Chapter 2

Three of us boys were always together, and had been so from the cradle,

being fond of one another from the beginning, and this affection

deepened as the years went on--Nikolaus Bauman, son of the principal

judge of the local court; Seppi Wohlmeyer, son of the keeper of the

principal inn, the “Golden Stag,” which had a nice garden, with shade

trees reaching down to the riverside, and pleasure boats for hire; and I

was the third--Theodor Fischer, son of the church organist, who was

also leader of the village musicians, teacher of the violin, composer,

tax-collector of the commune, sexton, and in other ways a useful

citizen, and respected by all. We knew the hills and the woods as well

as the birds knew them; for we were always roaming them when we had

leisure--at least, when we were not swimming or boating or fishing, or

playing on the ice or sliding down hill.

And we had the run of the castle park, and very few had that. It was

because we were pets of the oldest servingman in the castle--Felix

Brandt; and often we went there, nights, to hear him talk about old

times and strange things, and to smoke with him (he taught us that) and

to drink coffee; for he had served in the wars, and was at the siege of

Vienna; and there, when the Turks were defeated and driven away, among

the captured things were bags of coffee, and the Turkish prisoners

explained the character of it and how to make a pleasant drink out of

it, and now he always kept coffee by him, to drink himself and also to

astonish the ignorant with. When it stormed he kept us all night; and

while it thundered and lightened outside he told us about ghosts and

horrors of every kind, and of battles and murders and mutilations, and

such things, and made it pleasant and cozy inside; and he told these

things from his own experience largely. He had seen many ghosts in his

time, and witches and enchanters, and once he was lost in a fierce storm

at midnight in the mountains, and by the glare of the lightning had seen

the Wild Huntsman rage on the blast with his specter dogs chasing after

him through the driving cloud-rack. Also he had seen an incubus once,

and several times he had seen the great bat that sucks the blood from

the necks of people while they are asleep, fanning them softly with its

wings and so keeping them drowsy till they die.

He encouraged us not to fear supernatural things, such as ghosts, and

said they did no harm, but only wandered about because they were lonely

and distressed and wanted kindly notice and compassion; and in time we

learned not to be afraid, and even went down with him in the night to

the haunted chamber in the dungeons of the castle. The ghost appeared

only once, and it went by very dim to the sight and floated noiseless

through the air, and then disappeared; and we scarcely trembled, he had

taught us so well. He said it came up sometimes in the night and woke

him by passing its clammy hand over his face, but it did him no hurt; it

only wanted sympathy and notice. But the strangest thing was that he had

seen angels--actual angels out of heaven--and had talked with them. They

had no wings, and wore clothes, and talked and looked and acted just

like any natural person, and you would never know them for angels except

for the wonderful things they did which a mortal could not do, and the

way they suddenly disappeared while you were talking with them, which

was also a thing which no mortal could do. And he said they were

pleasant and cheerful, not gloomy and melancholy, like ghosts.

It was after that kind of a talk one May night that we got up next

morning and had a good breakfast with him and then went down and crossed

the bridge and went away up into the hills on the left to a woody

hill-top which was a favorite place of ours, and there we stretched out

on the grass in the shade to rest and smoke and talk over these strange

things, for they were in our minds yet, and impressing us. But we

couldn't smoke, because we had been heedless and left our flint and

steel behind.

Soon there came a youth strolling toward us through the trees, and he

sat down and began to talk in a friendly way, just as if he knew us.

But we did not answer him, for he was a stranger and we were not used to

strangers and were shy of them. He had new and good clothes on, and was

handsome and had a winning face and a pleasant voice, and was easy and

graceful and unembarrassed, not slouchy and awkward and diffident, like

other boys. We wanted to be friendly with him, but didn't know how to

begin. Then I thought of the pipe, and wondered if it would be taken

as kindly meant if I offered it to him. But I remembered that we had

no fire, so I was sorry and disappointed. But he looked up bright and

pleased, and said:

“Fire? Oh, that is easy; I will furnish it.”

I was so astonished I couldn't speak; for I had not said anything. He

took the pipe and blew his breath on it, and the tobacco glowed red, and

spirals of blue smoke rose up. We jumped up and were going to run, for

that was natural; and we did run a few steps, although he was yearningly

pleading for us to stay, and giving us his word that he would not do us

any harm, but only wanted to be friends with us and have company. So we

stopped and stood, and wanted to go back, being full of curiosity

and wonder, but afraid to venture. He went on coaxing, in his soft,

persuasive way; and when we saw that the pipe did not blow up and

nothing happened, our confidence returned by little and little, and

presently our curiosity got to be stronger than our fear, and we

ventured back--but slowly, and ready to fly at any alarm.

He was bent on putting us at ease, and he had the right art; one could

not remain doubtful and timorous where a person was so earnest and

simple and gentle, and talked so alluringly as he did; no, he won us

over, and it was not long before we were content and comfortable and

chatty, and glad we had found this new friend. When the feeling of

constraint was all gone we asked him how he had learned to do that

strange thing, and he said he hadn't learned it at all; it came natural

to him--like other things--other curious things.

“What ones?”

“Oh, a number; I don't know how many.”

“Will you let us see you do them?”

“Do--please!” the others said.

“You won't run away again?”

“No--indeed we won't. Please do. Won't you?”

“Yes, with pleasure; but you mustn't forget your promise, you know.”

We said we wouldn't, and he went to a puddle and came back with water

in a cup which he had made out of a leaf, and blew upon it and threw it

out, and it was a lump of ice the shape of the cup. We were astonished

and charmed, but not afraid any more; we were very glad to be there, and

asked him to go on and do some more things. And he did. He said he would

give us any kind of fruit we liked, whether it was in season or not. We

all spoke at once;

“Orange!”

“Apple!”

“Grapes!”

“They are in your pockets,” he said, and it was true. And they were of

the best, too, and we ate them and wished we had more, though none of us

said so.

“You will find them where those came from,” he said, “and everything

else your appetites call for; and you need not name the thing you wish;

as long as I am with you, you have only to wish and find.”

And he said true. There was never anything so wonderful and so

interesting. Bread, cakes, sweets, nuts--whatever one wanted, it was

there. He ate nothing himself, but sat and chatted, and did one curious

thing after another to amuse us. He made a tiny toy squirrel out of

clay, and it ran up a tree and sat on a limb overhead and barked down

at us. Then he made a dog that was not much larger than a mouse, and it

treed the squirrel and danced about the tree, excited and barking, and

was as alive as any dog could be. It frightened the squirrel from tree

to tree and followed it up until both were out of sight in the forest.

He made birds out of clay and set them free, and they flew away,

singing.

At last I made bold to ask him to tell us who he was.

“An angel,” he said, quite simply, and set another bird free and clapped

his hands and made it fly away.

A kind of awe fell upon us when we heard him say that, and we were

afraid again; but he said we need not be troubled, there was no occasion

for us to be afraid of an angel, and he liked us, anyway. He went on

chatting as simply and unaffectedly as ever; and while he talked he made

a crowd of little men and women the size of your finger, and they went

diligently to work and cleared and leveled off a space a couple of yards

square in the grass and began to build a cunning little castle in it,

the women mixing the mortar and carrying it up the scaffoldings in pails

on their heads, just as our work-women have always done, and the men

laying the courses of masonry--five hundred of these toy people swarming

briskly about and working diligently and wiping the sweat off their

faces as natural as life. In the absorbing interest of watching those

five hundred little people make the castle grow step by step and course

by course, and take shape and symmetry, that feeling and awe soon passed

away and we were quite comfortable and at home again. We asked if we

might make some people, and he said yes, and told Seppi to make some

cannon for the walls, and told Nikolaus to make some halberdiers, with

breastplates and greaves and helmets, and I was to make some cavalry,

with horses, and in allotting these tasks he called us by our names,

but did not say how he knew them. Then Seppi asked him what his own name

was, and he said, tranquilly, “Satan,” and held out a chip and caught a

little woman on it who was falling from the scaffolding and put her back

where she belonged, and said, “She is an idiot to step backward like

that and not notice what she is about.”

It caught us suddenly, that name did, and our work dropped out of our

hands and broke to pieces--a cannon, a halberdier, and a horse. Satan

laughed, and asked what was the matter. I said, “Nothing, only it seemed

a strange name for an angel.” He asked why.

“Because it's--it's--well, it's his name, you know.”

“Yes--he is my uncle.”

He said it placidly, but it took our breath for a moment and made our

hearts beat. He did not seem to notice that, but mended our halberdiers

and things with a touch, handing them to us finished, and said, “Don't

you remember?--he was an angel himself, once.”

“Yes--it's true,” said Seppi; “I didn't think of that.”

“Before the Fall he was blameless.”

“Yes,” said Nikolaus, “he was without sin.”

“It is a good family--ours,” said Satan; “there is not a better. He is

the only member of it that has ever sinned.”

I should not be able to make any one understand how exciting it all was.

You know that kind of quiver that trembles around through you when you

are seeing something so strange and enchanting and wonderful that it

is just a fearful joy to be alive and look at it; and you know how

you gaze, and your lips turn dry and your breath comes short, but you

wouldn't be anywhere but there, not for the world. I was bursting to

ask one question--I had it on my tongue's end and could hardly hold it

back--but I was ashamed to ask it; it might be a rudeness. Satan set an

ox down that he had been making, and smiled up at me and said:

“It wouldn't be a rudeness, and I should forgive it if it was. Have I

seen him? Millions of times. From the time that I was a little child a

thousand years old I was his second favorite among the nursery angels of

our blood and lineage--to use a human phrase--yes, from that time until

the Fall, eight thousand years, measured as you count time.”

“Eight--thousand!”

“Yes.” He turned to Seppi, and went on as if answering something that

was in Seppi's mind: “Why, naturally I look like a boy, for that is what

I am. With us what you call time is a spacious thing; it takes a long

stretch of it to grow an angel to full age.” There was a question in my

mind, and he turned to me and answered it, “I am sixteen thousand years

old--counting as you count.” Then he turned to Nikolaus and said: “No,

the Fall did not affect me nor the rest of the relationship. It was

only he that I was named for who ate of the fruit of the tree and then

beguiled the man and the woman with it. We others are still ignorant

of sin; we are not able to commit it; we are without blemish, and

shall abide in that estate always. We--” Two of the little workmen were

quarreling, and in buzzing little bumblebee voices they were cursing

and swearing at each other; now came blows and blood; then they locked

themselves together in a life-and-death struggle. Satan reached out his

hand and crushed the life out of them with his fingers, threw them away,

wiped the red from his fingers on his handkerchief, and went on

talking where he had left off: “We cannot do wrong; neither have we any

disposition to do it, for we do not know what it is.”

It seemed a strange speech, in the circumstances, but we barely noticed

that, we were so shocked and grieved at the wanton murder he had

committed--for murder it was, that was its true name, and it was without

palliation or excuse, for the men had not wronged him in any way. It

made us miserable, for we loved him, and had thought him so noble and so

beautiful and gracious, and had honestly believed he was an angel; and

to have him do this cruel thing--ah, it lowered him so, and we had had

such pride in him. He went right on talking, just as if nothing had

happened, telling about his travels, and the interesting things he had

seen in the big worlds of our solar system and of other solar systems

far away in the remotenesses of space, and about the customs of the

immortals that inhabit them, somehow fascinating us, enchanting us,

charming us in spite of the pitiful scene that was now under our eyes,

for the wives of the little dead men had found the crushed and shapeless

bodies and were crying over them, and sobbing and lamenting, and a

priest was kneeling there with his hands crossed upon his breast,

praying; and crowds and crowds of pitying friends were massed about

them, reverently uncovered, with their bare heads bowed, and many with

the tears running down--a scene which Satan paid no attention to until

the small noise of the weeping and praying began to annoy him, then he

reached out and took the heavy board seat out of our swing and brought

it down and mashed all those people into the earth just as if they had

been flies, and went on talking just the same. An angel, and kill a

priest! An angel who did not know how to do wrong, and yet destroys in

cold blood hundreds of helpless poor men and women who had never done

him any harm! It made us sick to see that awful deed, and to think that

none of those poor creatures was prepared except the priest, for none of

them had ever heard a mass or seen a church. And we were witnesses; we

had seen these murders done and it was our duty to tell, and let the law

take its course.

But he went on talking right along, and worked his enchantments upon us

again with that fatal music of his voice. He made us forget everything;

we could only listen to him, and love him, and be his slaves, to do with

us as he would. He made us drunk with the joy of being with him, and

of looking into the heaven of his eyes, and of feeling the ecstasy that

thrilled along our veins from the touch of his hand.