 Chapter 3
The Stranger had seen everything, he had been everywhere,
he knew everything, and he forgot nothing. What another must study, he learned
at a glance; there were no difficulties for him. And he made things live before
you when he told about them. He saw the world made; he saw Adam created; he saw
Samson surge against the pillars and bring the temple down in ruins about him;
he saw Caesar's death; he told of the daily life in heaven; he had seen the
damned writhing in the red waves of hell; and he made us see all these things,
and it was as if we were on the spot and looking at them with our own eyes. And
we felt them, too, but there was no sign that they were anything to him beyond
mere entertainments. Those visions of hell, those poor babes and women and girls
and lads and men shrieking and supplicating in anguish -- why, we could hardly
bear it, but he was as bland about it as if it had been so many imitation rats
in an artificial fire.
And always when he was talking about men and women here on
the earth and their doings -- even their grandest and sublimest -- we were
secretly ashamed, for his manner showed that to him they and their doings were
of paltry poor consequence; often you would think he was talking about flies, if
you didn't know. Once he even said, in so many words, that our people down here
were quite interesting to him, notwithstanding they were so dull and ignorant
and trivial and conceited, and so diseased and rickety, and such a shabby, poor,
worthless lot all around. He said it in a quite matter-of-course way and without
bitterness, just as a person might talk about bricks or manure or any other
thing that was of no consequence and hadn't feelings. I could see he meant no
offense, but in my thoughts I set it down as not very good manners.
"Manners!" he said. "Why, it is merely the truth, and
truth is good manners; manners are a fiction. The castle is done. Do you like
it?"
Any one would have been obliged to like it. It was lovely
to look at, it was so shapely and fine, and so cunningly perfect in all its
particulars, even to the little flags waving from the turrets. Satan said we
must put the artillery in place now, and station the halberdiers and display the
cavalry. Our men and horses were a spectacle to see, they were so little like
what they were intended for; for, of course, we had no art in making such
things. Satan said they were the worst he had seen; and when he touched them and
made them alive, it was just ridiculous the way they acted, on account of their
legs not being of uniform lengths. They reeled and sprawled around as if they
were drunk, and endangered everybody's lives around them, and finally fell over
and lay helpless and kicking. It made us all laugh, though it was a shameful
thing to see. The guns were charged with dirt, to fire a salute, but they were
so crooked and so badly made that they all burst when they went off, and killed
some of the gunners and crippled the others. Satan said we would have a storm
now, and an earthquake, if we liked, but we must stand off a piece, out of
danger. We wanted to call the people away, too, but he said never mind them;
they were of no consequence, and we could make more, some time or other, if we
needed them.
A small storm-cloud began to settle down black over the
castle, and the miniature lightning and thunder began to play, and the ground to
quiver, and the wind to pipe and wheeze, and the rain to fall, and all the
people flocked into the castle for shelter. The cloud settled down blacker and
blacker, and one could see the castle only dimly through it; the lightning
blazed out flash upon flash and pierced the castle and set it on fire, and the
flames shone out red and fierce through the cloud, and the people came flying
out, shrieking, but Satan brushed them back, paying no attention to our begging
and crying and imploring; and in the midst of the howling of the wind and
volleying of the thunder the magazine blew up, the earthquake rent the ground
wide, and the castle's wreck and ruin tumbled into the chasm, which swallowed it
from sight, and closed upon it, with all that innocent life, not one of the five
hundred poor creatures escaping. Our hearts were broken; we could not keep from
crying.
"Don't cry," Satan said; "they were of no value."
"But they are gone to hell!"
"Oh, it is no matter; we can make plenty more."
It was of no use to try to move him; evidently he was
wholly without feeling, and could not understand. He was full of bubbling
spirits, and as gay as if this were a wedding instead of a fiendish massacre.
And he was bent on making us feel as he did, and of course his magic
accomplished his desire. It was no trouble to him; he did whatever he pleased
with us. In a little while we were dancing on that grave, and he was playing to
us on a strange, sweet instrument which he took out of his pocket; and the music
-- but there is no music like that, unlless perhaps in heaven, and that was where
he brought it from, he said. It made one mad, for pleasure; and we could not
take our eyes from him, and the looks that went out of our eyes came from our
hearts, and their dumb speech was worship. He brought the dance from heaven,
too, and the bliss of paradise was in it.
Presently he said he must go away on an errand. But we
could not bear the thought of it, and clung to him, and pleaded with him to
stay; and that pleased him, and he said so, and said he would not go yet, but
would wait a little while and we would sit down and talk a few minutes longer;
and he told us Satan was only his real name, and he was to be known by it to us
alone, but he had chosen another one to be called by in the presence of others;
just a common one, such as people have -- Philip Traum.
It sounded so odd and mean for such a being! But it was
his decision, and we said nothing; his decision was sufficient.
We had seen wonders this day; and my thoughts began to run
on the pleasure it would be to tell them when I got home, but he noticed those
thoughts, and said:
"No, all these matters are a secret among us four. I do
not mind your trying to tell them, if you like, but I will protect your tongues,
and nothing of the secret will escape from them."
It was a disappointment, but it couldn't be helped, and it
cost us a sigh or two. We talked pleasantly along, and he was always reading our
thoughts and responding to them, and it seemed to me that this was the most
wonderful of all the things he did, but he interrupted my musings and said:
"No, it would be wonderful for you, but it is not
wonderful for me. I am not limited like you. I am not subject to human
conditions. I can measure and understand your human weaknesses, for I have
studied them; but I have none of them. My flesh is not real, although it would
seem firm to your touch; my clothes are not real; I am a spirit. Father Peter is
coming." We looked around, but did not see any one. "He is not in sight yet, but
you will see him presently."
"Do you know him, Satan?"
"No."
"Won't you talk with him when he comes? He is not ignorant
and dull, like us, and he would so like to talk with you. Will you?"
"Another time, yes, but not now. I must go on my errand
after a little. There he is now; you can see him. Sit still, and don't say
anything."
We looked up and saw Father Peter approaching through the
chestnuts. We three were sitting together in the grass, and Satan sat in front
of us in the path. Father Peter came slowly along with his head down, thinking,
and stopped within a couple of yards of us and took off his hat and got out his
silk handkerchief, and stood there mopping his face and looking as if he were
going to speak to us, but he didn't. Presently he muttered, "I can't think what
brought me here; it seems as if I were in my study a minute ago -- but I suppose
I have been dreaming along for an hour and have come all this stretch without
noticing; for I am not myself in these troubled days." Then he went mumbling
along to himself and walked straight through Satan, just as if nothing were
there. It made us catch our breath to see it. We had the impulse to cry out, the
way you nearly always do when a startling thing happens, but something
mysteriously restrained us and we remained quiet, only breathing fast. Then the
trees hid Father Peter after a little, and Satan said:
"It is as I told you -- I am only a spirit."
"Yes, one perceives it now," said Nikolaus, "but we are
not spirits. It is plain he did not see you, but were we invisible, too? He
looked at us, but he didn't seem to see us."
"No, none of us was visible to him, for I wished it so."
It seemed almost too good to be true, that we were
actually seeing these romantic and wonderful things, and that it was not a
dream. And there he sat, looking just like anybody -- so natural and simple and
charming, and chatting along again the same as ever, and -- well, words cannot
make you understand what we felt. It was an ecstasy; and an ecstasy is a thing
that will not go into words; it feels like music, and one cannot tell about
music so that another person can get the feeling of it. He was back in the old
ages once more now, and making them live before us. He had seen so much, so
much! It was just a wonder to look at him and try to think how it must seem to
have such experience behind one.
But it made you seem sorrowfully trivial, and the creature
of a day, and such a short and paltry day, too. And he didn't say anything to
raise up your drooping pride -- no, not a word. He always spoke of men in the
same old indifferent way -- just as one speaks of bricks and manure-piles and
such things; you could see that they were of no consequence to him, one way or
the other. He didn't mean to hurt us, you could see that; just as we don't mean
to insult a brick when we disparage it; a brick's emotions are nothing to us; it
never occurs to us to think whether it has any or not.
Once when he was bunching the most illustrious kings and
conquerors and poets and prophets and pirates and beggars together -- just a
brick-pile -- I was shamed into putting in a word for man, and asked him why he
made so much difference between men and himself. He had to struggle with that a
moment; he didn't seem to understand how I could ask such a strange question.
Then he said:
"The difference between man and me? The difference between
a mortal and an immortal? between a cloud and a spirit?" He picked up a
wood-louse that was creeping along a piece of bark: "What is the difference
between Caesar and this?"
I said, "One cannot compare things which by their nature
and by the interval between them are not comparable."
"You have answered your own question," he said. "I will
expand it. Man is made of dirt -- I saw him made. I am not made of dirt. Man is
a museum of diseases, a home of impurities; he comes to-day and is gone
to-morrow; he begins as dirt and departs as stench; I am of the aristocracy of
the Imperishables. And man has the Moral Sense. You understand? He
has the Moral Sense. That would seem to be difference enough between
us, all by itself."
He stopped there, as if that settled the matter. I was
sorry, for at that time I had but a dim idea of what the Moral Sense was. I
merely knew that we were proud of having it, and when he talked like that about
it, it wounded me, and I felt as a girl feels who thinks her dearest finery is
being admired and then overhears strangers making fun of it. For a while we were
all silent, and I, for one, was depressed. Then Satan began to chat again, and
soon he was sparkling along in such a cheerful and vivacious vein that my
spirits rose once more. He told some very cunning things that put us in a gale
of laughter; and when he was telling about the time that Samson tied the torches
to the foxes' tails and set them loose in the Philistines' corn, and Samson
sitting on the fence slapping his thighs and laughing, with the tears running
down his cheeks, and lost his balance and fell off the fence, the memory of that
picture got him to laughing, too, and we did have a most lovely and jolly time.
By and by he said:
"I am going on my errand now."
"Don't!" we all said. "Don't go; stay with us. You won't
come back."
"Yes, I will; I give you my word."
"When? To-night? Say when."
"It won't be long. You will see."
"We like you."
"And I you. And as a proof of it I will show you something
fine to see. Usually when I go I merely vanish; but now I will dissolve myself
and let you see me do it."
He stood up, and it was quickly finished. He thinned away
and thinned away until he was a soap-bubble, except that he kept his shape. You
could see the bushes through him as clearly as you see things through a
soap-bubble, and all over him played and flashed the delicate iridescent colors
of the bubble, and along with them was that thing shaped like a window-sash
which you always see on the globe of the bubble. You have seen a bubble strike
the carpet and lightly bound along two or three times before it bursts. He did
that. He sprang -- touched the grass -- bounded -- floated along -- touched
again -- and so on, and presently exploded -- puff! and in his place was
vacancy.
It was a strange and beautiful thing to see. We did not
say anything, but sat wondering and dreaming and blinking; and finally Seppi
roused up and said, mournfully sighing:
"I suppose none of it has happened."
Nikolaus sighed and said about the same.
I was miserable to hear them say it, for it was the same
cold fear that was in my own mind. Then we saw poor old Father Peter wandering
along back, with his head bent down, searching the ground. When he was pretty
close to us he looked up and saw us, and said, "How long have you been here,
boys?"
"A little while, Father."
"Then it is since I came by, and maybe you can help me.
Did you come up by the path?"
"Yes, Father."
"That is good. I came the same way. I have lost my wallet.
There wasn't much in it, but a very little is much to me, for it was all I had.
I suppose you haven't seen anything of it?"
"No, Father, but we will help you hunt."
"It is what I was going to ask you. Why, here it is!"
We hadn't noticed it; yet there it lay, right where Satan
stood when he began to melt -- if he did melt and it wasn't a delusion. Father
Peter picked it up and looked very much surprised.
"It is mine," he said, "but not the contents. This is fat;
mine was flat; mine was light; this is heavy." He opened it; it was stuffed as
full as it could hold with gold coins. He let us gaze our fill; and of course we
did gaze, for we had never seen so much money at one time before. All our mouths
came open to say "Satan did it!" but nothing came out. There it was, you see --
we couldn't tell what Satan didn't want told; he had said so himself.
"Boys, did you do this?"
It made us laugh. And it made him laugh, too, as soon as
he thought what a foolish question it was.
"Who has been here?"
Our mouths came open to answer, but stood so for a moment,
because we couldn't say "Nobody," for it wouldn't be true, and the right word
didn't seem to come; then I thought of the right one, and said it:
"Not a human being."
"That is so," said the others, and let their mouths go
shut.
"It is not so," said Father Peter, and looked at us very
severely. "I came by here a while ago, and there was no one here, but that is
nothing; some one has been here since. I don't mean to say that the person
didn't pass here before you came, and I don't mean to say you saw him, but some
one did pass, that I know. On your honor -- you saw no one?"
"Not a human being."
"That is sufficient; I know you are telling me the truth."
He began to count the money on the path, we on our knees
eagerly helping to stack it in little piles.
"It's eleven hundred ducats odd!" he said. "Oh dear! if it
were only mine -- and I need it so!" and his voice broke and his lips quivered.
"It is yours, sir!" we all cried out at once, "every
heller!"
"No -- it isn't mine. Only four ducats are mine; the
rest...!" He fell to dreaming, poor old soul, and caressing some of the coins in
his hands, and forgot where he was, sitting there on his heels with his old gray
head bare; it was pitiful to see. "No," he said, waking up, "it isn't mine. I
can't account for it. I think some enemy... it must be a trap."
Nikolaus said: "Father Peter, with the exception of the
astrologer you haven't a real enemy in the village -- nor Marget, either. And
not even a half-enemy that's rich enough to chance eleven hundred ducats to do
you a mean turn. I'll ask you if that's so or not?"
He couldn't get around that argument, and it cheered him
up. "But it isn't mine, you see -- it isn't mine, in any case."
He said it in a wistful way, like a person that wouldn't
be sorry, but glad, if anybody would contradict him.
"It is yours, Father Peter, and we are witness to it.
Aren't we, boys?"
"Yes, we are -- and we'll stand by it, too."
"Bless your hearts, you do almost persuade me; you do,
indeed. If I had only a hundred-odd ducats of it! The house is mortgaged for it,
and we've no home for our heads if we don't pay to-morrow. And that four ducats
is all we've got in the -- "
"It's yours, every bit of it, and you've got to take it --
we are bail that it's all right. Aren't we, Theodor? Aren't we, Seppi?"
We two said yes, and Nikolaus stuffed the money back into
the shabby old wallet and made the owner take it. So he said he would use two
hundred of it, for his house was good enough security for that, and would put
the rest at interest till the rightful owner came for it; and on our side we
must sign a paper showing how he got the money -- a paper to show to the
villagers as proof that he had not got out of his troubles dishonestly.
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
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