Christen prayed day and night to God that this evil might be taken from them, but it grew more ghastly with every new day. He realized that he would have to atone for his failings, and he himself would have to be the sacrifice, and that the deed performed by his ancestress was now his to perform. He prayed to God until the resolution blossomed ardently within his heart that he might save the valley and atone the malfeasance, and this resolution was reinforced by a stalwart courage that does not waver but is always in readiness to perform what it must, be it in the morning or at night.
So now he moved with his children from the new house to the old one, cut a new peg to fit the hole, had it consecrated with holy water and holy words, laid the hammer in readiness next to the peg, sat down beside his children’s beds, and awaited the arrival of the spider.
There he sat, praying and watching and fighting off heavy sleep with stalwart resolution and did not waver; but the spider did not come, although it was in all other places; for the plague of deaths still spread, and the survivors’ fury grew.
In the midst of all this horror, a woman was due to give birth. And now the people were gripped by the ancient fear that the spider might carry off an unbaptized infant, the pledge of their old pact. The woman was beside herself, she had no trust in God, and so her heart was all the more filled with hatred and revenge.
The people knew how, centuries before when a child was to be born, their ancestors had protected themselves against the green huntsman, they knew the priest was the shield to thrust between themselves and their eternal adversary. They wanted to send for the priest, but who would go? The unburied dead struck down by the spider during funeral processions obstructed the roads, and would a messenger traveling across the wild crags of the mountaintops to fetch the priest be able to elude the spider, which seemed to know everything? All were frightened. Then the woman’s husband finally considered that if the spider wanted to take him, it could do so just as easily at home as on the road; if he was destined to die, he would not escape, neither here nor there.
He set out, but hour after hour passed and no messenger returned. The fury and anguish grew ever more dreadful, and the birth was rapidly approaching. Then, in the fury of her despair, the woman dragged herself from her bed and hurried to the home of Christen, the one who was a thousand times accursed, who sat praying beside his children, preparing for his battle with the spider. From far off her shrieks resounded, and her imprecations thundered against Christen’s door long before she tore it open and brought the thunder into the room with her. When she burst in, her countenance dreadful, he started, thinking at first that this was Christine in her original form. But as she crossed the threshold pain hobbled her steps, and she grasped at the doorpost, pouring out a flood of curses upon hapless Christen. He must be the messenger, she said, if he did not wish to be cursed forever along with his children and descendants for all time and eternity. Then the pain overpowered her imprecations, and a little son was born of this frenzied woman right on Christen’s doorstep, and all those who had followed her scattered to the winds, expecting the utmost horrors. Christen held the innocent babe in his arms; piercing, baleful, and wild, the woman’s eyes stared out at him from her contorted features, and it seemed to him ever more that the spider was emerging from these eyes, as if she herself were the spider. Then a godly strength came into him, and a superhuman volition grew powerful within his heart; he cast a loving glance at his children, wrapped the newborn in his warm cloak, leapt over the glowering woman and down the mountain into the valley, setting out towards Sumiswald. He himself would carry the child to the holy sacrament to atone for his misdeeds that weighed upon him, the head of his household; all else he left in God’s hands. The dead impeded his progress, he had to set his feet with care. Then light footsteps overtook him, it was the poor little boy who had felt afraid all alone with the savage woman and came after him, driven by a childish urge to follow his master. Like thorns the thought pierced Christen’s heart that his own children were now alone with this furious female. But his foot did not falter, it continued to make haste toward its holy goal.
Already he was down at Kilchstalden with the chapel in view when suddenly something glimmered in the road before him, and there was a stirring in the bushes; in the road sat the spider, and in the bush a red plume waved, and the spider reared up as if to pounce. In a loud voice, Christen called out to the holy Trinity, and from the bush a wild shriek was heard, the red feather vanished, Christen laid the infant in the little boy’s arms and, commending his spirit to the Lord, reached out his strong hand to clasp the spider that remained sitting where it was as if the holy words had cast a spell on it. Fire shot through all his limbs, but his grip held; the road was clear, and the sharp-witted boy ran off to bring the infant to the priest; but Christen, the fire blazing in his strong hand, hurried with winged steps to his house. The flames within his hand burned dreadfully as the spider’s venom sped through all his limbs. His blood turned to fire. His strength was on the point of giving out, his breath faltered, but he went on praying and praying, holding the thought of God firmly before him, and endured the fires of hell. Already he saw his house, as the pain increased so did his hope; in the doorway was the woman. As she saw him coming without the child, she threw herself at him like a tigress robbed of her cubs, thinking him guilty of the most infamous treachery. She ignored his gestures and, not hearing the words of his gasping breast, she raced into the hands he was holding out before him, clasping them, and in deathly fear he had to drag the raging woman into the house with him and fight to free his arms before he was able to thrust the spider into the ancient hole and, with dying hands, pound the peg in. With God’s help he succeeded. His dying eyes rested on his children, smiling sweetly in sleep. Then everything felt light, a higher hand seemed to be extinguishing the flames, and still praying aloud, he shut his eyes and died, and peacefulness and joy were beheld in his countenance by the ones who now came cautiously, fearfully to see what had become of the woman. With astonishment they saw the hole sealed up, but they found the woman singed and contorted in death; by clutching Christen’s hands, she had brought herself a fiery death. They were still standing there, not knowing what had occurred, when the little boy came back again with the infant, accompanied by the priest, who had quickly baptized the child according to the custom of the day and then had set out, well-armed and courageous, to fight the same battle in which his predecessor had victoriously laid down his life. But God did not demand this sacrifice of him, the battle had already been fought by another.
For a long time the people did not grasp what a great deed Christen had performed. When at last they believed and understood, they joyfully joined the priest in prayer, thanking God for the life that had been newly granted them and for the strength he had given to Christen. And of Christen himself, as he lay there dead, they asked forgiveness for the wrong they had done him and resolved to bury him with great honor, and his memory entered their souls with all the glory of a saint.
They did not know what to think or feel now that these horrors that still made their limbs tremble were suddenly gone and they could gaze with joy again into the blue sky without fearing that the spider might creep across their feet. They pledged to hold many masses and a general procession to the church; above all they resolved to bury these two corpses, Christen and his importuner, and then the other dead too would find resting places insofar as possible.
It was a day of great ceremony when the entire valley set out for the church, and many hearts were filled with solemn thoughts; sins were acknowledged, vows made, and from this day there were no more unseemly displays in faces or clothes.
After many tears had been shed in the church and the churchyard, and many prayers spoken, all the people who had come for the funeral—and anyone in the whole valley who had use of his limbs had come—went to take the traditional refreshment at the inn. As was customary, the women and children sat on their own, while all the grown men took seats at the famous tabl
e made of a slice of tree trunk that can still be seen at the Bear Inn in Sumiswald. It has been preserved as a remembrance that once there were only two dozen men left in a place where now nearly two thousand live, and as a remembrance that the lives of these two thousand also lie in the hand of the One who saved the two dozen. On that day, people did not linger long over the funeral meal; their hearts were too full to have much room for food and drink. When they came out of the village and into the open heights, they beheld a red glow in the sky, and when they returned home, they found that the new house had burned to the ground; how this came about no one ever learned.
But what Christen had done for their sakes—this they never forgot, and they repaid the kindness to his children. They raised them to be pious and stalwart in the most pious households; and no one laid hands on their property, though no receipts documented it. Their holdings were increased and carefully tended, and when the children were grown, they had not only not been cheated of their inheritance but their souls had thrived under this good care. They grew to be honest, God-fearing people who enjoyed the grace of God and the favor of men, who found blessings in their lives and even more in heaven. And so it remained in their family, and the spider was not feared, for the people feared God, and as it was then, so it shall—God willing—continue for as long as a house is still standing here, and for as long as children follow their parents in their paths and thoughts.
* * *
Here the grandfather fell silent, and for a long time all the others remained silent as well, and some thought about what they’d heard, while others supposed he was just catching his breath and would soon resume.
Finally the older godfather said, “I’ve sat at that famous old table myself and heard talk of the plague of death, and that after it all the men in the village were able to fit around the one table. But how exactly this came to pass none could say. Some guessed one thing, and others another. But tell me, where did you hear all this?”
“Well,” the grandfather said, “the story was passed down among us from father to son, and when the memory of what occurred faded in the other households in the valley, our family began to keep it a secret and avoided sharing it with others. Only in our family did we speak of it, so that no member of this household would forget what builds a home and what destroys a home, what brings blessings and what drives them away. You no doubt heard how unwilling my wife is to have the matter spoken of so openly. But it seems to me that the longer the story goes untold, the more needful it is to be reminded where pride and vainglory can lead. For this reason I am no longer so secretive about it, and this is not the first time I have told the story among close friends. I always think that what has preserved our family’s happiness for so many years will do no harm to others; it is not right to make a secret of something that brings happiness and God’s blessing.”
“You are right, cousin,” the godfather replied, “but I must still ask you nonetheless: Was the house you tore down seven years ago the original house? I can hardly believe that.”
“No,” the grandfather said. “The ancient house had already fallen into great disrepair almost three hundred years ago, and God’s blessings that were harvested in the meadows and fields could no longer find room in it. But the family did not want to leave it, and they did not dare build a new one, for they had not forgotten what had happened before. So they were in great perplexity and finally consulted a wise man who is said to have lived at Haslebach. He is said to have replied that they could certainly build a new house in the place where the old one stood, but not elsewhere, and they would have to take pains to preserve two things: the old piece of wood in which the spider was imprisoned, and the old beliefs that had shut away the spider in the wood, and then the old blessing would be in the new house as well.
“They built the new house and incorporated the old piece of wood with prayers and great care, and the spider did not stir, and beliefs and blessings were preserved.
“But then the new house too became old and small in its turn, its wood worm-eaten and rotten, and only this one post remained solid and as hard as iron. My father ought to have built a new house, but he was able to put it off and so the lot fell to me. After long hesitation I ventured it. I did as those before me had done, incorporating the old piece of wood into the new house, and the spider did not stir. But I will confess: In all the days of my life, I never prayed so ardently as at the moment when I held the fateful piece of wood in my hands; my hand, indeed my entire body burned, and involuntarily I looked to see whether there were not black spots growing on my hand and body, and a mountain fell from my soul when finally everything was in its place. Then my conviction grew even firmer that neither I nor my children nor their children after them have anything to fear from the spider as long as we continue to fear God.”
Then the grandfather fell silent, but the shudders that had crept up their spines when they heard that the grandfather had held the piece of wood in his hands persisted, and they thought of how they would feel if they too were forced to take it up.
Finally the cousin said, “It’s just a shame that you can’t tell how much is true in stories like that. It’s hardly possible to believe all of it, yet there must be something to it, or the old piece of wood would not be there.” The younger godfather replied that regardless of how much of it was true, there was still a great deal to be learned from it, and what’s more, they had passed the time quite agreeably with this story, it seemed to him he’d only just stepped out of the church.
The grandmother cautioned them not to say too much, otherwise her old man would start in again with another tale. “For now,” she said, “let them eat and drink a little,” adding that it was a scandal how little had been eaten and drunk. The food couldn’t be all bad, they’d done the best they could.
Now a good deal of eating and drinking commenced, interspersed with thoughtful conversation, until the moon stood large and golden in the sky, and the stars emerged from their chambers to admonish humankind that it was time to go to sleep in its own little chambers.
Those gathered there clearly saw their mysterious admonishers, but they were so comfortably seated, and every one of them felt his heart pounding beneath his neckerchief at the thought of going home; and though none admitted it, none wished to be the first to stand up and take his leave.
At last the godmother rose to her feet and began, with trembling heart, to prepare her departure, but she was not lacking in stalwart escorts, and together the company departed this hospitable house with many words of thanks and good wishes, despite requests made to all and sundry to stay a little longer, as the night would not be dark.
Soon everything was quiet outside the house, and within as well. Peacefully the house stood there, gleaming lovely and pure all down the valley in the moonlight, and solicitously, amicably it sheltered good people in their sweet slumber—the sort of slumber enjoyed by those who carry the fear of God and a good conscience in their breasts, and who will never be woken from this slumber by the black spider, but only by friendly sunshine. For where belief dwells, the spider may not stir, neither by day nor by night. But what strength it can attain when beliefs and temperaments change is known only to the One who knows all things and who gives to each his powers: both to spiders and to men.
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Table of Contents
Biographical Notes
Title page
Copyright and More Information
Contents
THE BLACK SPIDER
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The Black Spider (New York Review Books Classics) Page 10