The Salzburg Tales

by Christina Stead

  The son attached it to the pedestal with a padlock and chain, and the next night watched in the room, while a servant waited in the adjoining room, in case robbery or a practical joke should again be attempted.

  About one o’clock in the morning the boy heard a slight sigh, and looking at the statue of Zelis, saw the golden eyes move and the breasts heave. Then a soft voice said, “Why am I chained?” Much moved, the boy made haste to unlock the lock. Then the voice said, “My son, put out that light!” He was paralysed with doubt and surprise, until the voice said again, “l am Zelis, your mother, and ask you to put out the light which discountenances miracles.” The boy, softened by the mystery, and by a spring of love for his dead mother, put out the light. The voice of Zelis than said, “Open the window!” and he did so. “Close your eyes, my son,” said the voice now, “and do not come looking for me until an hour after sunrise.” He closed his eyes with regret, heard a light sound of a footfall, presently looked and found the statue gone and the window shut again. He lay down clothed on his bed and waited for sunrise.

  An hour after sunrise he called the attendant and said, “Let us go to the graveyard, the statue is no more here,” and he showed the loosened chain. This time the cemetery was already open and the porter came out and said, “I have been to look and there is nothing at the graveside: this time a good watch was kept.” “Lend us two spades, and a hammer and chisel, and shut the public gates for an hour,” said the son, giving the man some money, and the porter did what was requested. When they came to the grave they dug until they reached the coffin and then took a hammer and chisel and opened it. There was a sweet smell mingling with the smell of aromatic oils coming out of the box and the embalmed body had not decomposed. But there lay on it three heaps of ashes, one on the forehead, one on the heart and one on the belly. There was no sign of the golden woman at all.

  So the son went home and brought his uncle and aunt to see this miracle, and it was decided to seek no more for the gold statue, but to cover up the grave and leave them in peace. This was done, and there was no further manifestation of so great a love, except that within a few days, and after that, every spring and summer, the grave and every inch of ground surrounding it for some distance, was covered with yellow flowers of every sort that oozed out of the earth; and in three spots, covering the three heaps of ashes, there was nothing at all but the black marble chips which had first been strewn over the earth.

  THE CENTENARIST’S TALES

  WHEN they sat at table the first evening and began to talk again about music, the Centenarist said, “They say that old Vienna has died and that there are no more gipsy orchestras. When I was in Vienna last month resting, I collected a band of one hundred and twenty-five Tzigane and Magyar violins and took them to a hill outside the city. There I made them play czardas …”

  Then he began to say that the Hungarian Jews had been the heart and soul of Vienna, now ruined by their absence, and that the Jews, long denied music by their religion, nevertheless imbibed rhythm and incantation in the synagogue. His delicate dark hand was uplifted, as he spoke of his race: invisible praying-shawls seemed to hover round the shoulders of the company, and somehow darken the air. Then he began to sing the air of a Bach flute, and it seemed the flute was making visible its sweet, consolatory form. They stared at the restless, self-centred figure of the Centenarist. A musician joined in and they sang a phrase, the musician with a warm, faltering baritone, the Centenarist with his cold, sharp voice, which was nearest, of all voices, to the sound of a violin, and which was strangely bewildering, taken with the Niersteiner they had drunk.

  “Did you ever hear of the great prophet,” he said, “whose disciples gathered round him on the top of a hill? ‘Tell us,’ they asked with reverence, ‘how is it possible to reach that state where one sees God? Tell us, Master, where is he, and by what sense may he be perceived?’ ‘You must only call him,’ said the Rabbi, ‘and he will come: thus, Gottenu, little God dear, where are you? And you will hear the response.’ So they called God, and listened; and called, and began to chant together: ‘Art thou there, little God? Art thou here, little God? Art thou in the air, little God? ‘And then they began listening and calling the elements and creatures, and presently their eyes sparkled, for they heard, all about, what is not heard through the ears, they heard the rhythm, the insistence, the pulse of God, wherever they bent their ears: and with their hands in their laps, and their faces, beardless and bearded, nodding, sitting on their folded legs they began to chant rapturously: ‘Thou, here! Thou, there! Thou, in the earth! Thou, in the air! Grass, thou! Tree, thou! Flowers, thou! Moth, thou! Little birds, thou, earthworm, thou: sun, thou, moon, thou, wind, thou, snow, thou,’ … and so they remained for hours, knowing God everywhere and in pure rapture naming all the things in the world, for he had become apparent to each of them.

  “That is a well-known tale,” said the Centenarist, after a few minutes, for the company sat still, and tears glittered in the eyes of some.

  “The idea is charming—of course,” said a High Church lady, politely, “but it seems to me that religious sentiment is lacking.”

  “Naturally,” said a curly-headed young professor of political economy; “it is an Eastern sentiment. One cannot have an evangelical idea of Deity, when one makes him a character in after-dinner stories: but what a delightful practice!”

  The taleteller said in a melancholy way: “The sect which tells these stories is irritably proud and touchingly simple before divinity, as children before their father. God really sits at the head of their table. You will see this in the story of the saintly Rabbi and the gold piece.”

  “What is that?”

  “A saintly Rabbi, in a poor community, was very poor, and held his Friday evening meetings in a barn over a livery stables. There the patriarchs of the village gathered, as well as the youths who were instructed. The Rabbi had to offer them meat on Friday evenings: that is the custom. Thus every week, all the week long, his good wife fretted and worried: ‘Israel, Friday evening is coming and there is not a penny in hand for the supper.’ Thus on Tuesday; and on Wednesday, ‘Ah, dear God, there he sits and reads and not a cent in the house for Friday. We will be ashamed before the guests. Israel, stop reading, then, for once, in the name of God (I am ashamed to scold him, a holy man, but men must eat); listen to me and tell me where we will get the money for Friday’s supper.’

  “So all the week she worried, and already it was Friday, and the sun sank towards the horizon and the Sabbath approached with rapid strides. She went to him once more, caught his frock and shook him: ‘Israel, will you not listen now? Woe is upon us, we shall be disgraced: the guests will say, a fine Rabbi, who cannot even provide a tea, or black bread for supper. They will come no more, they will lose faith, they will seek out another Rabbi, God will not send us a son, our daughters will beg their bread, there will be infinite trouble, and desolation will strike the village: yes, perhaps God will strike us, or let the Gentile rage, and we will die in our beds in one night, and all this because you, Israel, sit there day after day and never give a thought to everyday things. Yes, everyday things are important, too: they mean as much as Scripture, for where would Maimonides have been without his mother’s milk? God must excuse me, but I must give you a little sense. You eat the soup, but you do not ask, where does it come from?’

  “‘God will provide!’ said the holy man quietly.

  “‘God will provide! Yes, you say that! Look in the cupboard and tell me if he has provided, and the sun sinking already! Is it necessary for a wise man to be such a fool? I am so furious I can hardly keep from striking you, and you my husband, Israel, and a Rabbi! I am furious: I could beat my breast till it grew a cancer, and our youngest child died of want: it is a misery to have a husband so impractical! Poor woman that I am … God will provide! Provide then, God, even if you strike me dead for impiety! No, he has not provided, and he will not. He helps those that help themselves. Get your hat and coat on, old man, and go
out and see if you can borrow something from Aaronson or Jacobson. Stir yourself now, and be quick about it, for it is nearly evening …’ and so forth, until the Rabbi, embittered by this tirade, and by lack of money and food, rose, clothed himself in his outdoor clothes, and set out upon the road, muttering biblical texts about scolds and harassed husbands. ‘A poor man,’ said he, ‘is ever a blind man, and unable to read aright the word of God.’

  “Partly out of obstinacy, partly from forgetfulness and sadness, he set out along the road which led out of the village, and did not give a thought to Jacobson or Aaronson. The road went westwards, and as he walked, downcast, with bent head, jabbing the dust with his long stick, he became blacker and blacker, and sharper and sharper, against the red cloak of the descending sun. The dust was red, the fields impoverished, roadside shelter there was none. Thus muttering and weeping old tears, the old man walked for a long time, and all the time he carried with him the harassing thought of his cabin and barn, the earth floor strewn with pots, rags and shoes, the rent curtain that hid the bed, Miriam, his old wife, the old men and the young men coming along the road, in a crowd it seemed, to eat the supper that was not there. It seemed a pity that the custom was to eat supper, after all, when they could discourse upon the Torah, and also about local business. They ate so much, while pretending to refuse, out of politeness. The woman had much to worry her, and then how could a man faithfully study the way of Heaven, with the worries of a household? He sighed and repressed his weeping.

  “A small black mound a little way along the road attracted his attention, and presently announced its nature by its agreeably foetid odour. It was a heap of dung. He stopped sadly, in a complete discouragement of body and spirit, and began poking at the mess. ‘Yes, there is another little village like ours,’ he said, ‘a dirty mound by the roadside. No wonder God does not care whether such rubbish eats or not.’

  “He poked through the rubbish dispiritedly, sniffing the pungent smell. Suddenly something bright shone through the dung. The Rabbi stooped and saw that it was a piece of gold. He picked it out, and wiping it, put it in his sleeve. God had provided, even in the heart of a dung heap. ‘That is the lesson to me,’ said the good Rabbi. Then he wrung his hands, and his heart wept inwardly, and he cried as he turned homewards: ‘Aie, aie, is it always like this, though? If God wished to give me a gold coin, it is good: but in the name of misery, why does he give it to me in a dung heap?’”

  IN this way ended the first day of the Tales.

  The Second Day

  ON the second day, the weather was fine again and they went up into the Capuchin Wood. When they had reached a stone platform near a sentry-box in the old wall, overlooking the city, they recalled to the Viennese Conductor that he was Master of Tongues and exacted a story. But the Viennese Conductor said, “In the daytime, I will make each one speak, in turn, with pleasure; but in the evening, there is another fitter than I am, that is the Centenarist: he is the one with the gift of tongues. You must only call me Master of the Day.”

  “To work, Master of the Day,” called out the schoolboy.

  The Viennese Conductor called upon the Police Commissioner, who began to speak.

  The Police Commissioner’s Tale

  THE DEACON OF ROTTENHILL

  ROTTENHILL lies by Furrow-St.-William, Saint Suzannah, Upper Fork, St. Martin-on-Gridiron, Pilgrim Hill, Friar, Hegel and Tyr, chief village of the parish of Thirteen Churches; the geography’s clear. There the peasants in holy superstition make offerings to the saints on their namedays, at the beginning of harvest, at seed-time, at lambing-time, at milking-time, at œstral time, at snow-time, in summer to bring the rain, and in winter to break the frost, indeed at all times of the year, and above all at Christmas, when a bright star shines over the mangers and sheep-pastures.

  Deacon Odilet was last year, and for many years before, deacon of Rottenhill, and although thin, tubercular and in his fiftieth year, he had the respect of the peasants. He had certain peculiarities which perhaps even endeared him to as strange a collection of men as ever cultivated the soil. He shut himself up in the attic he tenanted at the farm called The Belated, and rarely appeared except when the sun was down and lights were low, or the day rainy, on account, he said, of his weak eyes; but it was probably that he was naturally addicted to melancholy. He dined not, wined not, wenched not, stole not, blasphemed not; he prayed frequently, looked no man straight in the eye, canted rather than spoke and did his own washing. All this brought him very little income, but it brought him a certain wholesome reputation in a centre of civilisation where the favourite motto is the following: “A poor man is honest, if he says, Good-day, and fine is the weather: A rich man’s straightforward at night, when he and his doxy lie together.”

  Odilet was honest, and it was with no misgivings that the elders of the congregation sent him on the usual rounds to take up the offerings from the smaller churches of the parish.

  Odilet practised exorcism for the farmers of the district, likewise, as a sideline in religion: at nightfall, he abstracted the cakes, grains, liquors and pence laid out on roofs and stoops for the conditionally good fairies of the countryside, and thus preserved the people in their childlike faith. Over the fairies who abstracted the cheese from milk yet in the udder, he had considerable power, and likewise over the weeds they inhabited: it was he who stole sheep at midnight and returned them, with a sanctimonious face from some retreat of his own, the next week, and was paid for it: he who, as a goblin, transported the rich man’s bull to the peasant’s cow overnight and returned it before daybreak, after the goblin was paid. He ministered in private to the secret godlets of the countryside, the beneficent springs, the whispering stones, the enchanted swards, the vocal trees of malevolence, and purveyed the requisite amulets, philtres and balms: he knew the good and bad mushrooms, he divined with a rod or twig, he located the dead: it was he who found a prehistoric bone by High Hill and saw a spectre in Poverty Gully. To this handyman of the occult nothing in the land was strange; it was as if he had been cradled in a niche of the Stone of Prophecy and suckled on the wooded bosom of the hills.

  A poltergeist last year visited a farming couple who employed a number of workmen, among whom was a superstitious, delicate, halfwitted foreigner who scarcely spoke the language. The police assembled, the family fled, the poltergeist remained and gave star performances: the priest exorcised, but Odilet alone conjured the sprite. From that time on, his revenues slightly increased and this led to the downfall of his constitution and morals. He began to drink; only a little, but enough to make him a curious and fearful creature to meet at night, as he pursued his Meander to its fountainhead. The crow of illfortune was then seen several times on his house; a peasant woman shouted a curse at him and several of his cows died. Like all prophets he was liable to become a victim of his own hocus-pocus. He drank more.

  The parson, an inactive person mummified in theological libraries, who savagely swallowed every book that came his way, and got as drunk periodically with atheism as with mysticism, left his hideous parishioners and their loathed parish to anyone who would manage them: that person was Odilet, who managed well enough. The parson laughed at the rumour that came to him of Odilet’s oddities, and cultivated his curiosity in stagnant cynicism.

  Now, during the latter six months of last year, that part of the country was greatly disturbed by a series of impudent burglaries. The mayor received deputations, the deputy was harassed in Parliament. The police questioned every farmhand, servant and inferior help about the district; and every waif and stray that appeared was regularly arrested, questioned and released. The burglaries continued. Savage dogs appeared on all the farms, watch was kept at night, the small arms and ammunition shops in the nearest towns did business. Yet if watch was relaxed for one night, or the chief of a household was absent a moment, a raid was sure to be made.

  The women were nervous, and the men thought of forming a committee of safety. Odilet, in a private daze, took no notice and
buried his pug nose in beer.

  The police had received a description of the burglar from various persons who had crossed him on his way to and from raids. He was tall (or of medium height), a young man (or perhaps fifty), wore a cap (and sometimes being bareheaded, was observed to have thick, wavy chestnut, and thin yellowish, or a fringe of grey, hair): he loped along like a greyhound, or stumbled frequently as he walked, as if in haste, carried a load with him, or looked bulky about his person, was straight as a poker, and seemed rather gone in one leg. He had searching dark eyes which looked at one angrily, and likewise pale and indescribable eyes: he both walked boldly out in the open, to divert suspicion, and crept furtively along in the shadows. Out of these details, a general notion of the burglar had formed in the minds of the population, so that sometimes during a week many persons would see him, in various parts of the country, but always in disadvantageous positions, as when alone crossing the woods. Especially, he seemed to lurk about Poverty Gully, a narrow, austere gully with rocks of granite and porphyry and rolling scree grown with weeds.

  When Christmas approached the police were asked to be especially alert.

  Odilet alone had never seen the burglar and refused to partake of the general illusion: when asked for his opinion of the man’s traits and character, he remarked that nothing was certain and that the man had never been properly seen in a clear light and by a dependable observer. This was put down to jealousy.

  On Christmas Eve Odilet set off on the usual rounds to collect the offerings of the churches, chapels and shrines, for the poor of the parish, the restoration of the churches, and the minister’s salary. He received a few small offerings on his own account, for instance, cakes, ale, cider, homebrewed brandy, and other insubstantial expressions of goodwill. The collection took him a long time, with these calls in between and what not, especially as many of the offerings were in kind and had to be packed into his sack: there was an old pair of pewter candlesticks, a dish, a pair of stockings, an old coat, a canister, and various things which might comfort the hearts of the poor and were useless to their late owners.