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Page 25
Howbeit before the blessed Sunday came, I perceived that many of my people
went out of my way, both in the village and elsewhere in the parish, where
I went to visit sundry sick folks. When I went to Uekeritze to see young
Tittlewitz, there even befell me as follows:--Claus Pieper the peasant
stood in his yard chopping wood, and on seeing me he flung the axe out of
his hand so hastily that it stuck in the ground, and he ran towards the
pigsty, making the sign of the cross. I motioned him to stop, and asked
why he thus ran from me, his confessor? Whether, peradventure, he also
believed that my daughter had bewitched her little god-child? "_Ille_.
Yes, he believed it, because the whole parish did. _Ego_. Why, then, had
she been so kind to her formerly, and kept her like a sister through the
worst of the famine? _Ille_. This was not the only mischief she had done.
_Ego_. What, then, had she done besides? _Ille_. That was all one to me.
_Ego_. He should tell me, or I would complain to the magistrate. _Ille_.
That I might do, if I pleased." Whereupon he went his way insolently. Any
one may guess that I was not slow to inquire everywhere what people
thought my daughter had done; but no one would tell me anything, and I
might have grieved to death at such evil reports. Moreover not one child
came during this whole week to school to my daughter; and when I sent out
the maid to ask the reason she brought back word that the children were
ill, or that the parents wanted them for their work. I thought and
thought, but all to no purpose, until the blessed Sunday came round when I
meant to have held a great Sacrament, seeing that many people had made
known their intention to come to the Lord's table. It seemed strange to me
that I saw no one standing (as was their wont) about the church door; I
thought, however, that they might have gone into the houses. But when I
went into the church with my daughter, there were not more than six people
assembled, among whom was old Lizzie Kolken; and the accursed witch no
sooner saw my daughter follow me than she made the sign of the cross and
ran out of the door under the steeple; whereupon the five others, among
them mine own church-warden Claus Bulken (I had not appointed any one in
the room of old Seden), followed her. I was so horror-struck that my blood
curdled, and I began to tremble, so that I fell with my shoulder against
the confessional. My child, to whom I had as yet told nothing, in order to
spare her, then asked me, "Father, what is the matter with all the people;
are they, too, bewitched?" Whereupon I came to myself again and went into
the churchyard to look after them. But all were gone save my churchwarden,
Claus Bulken, who stood under the lime-tree, whistling to himself. I
stepped up to him and asked what had come to the people? Whereupon he
answered he could not tell; and when I asked him again why, then, he
himself had left the church, he said, What was he to do there alone,
seeing that no collection could be made? I then implored him to tell me
the truth, and what horrid suspicion had arisen against me in the parish?
But he answered, I should very soon find it out for myself; and he jumped
over the wall and went into old Lizzie her house, which stands close by
the churchyard.
My child had made ready some veal broth for dinner, for which I mostly use
to leave everything else; but I could not swallow one spoonful, but sat
resting my head on my hand, and doubted whether I should tell her or no.
Meanwhile the old maid came in ready for a journey, and with a bundle in
her hand, and begged me with tears to give her leave to go. My poor child
turned pale as a corpse, and asked in amaze what had come to her? but she
merely answered, "Nothing!" and wiped her eyes with her apron. When I
recovered my speech, which had well-nigh left me at seeing that this
faithful old creature was also about to forsake me, I began to question
her why she wished to go; she who had dwelt with me so long, and who would
not forsake us even in the great famine, but had faithfully borne up
against it, and, indeed, had humbled me by her faith, and had exhorted me
to stand out gallantly to the last, for which I should be grateful to her
as long as I lived. Hereupon she merely wept and sobbed yet more, and at
length brought out that she still had an old mother of eighty living in
Liepe, and that she wished to go and nurse her till her end. Hereupon my
daughter jumped up and answered with tears, "Alas, old Ilse, why wilt thou
leave us, for thy mother is with thy brother? Do but tell me why thou wilt
forsake me, and what harm have I done thee, that I may make it good to
thee again." But she hid her face in her apron and sobbed and could not
get out a single word; whereupon my child drew away the apron from her
face, and would have stroked her cheeks to make her speak. But when Ilse
saw this she struck my poor child's hand and cried, "Ugh!" spat out before
her, and straightway went out at the door. Such a thing she had never done
even when my child was a little girl, and we were both so shocked that we
could neither of us say a word.
Before long my poor child gave a loud cry, and cast herself upon the
bench, weeping and wailing, "What has happened, what has happened?" I
therefore thought I ought to tell her what I had heard--namely, that she
was looked upon as a witch. Whereat she began to smile instead of weeping
any more, and ran out of the door to overtake the maid, who had already
left the house, as we had seen. She returned after an hour, crying out
that all the people in the village had run away from her when she would
have asked them whither the maid was gone. _Item_, the little children,
for whom she had kept school, had screamed, and had hidden themselves from
her; also no one would answer her a single word, but all spat out before
her, as the maid had done. On her way home she had seen a boat on the
water, and had run as fast as she could to the shore, and called with
might and main after old Ilse, who was in the boat. But she had taken no
notice of her, not even once to look round after her, but had motioned her
to be gone. And now she went on to weep and to sob the whole day and the
whole night, so that I was more miserable than even in the time of the
great famine. But the worst was yet to come, as will be shown in the
following chapter.
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