to Sumiswald out of fear for his father. As he came near Kilchstalden, he saw the beeches flying up from the ground there, each drawn by two flaming squirrels, and beside them he saw a green man riding a black billy goat, a fiery scourge in his hand, a flaming beard on his face, and, swaying atop his hat, a feather red as glowing embers. The procession flew through the air high over hill and knoll as quick as a wink. This the boy saw, and no harm befell him.

  Not three weeks had passed, and already ninety beeches stood upon Bärhegen, making a lovely avenue, for each was thickly covered in new growth, and not a single tree had withered. But the knights, even von Stoffeln, did not often walk there, for always a feeling of dread crept over them; they would have liked best to know nothing at all of the whole business, but no one put an end to it, each consoling himself with the thought that if something were amiss, someone else was to blame.

  The peasants, though, felt ever more at ease with every beech that was planted, for with each tree their hope grew of satisfying their lord and cheating the green man; he had taken no pledge, and once the hundredth tree was planted, what need would they have to concern themselves with him? Still, they weren’t sure they trusted the situation; each day brought fears that he might be playing a trick on them and would leave them in the lurch. On Saint Urban’s Day, they carted the last beeches to Kilchstalden, and young and old slept poorly that night; it was hardly to be believed that he would complete his work with no more ado, without child or collateral.

  The next morning, young and old were on their feet long before the sun, and in each the same eager fear was stirring; but for a long time no one dared approach the place where they had laid the beeches, lest a snare had been set there for those who wanted to deceive the green man.

  A rough young cowherd who’d just come down from the mountain with a pannier of the soft cheese called Zieger finally took the chance; he ran to the place and found no beeches lying there, and no sign of trickery or mischief. Still they were distrustful. They made the cowherd precede them to Bärhegen, and there they found everything as it should be: one hundred beeches lined up in formation, not one of them withered, nor did any of the peasants have a swollen face or aching limb. Jubilation arose in their hearts, and they began to mock the green man and the knights. For the third time, they sent the rough young cowherd to do their bidding, instructing him to tell von Stoffeln that on Bärhegen everything was finished and he could come and count his trees. The knight heard it with a shudder and sent word to the peasants to quit the place at once and go home. He would have liked to tell them to tear the whole thing down again, but he refrained from this, on account of his knights; he didn’t want them saying he was afraid; and he knew nothing of the pact the peasants had entered into and who might have a part in it.

  When the cowherd arrived with this message, the peasants’ hearts were even further inflamed with defiance; reveling youths danced up and down the shady avenue, and wild yodels resounded from chasm to c
hasm, from one mountaintop to the next, echoing back from the high walls of the Sumiswald castle. Sober-minded elders voiced words of caution, bidding them cease, but defiant hearts pay no heed to their elders’ warnings, saying that any misfortune is the fault of the elders with all their warnings and fearfulness. The time is still to come when it will be recognized that defiance itself can summon misfortune out of nowhere. The celebration spread through mountain and valley and all the houses, and wherever a finger’s length of meat could be found in the smokehouse, it was cooked, and if a handsbreadth of butter was left in the crock, they set to baking cakes.

  The meat was eaten, the cakes disappeared, the day had passed, and a new day dawned in the heavens. The day was fast approaching when a woman would give birth to a child; and the closer this day came, the more urgent was their fear: fear that the green man would show himself again, would demand his due, or else lay a snare for them.

  The wretchedness of that young woman whose day was fast approaching—who could describe it? All through the house her lamentations resounded, gripping every member of the household, and no one knew what to do, only that they had bound themselves to one who could not be trusted. The fateful hour approached, and the unfortunate woman clove to God ever more, embracing the holy Mother not merely with her arms, but with her body and soul and all her heart, imploring her protection in the name of her blessed Son. And it became ever more clear to her that in living and dying, in one’s hour of need, the greatest consolation lay in God, for where He was, the Evil One could not exist and had no power.

  She had come to believe that if a priest in the Lord’s service attended the birth of a child, bearing the holiest of all things, the sacred body of the Savior, and armed with powerful incantations, no evil spirit would be able to approach, and straightaway the priest could administer to the newborn the sacrament of baptism, which customs at the time permitted; then the poor child would be forever safe from the perils that the foolhardiness of its parents had brought upon it. Others shared her belief, and the young woman’s lamentations touched their hearts, but they were ashamed to admit to the priest that they had entered into a pact with Satan, and since that day none of them had gone to confession, nor spoken with him about the matter. This priest was a deeply devout man, even the knights of the castle did not trifle with him, though he spoke truth to them. The peasants knew he could do nothing to prevent a bargain once it was struck; but now none of them wished to confess how matters lay—and their consciences told them why.

  Finally the lamentations pierced the heart of one of the women; she ran to reveal the entire business to the priest along with the young woman’s request. A violent horror seized the pious man, but he lost no time with empty words; boldly he strode into battle against this powerful adversary to defend a poor soul. He was the sort of man who does not shy away from the hardest battle, for he wishes to be crowned with the crown of eternal life and knows full well that no one will be crowned who does not righteously do battle.

  All around the house in which the woman awaited her time, he drew a sacred ring with holy water, which evil spirits may not cross, then blessed the threshold and the entire room, and peacefully the woman gave birth and the priest baptized the child unhindered. Out of doors all was calm as well, with bright stars flickering in the clear sky, a gentle breeze playing in the trees. Some claimed to have heard whinnying laughter from far in the distance; others, though, insisted it was only the screech owls at the edge of the woods.

  All who were gathered there rejoiced, and their fear vanished—forever, they supposed; having gotten the better of the green man, they assumed they would be able to do so again and again.

  A great feast was prepared, guests summoned from far and wide. In vain did the Lord’s priest warn against this sumptuous celebration; he urged them instead to tremble and pray, for their enemy had not yet been defeated, and they had not yet atoned to God. It seemed to him, he said, that he should impose no penance on them, for a penance far more furious and harsh was hurtling toward them, sent by God’s own hand. But they refused to listen and tried to mollify him with food and drink. He left them then, dismayed, praying for the ones who knew not what they did, and readied himself for battle with fasting and prayers, a faithful shepherd to the flock entrusted to his care.

  In the midst of all these celebrants sat Christine, but she was oddly quiet, with flaming cheeks and dull eyes, and a strange twitching could be seen in her face. As an experienced midwife, she had been present at the birth, had assumed the role of godmother during the baptism, her insolent heart devoid of fear, but when the priest sprinkled the holy water over the child, baptizing it in the name of the holy Trinity, she felt as if a glowing iron had suddenly been pressed to the spot where she had received the green man’s kiss. In sudden terror she had flinched, almost dropping the child, and since that moment the pain had not relented but instead grew more acute from hour to hour. At first she sat quietly, suppressing the pain, her newly awakened soul tormented by heavy thoughts, and her hand flying more and more frequently to the burning spot where it felt as if a poisonous wasp had alighted, thrusting its fiery barb deep into her core. But there was no wasp to shoo away, and the stings grew ever more fiery and her thoughts ever more filled with terror, and Christine began to show people her cheek, asking what they saw there, and again and again she asked, but no one saw anything at all, and soon no one was inclined to waste time inspecting Christine’s cheek. Finally she did convince an old woman to look once more, just as the cock was crowing to announce the dawn, and the old woman saw an almost invisible speck on Christine’s cheek. It’s nothing, the woman said, it’ll go away on its own, and off she walked.

  Christine tried to comfort herself, saying it was nothing, it would soon go away; but the pain did not let up, and imperceptibly the speck grew, and soon everyone could see it and asked about the black dot on her face. No one thought much of it, but their words were like barbs driven into her heart, awakening the heavy thoughts once more, and again and again she was forced to remember that this was the very spot where the green man had kissed her, and that the same burning pain that had flashed through all her limbs at the moment of the kiss now burned and gnawed at her without respite. Sleep abandoned her, and everything she ate tasted of fire. Agitated, she went here, went there, seeking comfort and finding none, for the pain continued to sharpen, and the black dot grew larger and blacker, isolated dark streaks radiated from it, and at the edge of the spot that was closest to her mouth a bump had risen.

  So Christine suffered and fled through long days and long nights, and still she hadn’t revealed the fear in her heart, nor spoken of what she had received from the green man just there; but she would have sacrificed anything in heaven or earth to rid herself of these torments. She was presumptuous by nature, and agony made her ruthless.

  Once more a woman was expecting a child. This time there was much less fear, the peasants were lighthearted; as long as they took care to summon the priest in good time, they thought, they could defy the green man. But Christine was not lighthearted. The closer the day of the birth approached, the more terrible the burning in her cheek became, and the more the black spot swelled, stretching distinct legs out from its center and sprouting little hairs; shiny points and stripes appeared on its back, the bump became a head, and from it flashed glinting, venomous glances, as if from two eyes. Everyone shrieked at the sight of this venomous spider upon Christine’s face, rooted in her face, growing there, and they fled in fear and horror. There was much talk, all sorts of different advice, but whatever this affliction might be, no one was sorry for Christine, whom they shunned, fleeing her presence at every turn. And the more they fled, the more she pursued them, hurrying from one house to the next; the devil was reminding her of the promised child, she knew, and she tried to prevail on the others to make this sacrifice, hounding them in her infernal terror. But the others hardly paid attention: Christine’s torments caused them no pain, she herself was to blame for her s
ufferings, and if they couldn’t escape her, they said, “What is that to us? No one promised a child, and no one is going to give one up.” Furiously she importuned her own husband. Like the others, he fled from her, and when he could flee no more, he spoke cold-bloodedly, saying soon it would get better, it was just a common mole; when it had finished growing, the pain would cease, and then they could tie it off.

  But the pain did not cease, each leg was like hellfire, the spider’s body like hell itself, and when the woman’s time came, Christine felt a sea of flame surrounding her, it was as if fiery knives were gouging at her marrow, and fiery whirlwinds howling through her brain. And the spider swelled and reared, and its venomous eyes bulged amid the short bristles. When Christine, racked with fiery torments, could find sympathy nowhere—while the woman in labor remained well guarded—she threw herself, reeling in her madness, down the path she knew the priest must take.

  Swiftly the priest came striding across the slope, accompanied by the sturdy sexton; the hot sun and the steep path did not obstruct his steps, for he was charged with saving a soul and warding off eternal misfortune, and as he was coming late from the distant home of an invalid, he feared terrible consequences. In her despair, Christine flung herself at his feet, grasping at his knees, begging him to release her from her torments, to sacrifice the child, which did not yet know life, and the spider reared even higher, glinting black and horrific in her flushed face and hideously eyeing the holy implements and symbols the priest bore. Quickly he thrust Christine away, making the sign of the cross; the enemy was before him, he saw, but he abandoned this battle to save a soul. Christine sprang up, charging after him, trying everything in her power; but the sexton’s firm hand kept the raging woman away from the priest, and he arrived in time to safeguard the house, to receive the child in his consecrated hands and place it in the hands of Him whom hell can never overpower.