The Mysterious Stranger Manuscripts (Literature) (34 page)

Ile was rolling along down the road, pretty full and feeling good,
and braying "We'll sing the wine-cup and the lass" in his thundering bass, when he caught sight of the widow reading her book. He
came to a stop before her and stood swaying there, leering down at
her with his fishy eyes, and his purple fat face working and grimacing, and said-

"What is it you've got there, Frau Marx? What are you reading?

She let him see. He bent down and took one glance, then he
knocked the writings out of her hand and said angrily-

"Burn them, burn them, you fool! Don't you know it's a sin to
read them? Do you want to damn your soul? Where did you get
them?"

She told him, and he said-

"By God I expected it. I will attend to that woman; I will make
this place sultry for her. You go to her meetings, do you? What does
she teach you-to worship the Virgin?"

"No-only God."

"I thought it. You are on your road to hell. The Virgin will
punish you for this-you mark my words." Frau Marx was getting
frightened; and was going to try to excuse herself for her conduct,
but Father Adolf shut her up and went on storming at her and
telling her what the Virgin would do with her, until she was ready
to swoon with fear. She went on her knees and begged him to tell
her what to do to appease the Virgin. He put a heavy penance on
her, scolded her some more, then took up his song where he had
left off, and went rolling and zigzagging away.

But Frau Marx fell again, within the week, and went back to
Frau Adler's meeting one night. Just four days afterward both of
her horses died! She flew to Father Adolf, full of repentance and
despair, and cried and sobbed, and said she was ruined and must
starve; for how could she market her milk now? What must she do?
tell her what to do. He said-

"I told you the Virgin would punish you-didn't I tell you that?
Hell's bells! did you think I was lying? You'll pay attention next
time, I reckon."

Then he told her what to do. She must have a picture of the
horses painted, and walk on pilgrimage to the Church of Our Lady
of the Dumb Creatures, and hang it up there, and make her
offerings; then go home and sell the skins of her horses and buy a
lottery ticket bearing the number of the date of their death, and
then wait in patience for the Virgin's answer. In a week it came,
when Frau Marx was almost perishing with despair-her ticket
drew fifteen hundred ducats!

That is the way the Virgin rewards a real repentance. Frau Marx
did not fall again. In her gratitude she went to those other women
and told them her experience and showed them how sinful and
foolish they were and how dangerously they were acting; and they
all burned their sermons and returned repentant to the bosom of
the Church, and Frau Adler had to carry her poisons to some other
market. It was the best lesson and the wholesomest our village ever
had. It never allowed another Hussite to come there; and for
reward the Virgin watched over it and took care of it personally,
and made it fortunate and prosperous always.

It was in conducting funerals that Father Adolf was at his best, if
he hadn't too much of a load on, but only about enough to make
him properly appreciate the sacredness of his office. It was fine to
see him march his procession through the village, between the
kneeling ranks, keeping one eye on the candles blinking yellow in
the sun to see that the acolytes walked stiff and held them straight,
and the other watching out for any dull oaf that might forget
himself and stand staring and covered when the Host was carried
past. He would snatch that oaf's broad hat from his head, hit him a
staggering whack in the face with it and growl out in a low snarl-

"Where's your manners, you beast?-and the Lord God passing
by!"

Whenever there was a suicide he was active. He was on hand to
see that the government did its duty and turned the family out into
the road, and confiscated its small belongings and didn't smouch
any of the Church's share; and he was on hand again at midnight
when the corpse was buried at the cross-roads-not to do any
religious office, for of course that was not allowable-but to see, for
himself, that the stake was driven through the body in a right and
permanent and workmanlike way.

It was grand to see him make procession through the village in
plague-time, with our saint's relics in their jeweled casket, and trade
prayers and candles to the Virgin for her help in abolishing the
pest.

And he was always on hand at the bridge-head on the 9th of
December, at the Assuaging of the Devil. Ours was a beautiful and
massive stone bridge of five arches, and was seven hundred years
old. It was built by the Devil in a single night. The prior of the
monastery hired him to do it, and had trouble to persuade him, for
the Devil said he had built bridges for priests all over Europe, and
had always got cheated out of his wages; and this was the last time
he would trust a Christian if he got cheated now. Always before,
when he built a bridge, he was to have for his pay the first
passenger that crossed it-everybody knowing he meant a Christian, of course. But no matter, he didn't say it, so they always sent a
jackass or a chicken or some other undamnable passenger across first, and so got the best of him. This time he said Christian, and
wrote it in the bond himself, so there couldn't be any misunderstanding. And that isn't tradition, it is history, for I have seen that
bond myself, many a time; it is always brought out on Assuaging
Day, and goes to the bridge-head with the procession; and anybody
who pays ten groschen can see it and get remission of thirty-three
sins besides, times being easier for every one then than they are
now, and sins much cheaper; so much cheaper that all except the
very poorest could afford them. Those were good days, but they are
gone and will not come any more, so every one says.

Yes, he put it in the bond, and the prior said he didn't want the
bridge built yet, but would soon appoint a day-perhaps in about a
week. There was an old monk wavering along between life and
death, and the prior told the watchers to keep a sharp eye out and
let him know as soon as they saw that the monk was actually dying.
Towards midnight the 9th of December the watchers brought him
word, and he summoned the Devil and the bridge was begun. All
the rest of the night the prior and the Brotherhood sat up and
prayed that the dying one might be given strength to rise up and
walk across the bridge at dawn-strength enough, but not too
much. The prayer was heard, and it made great excitement in
heaven; insomuch that all the heavenly host got up before dawn
and came down to see; and there they were, clouds and clouds of
angels filling all the air above the bridge; and the dying monk
tottered across, and just had strength to get over; then he fell dead
just as the Devil was reaching for him, and as his soul escaped the
angels swooped down and caught it and flew up to heaven with it,
laughing and jeering, and Satan found he hadn't anything but a
useless carcase.

He was very angry, and charged the prior with cheating him, and
said "this isn't a Christian," but the prior said "Yes it is, it's a dead
one." Then the prior and all the monks went through with a great
lot of mock ceremonies, pretending it was to assuage the Devil and
reconcile him, but really it was only to make fun of him and stir up
his bile more than ever. So at last he gave them all a solid good
cursing, they laughing at him all the time. Then he raised a black storm of thunder and lightning and wind and flew away in it; and
as he went the spike on the end of his tail caught on a capstone and
tore it away; and there it always lay, throughout the centuries, as
proof of what he had done. I have seen it myself, a thousand times.
Such things speak louder than written records; for written records
can lie, unless they are set down by a priest. The mock Assuaging is
repeated every 9th of December, to this day, in memory of that holy
thought of the prior's which rescued an imperiled Christian soul
from the odious Enemy of mankind.

There have been better priests, in some ways, than Father Adolf,
for he had his failings, but there was never one in our commune
who was held in more solemn and awful respect. This was because
he had absolutely no fear of the Devil. He was the only Christian I
have ever known of whom that could be truly said. People stood in
deep dread of him, on that account; for they thought there must be
something supernatural about him, else he could not be so bold and
so confident. All men speak in bitter disapproval of the Devil, but
they do it reverently, not flippantly; but Father Adolf's way was
very different; he called him by every vile and putrid name he
could lay his tongue to, and it made every one shudder that heard
him; and often he would even speak of him scornfully and scoffingly; then the people crossed themselves and went quickly out of
his presence, fearing that something fearful might happen; and this
was natural, for after all is said and done Satan is a sacred character,
being mentioned in the Bible, and it cannot be proper to utter
lightly the sacred names, lest heaven itself should resent it.

Father Adolf had actually met Satan face to face, more than
once, and defied him. This was known to be so. Father Adolf said it
himself. He never made any secret of it, but spoke it right out. And
that he was speaking true, there was proof, in at least one instance;
for on that occasion he quarreled with the Enemy, and intrepidly
threw his bottle at him, and there, upon the wall of his study was
the ruddy splotch where it struck and broke.

The priest that we all loved best and were sorriest for, was Father
Peter. But the Bishop suspended him for talking around in conversation that God was all goodness and would find a way to save all his poor human children. It was a horrible thing to say, but there
was never any absolute proof that Father Peter said it; and it was
out of character for him to say it, too, for he was always good and
gentle and truthful, and a good Catholic, and always teaching in
the pulpit just what the Church required, and nothing else. But
there it was, you see: he wasn't charged with saying it in the pulpit,
where all the congregation could hear and testify, but only outside,
in talk; and it is easy for enemies to manufacture that. Father Peter
denied it; but no matter, Father Adolf wanted his place, and he told
the Bishop, and swore to it, that he overheard Father Peter say it;
heard Father Peter say it to his niece, when Father Adolf was
behind the door listening-for he was suspicious of Father Peter's
soundness, he said, and the interests of religion required that he be
watched.

The niece, Gretchen, denied it, and implored the Bishop to
believe her and spare her old uncle from poverty and disgrace; but
Father Adolf had been poisoning the Bishop against the old man a
long time privately, and he wouldn't listen; for he had a deep
admiration of Father Adolf's bravery toward the Devil, and an awe
of him on account of his having met the Devil face to face; and so
he was a slave to Father Adolf's influence. He suspended Father
Peter, indefinitely, though he wouldn't go so far as to excommunicate him on the evidence of only one witness; and now Father Peter
had been out a couple of years, and Father Adolf had his flock.

Those had been hard years for the old priest and Gretchen. They
had been favorites, but of course that changed when they came
under the shadow of the Bishop's frown. Many of their friends fell
away entirely, and the rest became cool and distant. Gretchen was a
lovely girl of eighteen, when the trouble came, and she had the best
head in the village, and the most in it. She taught the harp, and
earned all her clothes and pocket money by her own industry. But
her scholars fell off one by one, now; she was forgotten when there
were dances and parties among the youth of the village; the young
fellows stopped coming to the house, all except Wilhelm Meidling
-and he could have been spared; she and her uncle were sad and
forlorn in their neglect and disgrace, and the sunshine was gone out of their lives. Matters went worse and worse, all through the two
years. Clothes were wearing out, bread was harder and harder to
get. And now at last, the very end was come. Solomon Isaacs had
lent all the money he was willing to put on the house, and gave
notice that to-morrow he should foreclose.

I If BEEN familiar with that village life, but now for as much
as a year I had been out of it, and was busy learning a trade. I was
more curiously than pleasantly situated. I have spoken of Castle
Rosenfeld; I have also mentioned a precipice which overlooked the
river. Well, along this precipice stretched the towered and battlemented mass of a similar castle-prodigious, vine-clad, stately and
beautiful, but mouldering to ruin. The great line that had possessed
it and made it their chief home during four or five centuries was
extinct, and no scion of it had lived in it now for a hundred years. It
was a stanch old pile, and the greater part of it was still habitable.
Inside, the ravages of time and neglect were less evident than they
were outside. As a rule the spacious chambers and the vast corridors, ballrooms, banqueting halls and rooms of state were bare and
melancholy and cobwebbed, it is true, but the walls and floors were
in tolerable condition, and they could have been lived in. In some
of the rooms the decayed and ancient furniture still remained, but
if the empty ones were pathetic to the view, these were sadder still.

This old castle was not wholly destitute of life. By grace of the
Prince over the river, who owned it, my master, with his little
household, had for many years been occupying a small portion of it,
near the centre of the mass. The castle could have housed a thousand persons; consequently, as you may say, this handful was lost in
it, like a swallow's nest in a cliff.