The Mysterious Stranger, and Other Stories
next. He was a traveler, passing through; and he spoke to her gently,
and, seeing nobody but me there to hear, said he was sorry for her.
And he asked if what she confessed was true, and she said no. He looked
surprised and still more sorry then, and asked her:
“Then why did you confess?”
“I am old and very poor,” she said, “and I work for my living. There
was no way but to confess. If I hadn't they might have set me free.
That would ruin me, for no one would forget that I had been suspected of
being a witch, and so I would get no more work, and wherever I went they
would set the dogs on me. In a little while I would starve. The fire is
best; it is soon over. You have been good to me, you two, and I thank
you.”
She snuggled closer to the fire, and put out her hands to warm them, the
snow-flakes descending soft and still on her old gray head and making
it white and whiter. The crowd was gathering now, and an egg came flying
and struck her in the eye, and broke and ran down her face. There was a
laugh at that.
I told Satan all about the eleven girls and the old woman, once, but
it did not affect him. He only said it was the human race, and what the
human race did was of no consequence. And he said he had seen it made;
and it was not made of clay; it was made of mud--part of it was, anyway.
I knew what he meant by that--the Moral Sense. He saw the thought in my
head, and it tickled him and made him laugh. Then he called a bullock
out of a pasture and petted it and talked with it, and said:
“There--he wouldn't drive children mad with hunger and fright and
loneliness, and then burn them for confessing to things invented for
them which had never happened. And neither would he break the hearts of
innocent, poor old women and make them afraid to trust themselves among
their own race; and he would not insult them in their death-agony. For
he is not besmirched with the Moral Sense, but is as the angels are, and
knows no wrong, and never does it.”
Lovely as he was, Satan could be cruelly offensive when he chose; and he
always chose when the human race was brought to his attention. He always
turned up his nose at it, and never had a kind word for it.
Well, as I was saying, we boys doubted if it was a good time for Ursula
to be hiring a member of the Narr family. We were right. When the people
found it out they were naturally indignant. And, moreover, since Marget
and Ursula hadn't enough to eat themselves, where was the money coming
from to feed another mouth? That is what they wanted to know; and in
order to find out they stopped avoiding Gottfried and began to seek his
society and have sociable conversations with him. He was pleased--not
thinking any harm and not seeing the trap--and so he talked innocently
along, and was no discreeter than a cow.
“Money!” he said; “they've got plenty of it. They pay me two groschen a
week, besides my keep. And they live on the fat of the land, I can tell
you; the prince himself can't beat their table.”
This astonishing statement was conveyed by the astrologer to Father
Adolf on a Sunday morning when he was returning from mass. He was deeply
moved, and said:
“This must be looked into.”
He said there must be witchcraft at the bottom of it, and told the
villagers to resume relations with Marget and Ursula in a private and
unostentatious way, and keep both eyes open. They were told to keep
their own counsel, and not rouse the suspicions of the household. The
villagers were at first a bit reluctant to enter such a dreadful place,
but the priest said they would be under his protection while there, and
no harm could come to them, particularly if they carried a trifle of
holy water along and kept their beads and crosses handy. This satisfied
them and made them willing to go; envy and malice made the baser sort
even eager to go.
And so poor Marget began to have company again, and was as pleased as
a cat. She was like 'most anybody else--just human, and happy in her
prosperities and not averse from showing them off a little; and she was
humanly grateful to have the warm shoulder turned to her and be smiled
upon by her friends and the village again; for of all the hard things to
bear, to be cut by your neighbors and left in contemptuous solitude is
maybe the hardest.
The bars were down, and we could all go there now, and we did--our
parents and all--day after day. The cat began to strain herself.
She provided the top of everything for those companies, and in
abundance--among them many a dish and many a wine which they had not
tasted before and which they had not even heard of except at second-hand
from the prince's servants. And the tableware was much above ordinary,
too.
Marget was troubled at times, and pursued Ursula with questions to an
uncomfortable degree; but Ursula stood her ground and stuck to it that
it was Providence, and said no word about the cat. Marget knew that
nothing was impossible to Providence, but she could not help having
doubts that this effort was from there, though she was afraid to say so,
lest disaster come of it. Witchcraft occurred to her, but she put the
thought aside, for this was before Gottfried joined the household, and
she knew Ursula was pious and a bitter hater of witches. By the time
Gottfried arrived Providence was established, unshakably intrenched,
and getting all the gratitude. The cat made no murmur, but went on
composedly improving in style and prodigality by experience.
In any community, big or little, there is always a fair proportion
of people who are not malicious or unkind by nature, and who never do
unkind things except when they are overmastered by fear, or when
their self-interest is greatly in danger, or some such matter as that.
Eseldorf had its proportion of such people, and ordinarily their good
and gentle influence was felt, but these were not ordinary times--on
account of the witch-dread--and so we did not seem to have any gentle
and compassionate hearts left, to speak of. Every person was frightened
at the unaccountable state of things at Marget's house, not doubting
that witchcraft was at the bottom of it, and fright frenzied their
reason. Naturally there were some who pitied Marget and Ursula for the
danger that was gathering about them, but naturally they did not say so;
it would not have been safe. So the others had it all their own way,
and there was none to advise the ignorant girl and the foolish woman and
warn them to modify their doings. We boys wanted to warn them, but we
backed down when it came to the pinch, being afraid. We found that we
were not manly enough nor brave enough to do a generous action when
there was a chance that it could get us into trouble. Neither of us
confessed this poor spirit to the others, but did as other people would
have done--dropped the subject and talked about something else. And I
knew we all felt mean, eating and drinking Marget's fine things along
with those companies of spies, and petting her and complimenting her
with the rest, and seeing with self-reproach how foolishly happy she
was, and never saying a word to put her on her guard. And, indeed, she
was happy, and as proud as a princess, and so grateful to have friends
again. And all the time these people were watching with all their eyes
and reporting all they saw to Father Adolf.
But he couldn't make head or tail of the situation. There must be an
enchanter somewhere on the premises, but who was it? Marget was not seen
to do any jugglery, nor was Ursula, nor yet Gottfried; and still the
wines and dainties never ran short, and a guest could not call for a
thing and not get it. To produce these effects was usual enough with
witches and enchanters--that part of it was not new; but to do it
without any incantations, or even any rumblings or earthquakes or
lightnings or apparitions--that was new, novel, wholly irregular. There
was nothing in the books like this. Enchanted things were always unreal.
Gold turned to dirt in an unenchanted atmosphere, food withered away and
vanished. But this test failed in the present case. The spies brought
samples: Father Adolf prayed over them, exorcised them, but it did no
good; they remained sound and real, they yielded to natural decay only,
and took the usual time to do it.
Father Adolf was not merely puzzled, he was also exasperated; for
these evidences very nearly convinced him--privately--that there was no
witchcraft in the matter. It did not wholly convince him, for this could
be a new kind of witchcraft. There was a way to find out as to this:
if this prodigal abundance of provender was not brought in from the
outside, but produced on the premises, there was witchcraft, sure.
Chapter 7
Marget announced a party, and invited forty people; the date for it was
seven days away. This was a fine opportunity. Marget's house stood by
itself, and it could be easily watched. All the week it was watched
night and day. Marget's household went out and in as usual, but they
carried nothing in their hands, and neither they nor others brought
anything to the house. This was ascertained. Evidently rations for forty
people were not being fetched. If they were furnished any sustenance it
would have to be made on the premises. It was true that Marget went out
with a basket every evening, but the spies ascertained that she always
brought it back empty.
The guests arrived at noon and filled the place. Father Adolf followed;
also, after a little, the astrologer, without invitation. The spies had
informed him that neither at the back nor the front had any parcels
been brought in. He entered, and found the eating and drinking going
on finely, and everything progressing in a lively and festive way. He
glanced around and perceived that many of the cooked delicacies and all
of the native and foreign fruits were of a perishable character, and he
also recognized that these were fresh and perfect. No apparitions, no
incantations, no thunder. That settled it. This was witchcraft. And not
only that, but of a new kind--a kind never dreamed of before. It was
a prodigious power, an illustrious power; he resolved to discover its
secret. The announcement of it would resound throughout the world,
penetrate to the remotest lands, paralyze all the nations with
amazement--and carry his name with it, and make him renowned forever. It
was a wonderful piece of luck, a splendid piece of luck; the glory of it
made him dizzy.
All the house made room for him; Marget politely seated him; Ursula
ordered Gottfried to bring a special table for him. Then she decked it
and furnished it, and asked for his orders.
“Bring me what you will,” he said.
The two servants brought supplies from the pantry, together with white
wine and red--a bottle of each. The astrologer, who very likely had
never seen such delicacies before, poured out a beaker of red wine,
drank it off, poured another, then began to eat with a grand appetite.
I was not expecting Satan, for it was more than a week since I had
seen or heard of him, but now he came in--I knew it by the feel, though
people were in the way and I could not see him. I heard him apologizing
for intruding; and he was going away, but Marget urged him to stay, and
he thanked her and stayed. She brought him along, introducing him to the
girls, and to Meidling, and to some of the elders; and there was quite
a rustle of whispers: “It's the young stranger we hear so much about
and can't get sight of, he is away so much.” “Dear, dear, but he is
beautiful--what is his name?” “Philip Traum.” “Ah, it fits him!” (You
see, “Traum” is German for “Dream.”) “What does he do?” “Studying for
the ministry, they say.” “His face is his fortune--he'll be a cardinal
some day.” “Where is his home?” “Away down somewhere in the tropics,