The Seven Deadly Sins (Bowen)/Wrath

NE November day, when the novices were seated round the fire in the kitchen roasting chestnuts, a dispute fell out between two of them on some trifling matter, and Father Aloysius, who had observed much quarrelling of late among them, took the opportunity to talk to them of the fourth deadly sin, which is Ira, or, in the vulgar tongue, Wrath, which is the very sin, together with Pride, that caused Lucifer to be cast from heaven. And this story that Father Aloysius told was not one of his own knowledge or his own country, but one that had been imparted to him by a certain Magister, who came from the bitter and barbarous North, and had for a few days been a guest at the convent.

And he, having witnessed divers curious things in his own land, had made a great book of them, together with paintings done to please his fancy, and the receipts for certain charms and a credible relation of his journeyings in search of the Philosopher’s Stone}, which, he declared, was in the hands of the Jews.

And several of these tales he had copied out and left with Father Aloysius for his instruction, declaring he knew them to be true, and that they had all happened in his time, and to his knowledge.

So this evening the monk brought down the manuscript of the Magister and read aloud the tale entitled, “A very Faithful Account of Some late Marvellous Happenings in the town of” (for prudence, the name of the town was omitted, but the Magister had called it Alstein in Franconia).

And this was the tale.

In a certain town there was a woman dwelling who was universally held to be a witch.

She came of a great family, and had in her time been dowered with lands and castles, but some mysterious disgrace had fallen on her youth, and she had nothing left but a small farm where she brewed beer and made sausages and kept a few herons, whose feathers she sold in the moulting season, and by these, with the revenue from the beer and the sausages, she made her living, though she used all means to disguise this fact, and pretended that she had wealth from her lands and forests which no longer existed, as all knew well enough; but, as I have said, she was a witch, and who dared offend her?

The whole town was in awe of her, from the Sheriff to the humblest peasant, and the tricks she had played on those who offended her were enough to fill a volume by themselves.

Her name was Ottilia Von Angers, and surely never did anyone disgrace a proud old name as she disgraced hers! Woe to the town that sheltered her! (For she was not a native of this place, but came from long off somewhere in Swabia, I think; at least her former history was not clearly known.)

Well, this fine morning in May she jumps out of bed, puts on her worn old velvet kirtle and her old brass chain which she had rubbed up to look like gold, and off she goes to the market to buy the herbs for the beer and the meat for the sausages. To right and left such bowing and salutations and lifting of caps! You would have thought it was a fair young maiden going abroad instead of an old hag with a face yellow as butter looking her full seventy years (though she admitted to scarce fifty).

There she was in the market-place, bargaining and chaffering and shrieking out on the impudent rogues that dared to cheat a high-born lady like her, when she saw a little cart being driven full speed through the buyers and sellers.

There was only one person in it, and she was an old woman wrapped in a black cloak with her grey hair blowing out behind her; every one stared at her, for she was a stranger. And Ottilia was so interested that she stopped bargaining and hobbled after the cart.

When she came up with it, it was stayed outside a stall and the old woman had descended—and what was she buying but two new brooms!

So Ottilia pushes up to her and the following conversation began:

Who was she, what was she doing here, and why was she buying brooms?

Her name was Trina Von Ebers; she was a poor woman, God help her, and she made her living selling cheeses. As for the brooms, she was buying them to sweep out the new house she had taken—servants were such sluts, as the noble lady must know.

These words pleased Ottilia, for she was proud as Diabolus himself, and she answered, yes, indeed, well she knew it, therefore she kept neither man nor maid; and now she remembered she required a broom herself, and these seemed strong and cheap, though God knew how these people cheated and lied.

So they fell bargaining over the brooms and the new-comer said she had come here to live, and to open a dairy for butter and cheeses, and she hoped the noble lady would accept the present of a dish of her best butter (and good it was, she ventured to say) and a fine round cheese.

This immensely flattered Ottilia, who at once asked if her dear friend would come to dine with her. She had just brewed some new beer—as to her name she was Ottilia Von Angers, and a well-dowered maiden.

The other hag accepted, and Ottilia hurried home to prepare the feast.

On the way she met a scullion of the sheriff's household, and, stopping him, she asked him what his master had for dinner.

To which the boy replied—a great game pie, two side-dishes of venison, an almond cream and a cake of cherries.

So home went Ottilia.

Now, though she had told old Trina she kept no servant, it was not true, for she had an old porter whom she nearly worked to death, and when she reached home, him she sent with a message to the Sheriff saying she heard he had a pie, two dishes of venison, an almond cream and a cake of cherries for his dinner, and she begged he would send them to her, together with a cask of white wine, for she desired to feed the poor of her neighbourhood, like the pious woman she was.

And in case he felt disinclined to send, she reminded him of what had befallen him the last time he would not help her charities, viz. his mouth had been twisted up to his ear, and so had remained for a week, which was doubtless God’s judgment on him.

Then the hag starts cleaning up the room and laying the table and putting the furniture to the best advantage; then she goes into the bedroom and fetches a small white monkey and she puts on him a pair of green breeches and a blue coat, he crying the while and preferring his nakedness; but my hag boxes his ears and quiets him.

Then back comes the porter with the Sheriff’s dinner following him, borne by two cook-boys, for the Sheriff would as soon have faced the whole army of the Margrave as deny anything to Ottilia.

So the table was ready, and the wine broached and the beer poured, and in came the other hag in a great cloak of catskin dyed to look like sable. And Ottilia’s greeting was—where were the cheese and the butter?

Well, could she carry them through the streets and she in her fine clothes? No, indeed, but to-morrow the servant wench should bring them.

This threw a cloud over their meeting, but they sat down to the Sheriff’s dinner and began to gossip and chatter and say how wicked the world was, and how birth and blood met with no respect now-a-days, whereas any fat churl with a gold piece in his pocket got more deference than a belted baron.

And the monkey sat on the table eating from Ottilia’s plate and snatching the best morsels while she talked.

And Ottilia brought the conversation round to the cheese, and Trina said she would send for it, and, ringing the bell, summons the porter and bids him run down to her house and ask the maid for one of her best cheeses.

Then the fellow answered: no, he would not run on any of her errands, she was not his mistress.

What, did he dare speak to a lady with that rudeness?

Lady! She might well call herself a lady, for no one else ever would. Why, she was no better born than he.

Then the hag started screaming; he had better take care, she knew how to deal with churls like him! She was a high-born maiden and could prove it!

The porter burst out laughing.

Why, she was seventy or more, and as for high-born, that she was not, he could see; and not fit to sit at table with his noble mistress.

At this Trina screams out to Ottilia to chastise her insolent servant; but it chanced that Ottilia had been by no means displeased by the fellow’s rudeness: first, because Trina had not brought the present; secondly, because of the show she had made in the dyed catskin; thirdly, because the man had cunningly flattered her in his last speech.

So she said: well, the boor was rude, but it was no fault of hers, and her friend should have left him alone; after all it was her place to send the cheese, as she had promised. At this Trina crosses her thumbs under the table, and, making a grimace at the porter, she hurries away.

Ottilia should have the cheese and might she enjoy it!

So my hags part coldly.

And Ottilia, looking after her guest, sees her dancing and leaping about the entrance and making faces at the porter. So down she comes running with a beer-mug in one hand and the monkey on her shoulder; but when she had reached the gate Trina had gone.

Now that night the porter was taken ill, so that his groans and cries echoed through the street; his head swelled, needles and pins ran out of his mouth, and something seemed to run up and down inside his throat, so that it was very plain that he had a devil.

So they carried him to the church and put him on a litter before the altar, where he lay like a dead man.

And beside him sat Ottilia, sighing and groaning and declaring the fellow was bewitched and she knew who had done it: it was that wicked woman who had lately come into the town to sell cheeses; it would be a charity to all good Christians to burn her and her cheeses too.

After the fellow had lain there all night and never moved, they sent for a holy priest from the neighbouring village who was an adept in such cases.

So he comes with the Sheriff and the Council and the knights and barons of the town and they all gather round the poor porter.

The priest exhorts the devil, who will give no answer; but, the holy man in his agitation making a mistake in his Latin, the devil suddenly speaks, in a heavy bass voice, and corrects him. Thereupon follows this conversation, which one present put down for the benefit of the curious.

Priest: Who was he, and why was he annoying the poor porter?

Diabolus: They knew well enough who he was, and as for why he was there that was no concern of theirs. Let the holy man mend his Latin.

Priest: Insolent answers would not help him; depart he must and should.

Diabolus: That was a fine tale. Evidently the holy man was stupid as well as ignorant.

Thereupon the priest recited certain prayers that caused the devil to run in anger about the body of the poor porter till it seemed that the flesh must be torn from the bones.

Priest: Did these prayers annoy him?

Diabolus: Yes, certainly they did.

Priest: Well, would he answer a few questions and then depart?

Diabolus: What questions?

Priest: Where did he come from?

Diabolus: Where the lean priest and the fat Sheriff were going.

Priest: Let him be civil or the prayers would begin. Were there any witches in this town?

Diabolus: Yes, there was one in church now.

Then Ottilia began to weep and cry out how the ugly devil belied even a poor pious woman like herself; but the Sheriff and the knights and barons looked pale.

Priest: Would he tell them the others?

Diabolus: No.

He then proceeded to sing a love-song in Dutch, to the great scandal of Georges Potsdammer, a worthy knight and the only one who understood that language, and on the priest asking him what he sang he answered: a hymn, and began to mock the holy man in a horrid way.

Priest: He had better depart, or they would begin the prayers again.

Diabolus: Well, let them give him something.

Priest: What did he want?

Diabolus: The great fat man with the red nose and the diamond agrafe in his cap.

Priest: That was the Sheriff, and why did he want him?

Diabolus: He annoyed him.

Priest: How could he annoy him? He might have the agrafe of jewels, but not the Sheriff.

Diabolus: Very well, then, they might pray as they liked, they would not move him.

Which proved to be true. For they might pray as much as they liked, they could not pray the devil out of the porter.

So presently up gets Ottilia and away she goes out of the church, so that everyone turns to look at her, she muttering the while that this was a holy man indeed who was not able to pray the devil out of her poor porter; but as for her she had never thought that he could, not he—holy indeed! why, there were those who could tell a different tale!

So off goes my hag straight to where old Trina is busy making cheeses, and in she comes without as much as knocking.

And never a word she says at first, but looks round the room, and, sure enough, there were the two new broom-sticks lying crossed under the table and by the cupboard sits Master Cat looking as demure as you please and daintily licking the drops of grease off the ends of his fur!

Ottilia started shrieking.

She perceived that Trina was a witch and she had sent a devil into her poor porter because the fellow had resented her rudeness yesterday.

Trina: Witch indeed! How dare she say so, and what did she know of it?

Ottilia: What of the broom-sticks and the cat?

Trina: She had bought broom-sticks herself only yesterday, and what of the monkey in his little coloured hose?

Ottilia: Was it not to her credit that she tried to make a Christian of the poor animal? Everyone knew that she was a god-fearing, pious lady. But she had not come here to quarrel; let Trina take the devil out of the porter and give her the cheese and the dish of butter, and they might be good friends again.

Trina: She wanted no such friends; as for the cheeses, they were seven for a florin, and at that price she might have them.

Ottilia: Seven a florin! She must be mad to speak so to a high-born maiden!

Trina: That was a good joke! Did she think she deceived anyone with her brass chain rubbed up to look like gold, and her old velvet gown turned and scoured a dozen times?

At this Ottilia was so enraged she snatched up the broomsticks from under the table and began beating Trina; then up jumped the black cat and ran between her ankles and tripped her up, and Trina seized the broomsticks and drove her out of doors.

Back Ottilia went, muttering to herself and dancing along the street so that everyone turned aside out of pure fright, and the Sheriff, meeting her as he returned from the church, trembled all over at the sight of her, and begged her to accept a vase of his new honey.

“See that it is good measure,” says she, with a leer, and she hobbles back and finds the monkey by the kitchen fire, dipping his hand in the kettle and picking out the best bits of the stew.

At this she, further enraged, falls on him and beats him without mercy.

Ottilia: He was a worthless spirit! Could he not save her porter—could he do nothing but eat and thieve?

Pipkin (which was the name of this creature): That was a powerful spell laid on the porter, but if she would stop beating him he would suggest how she might have her revenge.

Ottilia ceased her blows and they whispered together, and presently they began to laugh and dance, and, my knave from the Sheriff coming with the vase of honey, looked in at the window and seeing, as he declared, three tall shadows leaping up and down on the wall, back he ran, honey and all, and swears he will deliver no more messages there, no, not if the Sheriff was to dip him in the river.

Now Trina gets ready her cheeses and goes to the market with them. Everyone is looking grim, and the bell of the big church is tolling, for the porter is just dead and the devil, in flying out of the corpse, snatched up the altar-cloth and whirled it away through the window, and it may be seen at this moment stuck on the weathercock on the steeple.

But my hag cheerfully sets out her cheeses, and presently the people gather round, for the cheeses are large, fine and soft, and indeed better than any ever seen in that town before.

And, sure enough, she does a good trade, and it seems as if every cheese on the cart would be sold, when—what happens?

Just as she is taking up the cheeses to hand them to her customers, up they all jump, like live things, and start running down the street.

Everyone stares and shrieks and crosses himself, and off go my cheeses, one after the other—jump, jump, jump!—and after them the hag screaming and cursing.

But she might do as she liked; it was no use, the cheeses hurry along and she cannot keep up with them.

In and out of the long streets they go, out of the gate and past Ottilia’s farm.

And there she is at the window laughing and clapping her hands, with the monkey on her shoulder.

Ottilia: She was well paid now for bewitching the poor porter! She might run till she burst, she would never get her cheeses again! Ha! ha! How strange she looked, with her skirts all gathered up and her skinny legs looking like two sticks dried in the sun!

But Trina took no notice; she ran after the cheeses. Only what was the use?

They made straight for the river-bank, and there they jumped into the water, one after the other—plump! plump! plump!

And that was the end of the cheeses.

Now Ottilia and Pipkin had a feast, and because the Sheriff had not sent the honey as he had promised, they put a spell on him and turned all the beer in his cellar sour, and all the fish and meat in his pantry bad, so that the smell turned the Sheriff’s stomach.

So he in a fright sent another knave with a venison and a salmon and a great pot of honey; and what a feast my hag made! All the afternoon she was frying collops and sausages and making soup and boiling salmon.

Now, there were some friends of hers living near, hags like herself, but afraid of her, and to these she sent a message asking them to supper—for when she had good food she liked to make a show of it, so as to set all talking of her luxury and magnificence.

In came the hags dressed like so many young beauties, and down they sat to the feast, flattering and praising Ottilia and smirking and smiling at each other as if they were the sweetest-tempered creatures in the world.

Well, just as my witch had brought in the salmon and set it on the table and all the guests were ready to plunge in their knives and forks, down comes the ceiling, spoils the feast, and nearly kills them all!

The table was broken beneath the wooden beams, the venison, the sausages, the salmon, the beer, the wine, the honey, were scattered right and left, so that there was not one crumb fit to eat.

Now the old women thought that this was some trick on the part of Ottilia (for she had served them not a few in the past), and as soon as they could escape from the ruins of the table they rose up and went for her, beating her black and blue and swinging Pipkin round by his tail and dashing his head against the wall, she crying out the while that she was innocent and would she have spoilt her own good dinner herself?

They never heeded a word, but beat her till they were tired; then they blew out in a cloud, scolding and quarrelling among themselves.

When they had gone, Ottilia, as soon as she could recover herself, beat Pipkin a little more for not having been able to prevent the falling in of the roof, then put on her best gown and the famous brass chain and went off to find a man to put the roof on again, then, as quick as she could, hobble, hobble, to the Sheriff’s.

Shivering and trembling, he bids her come in, though he is in full council discussing no less an important thing than putting a penny a quart on the price of beer.

In comes Ottilia demurely, and, sighing and weeping, she starts her story.

Ottilia: With the venison and salmon his lordship had been so good as to send she had made a little feast for some poor women of her acquaintance, and they, after thanking Heaven for its mercies, were just sitting to table when down came the roof and spoilt everything. This, like the death of the poor porter, was plainly witchcraft, and she accused the strange Trina Von Ebers, and called on the Sheriff to obtain justice for her and damages from that accursed witch. To wit; item, for the value of the porter, 50 florins; item, for the cost of a new roof, 10 florins; item, for the cost of the dinner 5 florins; item, for a new gown totally spoilt by some soup falling over it, 10 florins; and for another feast to compensate her friends for their disappointment, 15 florins.

The Sheriff did not know what to answer; he was as white as the wall behind him. He bit his thumb and looked at the councillors, and the councillors looked at him, and they all coughed and scratched their heads, and did not know what to answer.

Then Ottilia began to frown and scream: What, were they not there to see justice done on a high-born maiden in distress?

And the Sheriff hastily replied, yea, they were there to see justice done, but could she prove the witchcraft? Might it not have been an accident? And, as to the damages she claimed, they did not think this stranger woman could disburse them.

So spoke the Sheriff out of fear of both witches, but Ottilia became more wrathful than ever. Let them search the stranger’s house and see if they did not find money enough to satisfy her claims! And, if they found nothing, let them take her out and burn her for the witch she undoubtedly was!

At these words in walks old Trina leaning on a crutch, and goes stumping straight up to the Sheriff and tells her tale of the bewitched cheeses and demands that Ottilia be sent to the rack until she confess it was her doing.

Then the Sheriff and the councillors wished that they had never been born, for, whichever hag they decided for, the other would destroy them with her spells, and the Sheriff saw no escape for it but to die miserably, as the poor porter had died. So he sat there, trembling and biting his thumb, while my witches glare at each other awaiting his answer.

Then presently he thinks of a solution, and declares them both pious women and innocent of all witchcraft, and suggests that perchance there is some evil person in the town who has played these ugly tricks, or else that they were no tricks at all, but mere accidents.

Accidents! screams Ottilia, when he himself had heard the devil speak from the mouth of her porter!

Accidents! cries Trina, when the cheeses had risen up like Christians and run down the street—hop; hop; hop; and the whole town had seen them!

So the Sheriff sighs and says, well, no doubt there was witchcraft in it, and he can propose nothing but a witch-hunt, and pray Heaven they may find the evil-doer.

Now, this is not at all to the liking of my hags, and they stretch out their lean throats and scream out a protest, each shrieking that the other is the witch and no need to search further.

But the councillors are pleased with the Sheriff’s plan, for, think they, the excitement of a witch-hunt will help to reconcile the people to the rise in the price of beer.

So off they hurry and find swords and sticks and bunches of hazel tied with scarlet thread and make a proclamation of a witch-hunt, to which all the town folk respond, well pleased.

And the two hags see nothing for it but to join in the chase, the one with her monkey, the other with her cat, though their wrath against each other was by no means abated, and both yet hoped to serve the other some shrewd trick or turn that would send her to the stake.

Now, while this chase was taking place through the streets, the altar-cloth that had been fluttering from the weathercock of the steeple where it had been blown by the devil to the great scandal of all good Christians, suddenly fluttered down, though there was no wind, and fell on the roof of a house in the High Street, which the crowd at this minute were passing.

And the woman who lived there came running out, shouting:

Had any one heard the like? All the apple-trees in her garden had become suddenly covered with fruit, and this but the middle of May!

Now, this greatly pleased my knaves, who thought that they had found magic at last; so they bundled the woman back into the house and rushed into the garden, and there, sure enough, were three little apple-trees, covered with red and glossy fruit; but when one struck his teeth into them he found his mouth full of ashes.

So here they had it at last, and some were for taking the woman and burning her at once, but there were two objections; item, she had a very good character, and earned her living by knitting gloves for the priests; item, there was no one among them who knew how to burn a witch, and the fellow they had sent for had not yet arrived.

In the midst of all the delay and confusion and bawling and fighting, two of the knaves start searching through the house for broom-sticks, cauldrons, or any signs or mark of the Evil One.

And what do they find?

A fair lame maiden, seated on the floor in one of the dusty garrets.

And she could give no account of herself; so they dragged her down before the Sheriff, and the housewife declared that she had never seen her before, and that it was she, sure enough, who had bewitched the apple-trees.

And my hags join in out of jealousy, seeing the girl is young and comely, albeit lame, and swear this is the witch and no other, and now they can have their witch-burning.

So off they all go—hurry,hurry,hurry—to the market-place, and, the witch-burner having arrived, the stake is prepared, and a fine bundle of green wood brought, and everyone pleased and content at the thought of the holy and pleasant spectacle, when what must Ottilia and Trina do but start anew to quarrel, each telling the other she should join the poor maiden at the stake.

And Pipkin and the cat begin fighting until it is an awful sight; for as they fight they grow larger until the monkey is the size of a soldier, and the cat the size of a bear.

Then, while every one is shivering and trembling, and not knowing what to do, there comes a clap of thunder, and who should step into the market-square but the Devil himself?

Now, fiends, imps, evil spirits, familiars, ghosts and witches were well known to the good citizens, but the Devil himself was quite another matter, and they all began to roar with fright.

To begin with, he was as tall as the cathedral, he had a tail that lashed over the house-tops, and his long hair shook in the sky like banners. So he puts one hoof in the market-place and glances down with his red eyes, then he takes up the two witches as a man might take up two hens and tucks them one under each arm, and off he goes over the houses—stride, stride, stride—and disappears with another clap of thunder.

And that was the end of my hags.

Now when the crowd had recovered its senses, the cat and the monkey had disappeared, and there was the poor maiden weeping at the stake. So they gave her her liberty; it seemed she was a poor orphan hired to do a day’s spinning, and her mistress had denied her for fear. She afterwards married George Potsdammer; so this was a lucky day for her after all.

Now, everyone was satisfied, save the witch-burner, who said: how was he to be paid?

But the Sheriff was so pleased to be rid of Ottilia that he paid the fellow the same, and so all went to a feast in the town-hall.

Alas, they might well feast! Soon it appeared that the devil had let Ottilia loose again, and back she came in a new fur tippet; but that is not in this tale.

Here ends the story of the Magister, and the next pages of his manuscript deal with a plan for the conversion of the Jews and an account of Benedict D’Arles, who spent thirty years trying to produce the Philosopher’s Stone from decayed hen’s-eggs, mercury and seaweed, and died mad. .

(Next month: Envy.)