The Parson S Widow

The Parson's Widow

original story by: Kristofen Janson film adaptation by: Carl Th. Dreyer this adaptation by: Ella Oharu transcription by: Albert Chang

CHAPTER ONE : The Appointment There was a town, in the middle of the Norwegian forest, in need of a parson for its church. It was a small town, where all the villagers knew one another. Travelers came through only occasionally, and only stayed for a night - perhaps two, if the weather was bad - before moving on. There were no other towns for miles around. The nearest was another, similar to this one, a half day's ride down the beaten dirt road. One summer morning, two figures appeared at the end of this road. They climbed through the rocky hillocks, where a gurgling stream poured itself down and out, winding its way through the shadows of the deep, dark, verdant forest. One was Sofren, a young man who had graduated from a small seminary some years ago. The other was Mari, his betrothed. The two had been innocent lovers for a long while now, but could not wed. Mari's father would not grant his blessings to the couple until Sofren received an official position as a parson somewhere. Thus, the two had wandered and suffered these past years. Mari bore her burden faithfully all this time, giving Sofren her loving support while he struggled on. Soften, out of his own love for Mari, anxiously sought out a stable position, so that the two may wed and be recognized in the eyes of her father. Upon reaching the town of this tale, the couple rested outside of the inn. Sofren had heard that the town's parish was seeking a new parson, since the old one had died shortly before. He found out that he was applying for the position along with two other graduates from Copenhagen. These two were haughty and confident in their abilities, having studied at a famous seminary in the capitol. Sofren and Mari spent the night in the inn, anxiously. They had little money left for a second night - barely enough, in fact, even for meals the next day - and knew that much depended on Sofren obtaining this post. The next morning, the verger of the church arranged the three candidates before him. It was a Sunday. The three candidates would each have his turn at the pulpit, and the town would decide who they liked best. The first candidate was shown in, while Sofren and the other hunkered down in the shade provided by the tall church walls. The steeple's bells called out brightly, singing into the bright blue spring sky. The verger solemnly led the first candidate through the dark hallway, and pointed him into the direction of the pulpit's entrance. The first candidate was a tall, thin, sallow-skinned man. His eyes darted back and forth, out into the audience gathered there in the church. Out of habit, he wrung his hands and took a breath before unfolding onto the pulpit. The eyes of the town looked on, curiously, attentively, expectantly. Two more sets of eyes looked in from the tall window of the walls - Sofren's, and the second candidate's. The first candidate adjusted his glasses, and began to drone on about the Creation of Heaven and Earth. He did not raise his eyes from the Bible before him - merely followed the words with the tips of his fingers, and his eyes, while he quietly and steadily read on, pedantically. "In the beginning, Man, unlike other creatures, was made in the perfect image of God..." The parish was soon asleep; the verger even began to snore. The first candidate did not notice. Sofren sat down, and began to look about absent-mindedly. The other candidate, too, grew bored, and began to prepare for his sermon. Sofren found a stray chicken feather on the bench, and began to play with it. He soon grew bored of that as well, and looked about. He noticed the other candidate, hunched over his notes, and a mischievous gleam came to his eye. Carefully, quietly, Sofren crept up behind the other candidate, and delicately fastened the feather onto the back of the other candidate's head. Having accomplished this, he sat down, and acted innocently, as if nothing had happened.

It was time for the second candidate to come on. The verger awoke, and led the first candidate out, and brought the second candidate in. He was a rather stout man, with a silly, empty look on his face. His pale, healthy skin made him look like a large child; his soft, flaxen hair added to this effect. The second candidate leaned his heavy body over the lip of the pulpit, and launched into his sermon. "I am going to speak to you about Balaam's ass and God's strange power -- by which He was able to open the jaws of a dumb animal so that it might speak like a man!" The second candidate leaned inwards, and began to lecture the parish. Sofren, watching from the window, could not help his lip from twitching in amusement as the feather trembled and shook with each gesture the second candidate made. He sat down, and began to daydream. The town giggled and laughed during the second candidate's long, didactic sermon. He did not notice; instead, barrelled onwards. Finally, he finished. The verger, asleep once again, was wakened by the church ward. He started awake, and stumbled outwards to find Sofren doing handstands. What a pathetic pool, he thought grimly to himself. Sofren fell as his name was called, but leaped up eagerly, and hurried into the church. He stormed into the church, as if he were a soldier charging forth - he even pushed the verger aside, before marching up to the pulpit. He banged his fist onto the podium before him, and gazed intently around, at all of the parish. "Now, two learned applicants have appeared here before me." Sofren began to relax, gaining his momentum - for he really was a rather good parson. "One of them took us to Eden. And that is about as far back as we can go!" The two other candidates crowded around the corner - feather still perched atop the fat one - listening in anxiously. Sofren casually leaned forward and scratched his ear with a great idleness. Then he suddenly threw out his hand, and called out - "Let him stay there!" The first candidate withdrew, unhappy. "The other one chose the text: Am I Not An Ass? But what has an ass to do on the pulpit?" The second candidate frowned as the parish laughed. Sofren, gaining more confidence, tapped his chest, and gazed out sternly upon the townspeople. "My friends! I will not take you to Eden -- you are too clever. But I will take you to the bowels of the Earth, deep into the roaring jaws of Hell!" The parish became interested, as Sofren built up a froth, hurling himself intensely into his sermon. * "...And so, my friends, beware that you are not swallowed up by the roaring jaws of Hell!" Sofren finished his sermon. There were many murmurs of approval amidst the people - women and children trembled with fear of ethereal punishment, and gazed in admiration for this fierce young man. The congregation had appointed five wise and trusted men to pass verdicts on the applicants. Mari, who had been listening in the corner of the church, was happy and moved by Sofren's successful sermon. She withdrew, to be by herself, and her beautiful hopes for Sofren's appointment. She wanted the world to recognize Sofren's talent, wanted it desperately - but the pair had suffered so many disappointments, so many setbacks and letdowns, that she dared not hope too strongly, this time around.

When the two theologians from Copenhagen saw the could not reach their goals by words alone, they joined forces to invite everyone to a feast that evening. Out of common decency, they were obliged to invite Sofren too. The townspeople enjoyed themselves. Sofren, too, enjoyed himself, and talked and laughed with the townsmen as if he had been lived there all his life. Mari, too, was happy, seeing Sofren accepted in the town community. She smiled to herself, wondering if their long search had been over. At last, the verdict was Sofren. The five judges announced this at the end of the feast. Amidst the applause for Sofren, mingled with Mari's tears of joy, came the elder judge's booming voice. "According to the laws of our parish, the late parson's widow, Dame Margarete, claims the right to demand that his successor marry her." Sofren, amidst his jolly stupor, turned his head, shocked. Before dismay could set into him, the elder continued. "Since Dame Margarete insists on her right, we have asked her to come tonight so that candidate may have a look at her." As if in a daze, Sofren heard footsteps out in the hallway leading to the entrance of the hall. And this is what he saw: An old woman, dressed in somber, austere garb, feebly moved her way into the doorway. She stood with her back straight, and walked in slow but confident steps. Her hair was tightly bound back, hidden away in her widow's cap. On her ring finger, she had three rings - one for each husband that had passed away. At the doorway, Dame Margarete paused. The town quieted down, out of respect. The other two candidates, having seen the ghastly widow, stumbled over one another in their haste to leave the hall. Dame Margarete took no notice; instead, she curtsied politely, as if nothing had happened, and strode in calmly. Sofren stood at the window and watched enviously as the other candidates leaped up on their horses and rode off in a hurry, leaving him to his lot. The townspeople, sensing that the feast was over, took their leave. Sofren and Dame Margarete sat apart, without speaking. Sofren sat sullenly at his bench, where he had been merrymaking only moments before, while Dame Margarete warmed herself by the fire. After all the town took their leave, Dame Margarete slowly turned and stood up, moving towards Sofren. He still did not look up into her deep, slow eyes, or her haggard, worn face. She spoke. "Night has fallen already. Will you do me the honor to accompany me to the parsonage?" She strode off without waiting for an answer. Sofren gloomily followed. Mari, who had been helping out at the kitchen, had heard none of the news. She paused in her work, and stood up to the window, wondering where Sofren was going with the strange old woman. She was worried, since Sofren has left without telling her where he was going, but decided that there must have been some business he had to attend to, having just been appointed the town parson. Thus reassured, Mari retired to the inn for the night. At the parson's house, Dame Margarete showed Sofren in. He paused at the doorway. Sofren had heard that Dame Margarete might be a witch. But he did not feel it would do him any harm to just enter the house. He followed her in. He took off his hat, and looked about the house. It was neatly kept, warm and cozy even, reflective of an experienced hand. He looked through some of the cupboards, wondering at the polished silver. Dame Margarete invited Sofren in to the kitchen for food. He ate with her in silence. She chewed slowly, and the only sounds to be heard for a few minutes were forks clinking against the plates, and Dame Margarete's soft chewing. Finally, she paused, as if about to say something. "My lot is not an easy one. This is the fourth time I must be handed over like a piece of furniture to whomever claims me..." Sofren continued to chew, as if the widow had said nothing.

"But I am attached to this place. Every chair, every stick of furniture..." Sofren ate on, with his head bowed over his plate. He ate with his fingers, getting them sticky and dirty - but he did not care. He helped himself generously, while Dame Margarete continued to eat solemnly, her back straight as a rod. She continued. "...and if you part with what has become so important to your life, your innermost heart gets torn open. And you die..." Dame Margarete became wistful for a moment, and looked off, far into her memory, as if she were conversing with some ghost of her past. She then returned to the present, and leaned forward, towards Sofren. She asked, "You are not engaged to any young maiden, are you?" Sofren finally looked up at the widow. She repeated her question when he did not answer for a moment. With a start, Sofren shook his head vigorously - no. Back at the inn, Mari was nodding off, waiting for Sofren to return. Sofren, meanwhile, had finished eating, and drank the rest of the wine the widow offered him. Dame Margarete stood up, and began clearing the table. She went by the fire first, to warm herself, and returned with a candle. "I hope that you will accept my hospitality. It is dark and a long way to the inn." Sofren had no choice but to accept, though he desperately wished to go back and see Mari. He followed Dame Margarete out the door, and up the stairs to the parson's bedroom. It was a wide, comfortable room - dry and warm. The sheets smelled clean, and the room had been well-kept. Dame Margarete handed Sofren the candle, and took her leave. Sofren stood there for a moment, candle in hand, wondering at his fate. He had eaten quite a lot that evening, though, and was drowsy. He decided to figure everything out in the morning, and went to bed, which felt as comfortable and hospitable as it had looked. Before long, Sofren was asleep, in a deep dream.

CHAPTER TWO : THE WEDDING The next morning, Sofren woke up late. The church bell rang, it's merry tone peeling out across the town. The forest had long ago begun stirring, and the morning light shone out for miles around. It was a beautiful day. Sofren woke up as the bell rang out, and looked around him in momentary confusion. He got up, and noticed that his old clothes had been taken away, and that a thick, wellmended black coat, and a fine pair of breeches, had been put beside his bed. He stepped out of the bedroom, feeling like a brand new man. It was as if the years of suffering and vagabond wanderings had never been, or as if they had simply been a bad dream. Never in his life had he been so well dressed! Never in his life had he felt so important! He was now, after all, parson of this town. Sofren went down for breakfast. Dame Margarete was waiting, doing some needlework. Upon seeing her, Sofren's heart fell a little as he suddenly recalled the arrangement. However, he was determined to be friendly. "I had the most wonderful sleep last night. I felt I was resting in Abraham's bosom." Dame Margarete paused, and looked up from her needlework. "Indeed. There I have never slept." Then the two sat in an awkward silence. Dame Margarete broke the silence by standing up and pouring Sofren a cup of schnapps, which he hurriedly drank. He looked at the breakfast set before him. In front of him lay a gleaming white herring. He was drawn to it as if by a magic power. Without thinking, Sofren, began to eat hungrily. He buttered his toast, and began to eat the herring with relish. He continually refilled his glass of schnapps. In the corner, Dame Margarete's two servants sat quietly, eating their breakfast. Dame Margarete's two old servants had been with her as long as anyone could remember. Both of them were old - one was a heavyset, sturdy man of great girth and strength. He was simple-minded and was content enough in his life to do whatever Dame Margarete bid. The woman was a shriveled, old, ugly maid who had complete trust in Dame Margarete. She had served Dame Margarete since she was a little girl, and looked up to and respected the widow with an unshakable fervor bordering on deification. She had seen Dame Margarete go through three husbands, and had never thought much of any of them. This feeling did not change with this fourth. After Sofren had eaten the fat herring and emptied the bottle of schnapps, he felt very strange. Dame Margarete looked at him intently. He reached over for his glass, but as soon as his hand seemed to close over it, it seemed to jump to the side. Sofren shook himself, and blinked a few times confusedly. He collected himself and tried again to grasp the glass. It jumped again. He slowly reached his hand out, and darted forward to finally grasp the glass. He took a long draught from it. He was unsteady at his chair, and his vision kept blurring - objects weaved side to side. He looked up at Dame Margarete, in a stupor. As if in a fog, he saw Dame Margarete, not old and ugly, but as a young smiling girl. She looked up at him and smiled, and Sofren could not help smiling back. He reached his hands out, and, without really knowing what he was saying, told her, "Dame Margarete, I love you! Let me stay here with you always." The young girl smiled shyly, and continued her needlework. She looked up a few times, blushing, before standing up and leaving the room. Dame Margarete retrieved her two servants, and brought them into the dining room. As they stood there wordlessly, she

said in an official voice, "Isn't it so, Master Sofren, that you offered me your heart and hand and asked me to be your wife?" Sofren nodded stupidly. The two servants gave Dame Margarete knowing nods, and left the room without a word. Dame Margarete began to clear the table, speaking as she did so. "Of course you will have your freedom. You have your room and I have mine. I only wish to stay and manage everything as before." With that, she left the room. Sofren stood up unsteadily, and weaved his way out of the room. He stumbled out the door, leaning on the walls as he did so. He put his hand on his head for a bit, as it began to clear. He suddenly realized his folly, what he had done. He had been tricked! He hurried into town to find Mari. However, he had left his hat. Dame Margarete, hat in hand, came into the dining room to find it empty. She looked out the window and saw Sofren's stumbling figure disappearing into the forest. She followed him. * Mari sat outside the inn, forlorn. She had not seen nor heard from Sofren since the night before, and she was beginning to have horrible suspicions. A figure stumbled out the forest and planted itself next to her - it was Sofren. Mari said nothing, but put her arms around Sofren, happy to see him. However, she smelled the herring and schnapps on his breath, and recoiled. Without looking at her, out of shame, Sofren told her the news. "Sofren, how could you? Did the widow bewitch you?" Mari cried out. "With a herring she gave me," he moaned. "It made me so dizzy that I proposed to her." Mari began to cry. Sofren tried to comfort her. He iterated, "I cannot get you if I do not get the post, and I will not get that unless I wed the old woman. But after she dies, I inherit everything. Then we can marry." Mari felt a little better upon hearing this. Dame Margarete suddenly appeared, out of the shadows of the forest. She confronted Sofren. "Who is this girl?" she demanded. Sofren searched for an answer. He looked at Mari, then back at Dame Margarete. "Can Dame Margarete really not see who it is? Why, it is my sister Mari!" He grabbed Mari's hand and pulled her up. They stood together, arms around one another, defiantly. Dame Margarete stared at Mari suspiciously. Sofren began to speak, to try and distract Dame Margarete from her suspicious thoughts. "She is so unhappy at having to leave me! I beg you to let Mari live at the parsonage in return for help around the house." Dame Margarete reached her hand out - Mari took it. With that silent act, she gave her approval, though she still looked unhappy and suspicious. But she knew it did not matter. She wordlessly handed Sofren his hat and went back into the forest, back towards the parsonage. "Do you think that old woman will be done for soon?" Mari anxiously asked Sofren. * A few weeks later, a neighboring parson joined Sofren and Dame Margarete in wedlock. It was a simple wedding, if only because it was a simple town. Mari came up along the

back of the procession, which involved pipers and drummers banging out their happy melodies and rhythms. Sofren was morose for most of the proceedings. Dame Margarete looked resigned and bored in her fine wedding dress - the same one she had worn thrice over already. The townspeople danced and made merry. It was a reason to celebrate, as good a one as any. When the neighboring parson, who had travelled for two days to get to this little town in the forest, began the ceremony, Mari wanted to weep. Many of the townspeople thought she was weeping out of happiness, and comforted her, saying words such as - "Don't you worry, Dame Margarete keeps a good household! She may be older, but your brother shall never want for any comfort at home." Sofren stood stoney-faced as the neighboring parson began to recite the rites of marriage. Dame Margarete looked impatient. Finally Sofren, took out the ring and put it onto Dame Margarete's finger - the fourth. The neighboring parson scratched his head the ring would not fit on the finger, already laden with so many. So he removed Sofren's ring, and assigned it to another finger on Dame Margarete's gnarled hand. Even though both bride and bridegroom preferred a quiet ceremony, it was the custom in the area to hold a big celebration. That night, the townspeople feasted and sang. Both men and women began to grow tipsy and heavy-lidded with drink - of which there were copious amounts. Several large barrels of wine had been placed in the town hall, where the celebration was held. Dame Margarete's servants obediently did their duties, without expression on their faces. This was, after all, the fourth time they had been through this. At the height of the celebrations, the town mayor held up his cup, and slurred, "We will now drink to the health of the bridal couple and wish them a long and happy life." Both Sofren and Dame Margarete drank their wine without expression. Mari played the role of servant throughout the celebration. She was more miserable than she had ever been, even during the worst of times, wandering with Sofren. Finally, the mayor brought the bridal cake. The couple ate the cake - though Dame Margarete had to prod and poke Sofren to do so. And thus began Sofren and Mari's new life under the stern eye of Dame Margarete. * The next day Sofren tried to make up for all the humiliation both he and Mari had had to suffer. In the morning, he left his room to find the woman servant beating a rug, right at his door. Dust flew in his eyes; he coughed violently, but the servant paid no heed to him. Staggering down the stairs, Sofren encountered the male servant, who rudely shouldered him aside. Steamed, Sofren stormed into the dining room, where Dame Margarete was preparing breakfast. He drew a chair out, scraping its legs on the wooden floor, and set it down with a loud thump. He leaned over on his elbow, as menacingly as he could, and said to Dame Margarete - "In the future, I suggest you and your companions be less high and mighty. For I am master of this house!" Dame Margarete's left eyebrow moved up slightly, but she made no response, and her expression did not change. Sofren, at seeing her nonplussed reaction, angrily overturned the chair. Without a word, Dame Margarete went to the window. She tapped on the glass, and gestured for the male servant to come in. Sofren, losing his bravado, stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do now. The male servant came in, closed the door behind him, and looked at Dame Margarete expectantly. She turned towards him. "Master Sofren is too big for his boots. Give him a drubbing!"

Sofren jumped back, his eyes widening in shock. The male servant lumbered over and grappled with Sofren a bit before conquering him with his brute strength, and lifting him up as easily as a rag doll. Sofren dangled in the air, squirming. Dame Margarete looked on with great satisfaction. Finally she signalled the male servant to let Sofren down. He lumbered out as Sofren, shaken, dusted himself off nervously. Dame Margarete swept by him, not looking at him. At the threshhold of the hallway, she turned and stared at him, straight in the eye. "I suggest you concentrate on prayers and sermons. Do not play master here. I am master of this house!" Sofren leaned against the wall, sulking. He cleaned his fingernails, and adjusted his collar, glaring at Dame Margarete. But after a few moments, chastised, he made his way slowly over to Dame Margarete, who had begun to do the washing, and held out his hand. She smirked, but clasped it. Having made peace, the two parted ways. Dame Margarete resumed her washing.

CHAPTER 3 : SOFREN AND MARI's NEW LIFE Time passed by... Dame Margarete had not yet died and Sofren had not been able to see Mari alone. It was not because he did not try. One sunny afternoon - a Monday, when Sofren did not have to worry about preparing his sermon quite yet - Sofren was lounging in the meadow, playing his flute. He began to play Mari's favorite tune, hoping that perhaps she would hear the melody and come out to greet him. He sat behind the threshing mill. Unfortunately, the male servant was working in the mill and heard the merry tune. He stood up and looked over, seeing Sofren below him, playing the flute. As an act of spite, the male servant took a bowl of water and poit over Sofren's head, and laughed wickedly. Mari, who had heard the tune, stood behind the door, afraid to go out and comfort the hapless Sofren. It was not the only time that Sofren was unlucky. Another time, Mari was doing some weaving outside. The female servant came and relieved Mari of her duties, telling her to go and take a brief rest. Sofren, walking along the outskirts of the parson's house, saw a pair of little feet sticking out beneath the rug. He snuck up, and stuck his finger beneath the threads at the bottom of the rug being woven - waggled it playfully. The female servant, shocked at first, glanced about her. When Sofren thrust his entire hand in, the female servant grabbed hold of Sofren's poor hand, and immediately called out - "Dame Margarete! Dame Margarete!" Sofren, realizing his gaffe, desperately tried to free himeslf. But it was too late. Dame Margarete came out and saw what had happened. "Oh! The Parson cast amorous glances at me!" the female servant said. Dame Margarete leaned over and looked at poor Sofren. As if discussing the punishment of a child, she told the servant, "Let the fine fellow go!" Sofren fell backwards and stood up - very much embarrassed. He held his hat between his hands and looked down at the ground. The female servant thrust her head around the side of rug and sniffed, "I will have you know I am a decent girl!" Sofren slowly walked away without a word, feeling more morose than ever. The female servant huffed contemptuously, blew out a large piece of snot from her right nostril, and went back to work. Dame Margarete returned to the house. * Sofren was at his wit's end. Finally he stooped to courting at night just as peasant lads did. He crept out one night, walking as softly as he could down the stairs from his room to the common room, where Mari slept. Dame Margarete, however, knew the house so well that she was awakened by the sounds of Sofren's footsteps. With candle in hand, she stealthily stole out into the hallway, where she found Sofren. Startled, Sofren stammered before saying, "I had a sudden stomachache and was just going to ask my sister for some drops." Dame Margarete looked dubious, but replied, "If you need drops you had better come to me!" Without a glance back at Sofren, she went into the kitchen. Mari, awakened by the commotion, looked forlornly at Sofren's pathetic figure retreating into the darkness. She went back to sleep, crying softly. Dame Margarete busied herself, preparing the drops for Sofren, who began to slightly regret his made-up excuse. Dame Margarete poured out a large spoonful and fed it to Sofren, who gagged the bitter medicine down. Slouched over in defeat, he took his leave

and went back to bed. Dame Margarete also returned to bed, once she saw Sofren back up to his room. Still suspicious, she went and sought out the female servant, who slept in the stable, next to the fire with the male servant. Dame Margarete had the female servant sleep in Mari's bed, and had Mari moved to another portion of the common room. Sofren, meanwhile, would not give up. A night or two later he tried again. He crept down again - as slowly and quietly as he could. This time, Dame Margarete did not awaken, but slept on soundly. As quiet as a mouse, Sofren crept up to Mari's bed. "My little popsy!" he whispered in excitement. He drew back the covers - to find the ugly old female servant. She woke up, and began to call out for Dame Margarete. "Shame, you cannot leave us poor servant girls alone!" Sofren bid a hasty retreat, trying to hush the female servant all the while. One evening, the three of them sat working together - Dame Margarete, Mari, and the female servant. Sofren popped his head over the wall, and snidely said, "Do you know what country folk say about you, Dame Margarete? That you got your former husband through black magic!" Mari looked fearfully over at Dame Margarete, who merely looked up with great amusement. Sofren continued, musing into the air, as if talking to himself. "I also wonder a good deal about that herring you gave me - was it real?" Without looking up from her work, Dame Margarete casually said, "No, it had a spell cast upon it!" She sneered at Sofren, who sank down to the floor, and poked his head out the side of the wall. "And they say you have a potion which can prolong one's life." Dame Margarete paused in her work and laughed, a genuine sound of merriment. "It must be the truth...just look at me. I will live for at least another hundred years." Sofren widened his eyes in surprised, but soon gave in to a great feeling of despair within himself. Mari, too, looked over at Sofren with shock and dismay. Sofren bowed his head against the wall, his teasing forgotten. He sank into his chair, and resumed work on his sermon. He was soon distracted, however, by a fine lithograph of the Devil that Dame Margarete had on the chest Sofren was writing on. Mari came over to pour Sofren some coffee, and also saw the picture. They exchanged glances, and both pairs of eyes sparkled with a sudden idea. * A few nights later the full moon came shining into Dame Margarete's chamber. A ghastly, white figure made its way across the dining room, and floated towards Dame Margarete's chamber. It paused at the doorway. It's long, sinister fingers moved sinuously back and forth; it's ears flapped with malevolent glee upon sighting its victim. Slowly, very slowly, it raised its arms up - to reveal two fuzzy slippers poking out beneath the hem of its white clothing. Dame Margarete looked down and saw this, and began to laugh.

"Never have I seen the like. The Devil himself walking in the pastor's slippers!" She leapt up out of bed, and rushed towards the apparition. Realizing his mistake, Sofren panicked, and hopped out of the room, and out the house. He flung himself into the shadows behind the threshing mill, and cowered there in the cold, dark, wet night. Dame Margarete narrowly missed him, and ran up the stairs into Sofren's room. Finding it empty, she made herself comfortable and waited. A couple of hours went by but Dame Margarete held out bravely. Meanwhile, Sofren had taken off the costume he and Mari had made - he was freezing cold, and sleepy. Finally, he gave up and went up into his room, where he knew Dame Margarete was waiting. Shivering, he crept in - costume in hand. Dame Margarete, leaning on her walking stick, looked at him with great amusement. She snorted, "So that is how the devil looks!" She got up and walked out the room. She could not resist giving Sofren a vicious elbow as she left. Neither could she resist laughing out loud once more at Sofren's foolish trick.

CHAPTER FOUR - AN IMPORTANT EVENT And so it went for this family of five - Sofren, Mari, Dame Margarete and her two servants. Is there any other creature on earth who so readily gets used to things as the human creature? In fact, one may say that such is the defining quality of man - to get used to things. Even as things change, a delicate balance, a social equilibrium is found when any group of human beings live and work so closely together, after some time has passed. In the house of the new Parson, the townspeople saw that the traces of this harmless discord. They often laughed at the Parson's funny tricks, and were even more amused at Dame Margarete's great ability to disarm his attempts. The two servants lived on as before. Mari, once so miserable, had now come to accept her lot, and did what she could to help Sofren. But she knew Dame Margarete to be much too powerful and wise despite all of their efforts, the couple could barely scrape together a few minutes alone. It was only out of love for Sofren that Mari continued to believe in their dream of getting married. So, Sofren did one stupid trick after another. However, one day something happened of the greatest importance to everybody. Sofren was beating about the house as usual. He was doing some whittling outside of the threshing mill. It was another fine day in the town - the sky was a clear blue, without a cloud in sight, and the birds sang as if there would never be a night. Dame Margarete went to the mill to retrieve something, and passed Sofren, busy enjoying the day, at the threshhold. She paused. "Shouldn't you prepare your Sunday sermon instead of idling here? Sofren cast her an irritated glance. She paid him no heed, and disappeared into the shadows of the mill. Suddenly, Sofren had another one of his ideas. A mischievous look came over his face. He crept inside the mill, and removed the ladder that Dame Margarete had taken up into the loft. Sofren hoped Dame Margarete would stay up in the loft and maybe in the meantime he could meet Mari. He skipped out into the sunlight, in search of his beloved. But Mari was where Sofren least expected. She, too, had been up in the loft, and had been talking to Dame Margarete while leaving. She did not see that the ladder had been removed, and fell down. Sofren heard her fall, and rushed over. His heart stopped as he saw Mari's figure, crumpled on the straw-covered floor of the mill. He bent over her anxiously, his mind rushing back and forth. Dame Margarete came out of the loft to see what the commotion was about. Sofren heard her footsteps, and sprang up. "Be careful, Dame Margarete! The ladder is gone!" Dame Margarete started back - she had almost suffered the same fate as Mari. For a moment, the eyes of husband and wife - for that, really, is what they were - met. And for the first time, there was a quiet moment of understanding between Dame Margarete and Sofren. But Dame Margarete soon collected herself, and yelled out some instructions to Sofren - to hurry out and get the doctor, to tell her two servants what had happened. Sofren carried Mari out of the mill, tenderly, lovingly. The two servants helped Dame Margarete down from the loft, and left to fetch the doctor. Sofren carried Mari into Dame Margarete's bedroom, and laid her on the bed. As if in a daze, he wandered out, and found himself seated on top of a barrel in the kitchen. Dame Margarete came into the house and glanced at Sofren briefly before hurrying into her room to tend to Mari. Sofren sat - in a daze, as I have mentioned. Who knows what he

must have been feeling or thinking in that moment, with his beloved's life hanging in the balance. Dame Margarete sat next to Mari's motionless form, carefully inspecting her. She covered her up with her blanket, and made sure Mari was comfortable. She went outside to find Sofren, still seated there, his mind empty, his face blank. He looked up automatically when she came in. There was no emotion in his eyes - only calm expectation. Dame Margarete gently said, "The thigh-bone is broken and she suffered a concussion. But she will recover." Sofren sat there, completely still. Dame Margarete began to leave, but Sofren suddenly sprang up, tears in his eyes, and grabbed her hand. He crouched over it, murmuring his thanks, and kissed the back of her hand with great gratitude. * Several weeks passed before Sofren was allowed to enter the sickroom. He came in slowly, not knowing what to expect. Mari laid there, her eyes shining with happiness at seeing Sofren. Dame Margarete was very kind in showing Sofren in, and sat next to the bed, observing the happy pair. During this time, Sofren truly grew fond of Dame Margarete, who nursed little Mari day and night as tenderly as a mother. Mari, too, became fond of Dame Margarete, and saw her genuine kindness in caring for her. It is sometimes strange, how things change between people. Oftentimes, one is so ready to see the worse in another, or to judge a person based on his or her appearance. It is not so unexpected - humans are visual, tactile creatures, first and foremost, and first impressions last a long while. Often, if takes time spent with another person to truly understand his or her nature. And even then, it often takes an unexpected turn of events, some kind of confrontation that lays bare the beautiful parts of somebody. Thus it was with Dame Margarete. Neither Sofren nor Mari had ever considered the possibility of Dame Margarete being so kind and tender. They had only been thinking selfishly and childishly - that Dame Margarete's mere existence stood in the way of their own respective happiness. They saw only what they had wanted to see - an old witch, haggard, bitter, constantly making their lives miserable. But now, faced with this adversity, they finally saw Dame Margarete for who she was - an old woman, hardened by life, but softened too by it. She understood the frailty of the human breath, and knew the power a touch of kindness could express. At the bedside, Sofren took Mari's hands. They looked at one another for a few moments, without speaking. A great happiness filled the space between the two, a great wordless understanding. Then, Sofren looked up, and met Dame Margarete's kind eyes. There was something there that Sofren had never before seen. Dame Margarete turned her head, and looked off into the distance. She began to speak, steadily and quietly. "I am reminded of my youth..." Mari also turned her head to listen. Dame Margarete looked back at Mari, then at Sofren. "My first husband and I were engaged for many years when he applied for the post here and learned he could have it only if he wedded the parson's widow." Sofren and Mari quickly exchanged guilty looks. However, Dame Margarete had become lost in the fog of her happy memory. "We knew that the widow was weak and could scarcely live long. It was a sore temptation for us....Yes, God forgive us. We built our happiness on the hope of another's death." Dame Margarete's voice was laden with mournful regret, as if she had had this sin upon her mind all these years. She continued, "Five years we had to wait. But these

rooms hold memories of thirty happy years, and in the churchyard is a grave that is never out of my thoughts." Sofren suddenly sank down to his knees, and bowed his head before the old widow, ashamed. "Forgive us, Dame Margarete." He buried his face in his hands, and began to cry a little. "Mari and I are not sister and brother - she is my fiancee. We have also waited for your death, Dame Margarete." Dame Margarete looked surprised. For a moment she did not know what to say, and was even tempted to feel angry. But then, she looked down at Sofren's weeping face, and saw it crumpled with great guilt and sorrow. She suddenly smiled a knowing smile, and her face grew kind. She murmured, "Poor children! Poor children!" Mari, too, had begun to weep. Dame Margarete reached over and took her hand, and stroked it gently. Mari leaned her cheek against the cool, dry skin of Dame Margarete's hand.

CHAPTER FIVE : THE COMING OF SPRING Not long afterwards, Mari was on her feet again - thanks to Dame Margarete's tender care. Life had gone on as before - but now Sofren and Mari were able to spend time together, alone, as a couple. They became happy. An entire winter had passed since Mari's accident, and spring had begun to awaken. The two servants plodded on as before, as steadily as two cows plowing the earth. Sofren continued his work as Parson; the town had grown very fond of him since his appointment, and many agreed that they had never had a finer Parson, not since Dame Margarete's first husband. They noticed, too, Mari's womanhood coming into full bloom. She had been a mere girl when she had first arrive at the town with Sofren, but had begun to care for the Parson's house as a real woman should. Sofren, too, had seemed to grow in stature and confidence. He no longer played his silly games and tricks, and his face took on a respectable, almost stern, look. His sermons, once filled with the passions of youth, had been tempered into a fine craft that continued to rivet the attention of the parish, but contained, now, a budding wisdom that brought about approving nods from the town elders. But Dame Margarete now spent half the day in the churchyard - by her first husband's grave. Her vitality had seemed to have slowed, now, and she was no longer the intimidating presence she had been for so long. She saw Sofren and Mari's love bloom, and found herself growing happy as she saw, there, her own youthful love reflected. Mari became as a daughter to her, and the five members of the Parson's family began to grow fond of one another. The two servants, in rare moments of perspicacity, would sometimes pause and blink wondering at the strange change in their mistress's behavior. For she now spent much of her time fondly caressing their horses, or giving Mari a tender kiss on her forehead now and then, or even sparing a kind and appraising word for Sofren, complimenting him on his sermons. She seemed to have aged even further than when we first met her, the day Sofren was appointed Parson. But it was a graceful aging, as she seemed to grow backwards - her heart became that of a young girl, the young girl she once was, in fact. But she suddenly began to feel the total and complete frailty of her aged body, and suddenly began to feel the weight of the days she had left behind - happier days of her youth. Dame Margarete felt, now, a different sort of happiness, a vicarious one. Her sun had risen, and shone brightly and warmly, for so many years, and now dusk had begun to fall for her. More and more, she found herself going through her old things, mementos of the life she had led, for so many years. Three husbands...over half a century...how many winters had she seen? How many deaths and births, how many seasons in this small little town, a town that had known only the peaceful passing of the days? Her favorite memento was an old, faded ringlet of flowers, the one she had worn when she had married her first husband. How many years ago had that been? Honestly, Dame Margarete could not rightly remember. She only knew it had been long, long ago. * One morning at breakfast, Dame Margarete was missing. Sofren and Mari waited for her anxiously. They had long ago finished their breakfast, and soon Dame Margarete's oatmeal grew cold. Finally, the couple went into Dame Margarete's chamber. They entered, holding each other's hands. There, Dame Margarete lay with her hands crossed over her breast, her face peaceful. Sofren slowly moved over, and leaned over the old woman. She was no longer breathing. He took a step back, almost involuntarily, and leaned against the wall of the room. Mari saw his face, and knew. She moved forward, kneeling on the ground. She clasped her own hands together, in prayer.

Next to the bedside, atop an open Bible, sat the ringlet of flowers and a note. Sofren gently reached his hand out and took the note - opened it. In her neat, flowing hand, Dame Margarete had written: "Do not forget, when my mortal remains are taken away, to put a horseshoe over the door and to strew linseed after me so that I shall not haunt you." Sofren clutched the note to his own breast now. A few moments passed before he could bring himself to read it alout to Mari, in a trembling voice. Then he slowly folded the note together. There was a feeling of great sadness between them, a deep throbbing yearning for the old woman. Sofren then placed the Bible atop Dame Margarete's folded hands. She continued to lay there, as if sleeping peacefully. Both Sofren and Mari bowed their heads in silent prayer. Nothing else needed to be said.

EPILOGUE A week later the funeral took place. Sofren could not bring himself to perform the last rites, and had the neighboring parson do so. The two servants wept openly. The whole town turned out for the funeral, for Dame Margarete had been a well-respected and liked person in the town. The bells of the church rang out mournfully into the brisk, spring air. The forest had grown quiet that day, and the sky was overcast. Dame Margarete had written a final note, to be read at her funeral. It was simple and austere, much like the old widow herself. "I render thanks for all the good I have known in my days." The town elders bore the coffin out, quietly and seriously. They had known Dame Margarete for a long time, each of them, and were now performing their final duty of carrying her out to her last earthly destination. The entire parish sang a solemn hymn for the old woman. Following her own wish, Dame Margarete was buried next to her first husband. After the funeral, Sofren scattered linseed about the widow's chambers, as she had instructed. He also went out and nailed the horseshoe over the door. Each crack of the hammer seemed to announce a new life for Sofren and Mari. When the widow had been buried, and the entire town had solemnly returned to their homes, Sofren and Mari stood before Dame Margarete's grave. Neither of them said a word for a long while. The only sound was that of the wind, quietly moaning. The trees rustled gently, and a bird began to call, every now and then. The day was almost over dusk was approaching. Sofren reached for Mari's hand - they gently clasped their fingers together. Mari squeezed Sofren's hand, lovingly, gently. He finally spoke, in a solemn voice that the old parson's widow herself would have approved of. "We owe her a great debt, Mari. She taught you to keep a good home, and she taught me to be an honorable man." THE END.