The Mysterious Stranger | Page 4

Chapter 1
It was in 1590--winter. Austria was far away from the world, and asleep; it was still the
Middle Ages in Austria, and promised to remain so forever. Some even set it away back
centuries upon centuries and said that by the mental and spiritual clock it was still the
Age of Belief in Austria. But they meant it as a compliment, not a slur, and it was so
taken, and we were all proud of it. I remember it well, although I was only a boy; and I
remember, too, the pleasure it gave me.
Yes, Austria was far from the world, and asleep, and our village was in the middle of that

sleep, being in the middle of Austria. It drowsed in peace in the deep privacy of a hilly
and woodsy solitude where news from the world hardly ever came to disturb its dreams,
and was infinitely content. At its front flowed the tranquil river, its surface painted with
cloud-forms and the reflections of drifting arks and stone-boats; behind it rose the woody
steeps to the base of the lofty precipice; from the top of the precipice frowned a vast
castle, its long stretch of towers and bastions mailed in vines; beyond the river, a league
to the left, was a tumbled expanse of forest-clothed hills cloven by winding gorges where
the sun never penetrated; and to the right a precipice overlooked the river, and between it
and the hills just spoken of lay a far-reaching plain dotted with little homesteads nested
among orchards and shade trees.
The whole region for leagues around was the hereditary property of a prince, whose
servants kept the castle always in perfect condition for occupancy, but neither he nor his
family came there oftener than once in five years. When they came it was as if the lord of
the world had arrived, and had brought all the glories of its kingdoms along; and when
they went they left a calm behind which was like the deep sleep which follows an orgy.
Eseldorf was a paradise for us boys. We were not overmuch pestered with schooling.
Mainly we were trained to be good Christians; to revere the Virgin, the Church, and the
saints above everything. Beyond these matters we were not required to know much; and,
in fact, not allowed to. Knowledge was not good for the common people, and could make
them discontented with the lot which God had appointed for them, and God would not
endure discontentment with His plans. We had two priests. One of them, Father Adolf,
was a very zealous and strenuous priest, much considered.
There may have been better priests, in some ways, than Father Adolf, but there was never
one in our commune who was held in more solemn and awful respect. This was because
he had absolutely no fear of the Devil. He was the only Christian I have ever known of
whom that could be truly said. People stood in deep dread of him on that account; for
they thought that there must be something supernatural about him, else he could not be so
bold and so confident. All men speak in bitter disapproval of the Devil, but they do it
reverently, not flippantly; but Father Adolf's way was very different; he called him by
every name he could lay his tongue to, and it made everyone shudder that heard him; and
often he would even speak of him scornfully and scoffingly; then the people crossed
themselves and went quickly out of his presence, fearing that something fearful might
happen.
Father Adolf had actually met Satan face to face more than once, and defied him. This
was known to be so. Father Adolf said it himself. He never made any secret of it, but
spoke it right out. And that he was speaking true there was proof in at least one instance,
for on that occasion he quarreled with the enemy, and intrepidly threw his bottle at him;
and there, upon the wall of his study, was the ruddy splotch where it struck and broke.
But it was Father Peter, the other priest, that we all loved best and were sorriest for. Some
people charged him with talking around in conversation that God was all goodness and
would find a way to save all his poor human children. It was a horrible thing to say, but
there was never any absolute proof that Father Peter said it; and it was out of character

for him to say it, too, for he was always good and gentle and truthful. He wasn't charged
with saying it in the pulpit, where all the congregation could hear and testify, but only
outside, in talk; and it is easy for enemies to manufacture that. Father Peter had