"It is some more Moral Sense.The proprietors are rich, and very holy;but the wage they pay to these poor brothers and sisters of theirs is only enough to keep them from dropping dead with hunger.The work-hours are fourteen per day, winter and summer--from six in the morning till eight at night--little children and all.And they walk to and from the pigsties which they inhabit--four miles each way, through mud and slush, rain, snow, sleet, and storm, daily, year in and year out.They get four hours of sleep.They kennel together, three families in a room, in unimaginable filth and stench; and disease comes, and they die off like flies.Have they committed a crime, these mangy things? No.What have they done, that they are punished so? Nothing at all, except getting themselves born into your foolish race.You have seen how they treat a misdoer there in the jail; now you see how they treat the innocent and the worthy.Is your race logical? Are these ill-smelling innocents better off than that heretic? Indeed, no; his punishment is trivial compared with theirs.They broke him on the wheel and smashed him to rags and pulp after we left, and he is dead now, and free of your precious race; but these poor slaves here--why, they have been dying for years, and some of them will not escape from life for years to come.It is the Moral Sense which teaches the factory proprietors the difference between right and wrong--you perceive the result.They think themselves better than dogs.Ah, you are such an illogical, unreasoning race! And paltry--oh, unspeakably!"Then he dropped all seriousness and just overstrained himself making fun of us, and deriding our pride in our warlike deeds, our great heroes, our imperishable fames, our mighty kings, our ancient aristocracies, our venerable history--and laughed and laughed till it was enough to make a person sick to hear him; and finally he sobered a little and said, "But, after all, it is not all ridiculous; there is a sort of pathos about it when one remembers how few are your days, how childish your pomps, and what shadows you are!"Presently all things vanished suddenly from my sight, and I knew what it meant.The next moment we were walking along in our village; and down toward the river I saw the twinkling lights of the Golden Stag.Then in the dark I heard a joyful cry:
"He's come again!"
It was Seppi Wohlmeyer.He had felt his blood leap and his spirits rise in a way that could mean only one thing, and he knew Satan was near, although it was too dark to see him.He came to us, and we walked along together, and Seppi poured out his gladness like water.It was as if he were a lover and had found his sweetheart who had been lost.Seppi was a smart and animated boy, and had enthusiasm and expression, and was a contrast to Nikolaus and me.He was full of the last new mystery, now--the disappearance of Hans Oppert, the village loafer.People were beginning to be curious about it, he said.He did not say anxious--curious was the right word, and strong enough.No one had seen Hans for a couple of days.
"Not since he did that brutal thing, you know," he said.
"What brutal thing?" It was Satan that asked.
"Well, he is always clubbing his dog, which is a good dog, and his only friend, and is faithful, and loves him, and does no one any harm; and two days ago he was at it again, just for nothing--just for pleasure--and the dog was howling and begging, and Theodor and I begged, too, but he threatened us, and struck the dog again with all his might and knocked one of his eyes out, and he said to us, 'There, I hope you are satisfied now; that's what you have got for him by your damned meddling'--and he laughed, the heartless brute." Seppi's voice trembled with pity and anger.I guessed what Satan would say, and he said it.
"There is that misused word again--that shabby slander.Brutes do not act like that, but only men.""Well, it was inhuman, anyway."
"No, it wasn't, Seppi; it was human--quite distinctly human.It is not pleasant to hear you libel the higher animals by attributing to them dispositions which they are free from, and which are found nowhere but in the human heart.None of the higher animals is tainted with the disease called the Moral Sense.Purify your language, Seppi; drop those lying phrases out of it."He spoke pretty sternly--for him--and I was sorry I hadn't warned Seppi to be more particular about the word he used.I knew how he was feeling.
He would not want to offend Satan; he would rather offend all his kin.
There was an uncomfortable silence, but relief soon came, for that poor dog came along now, with his eye hanging down, and went straight to Satan, and began to moan and mutter brokenly, and Satan began to answer in the same way, and it was plain that they were talking together in the dog language.We all sat down in the grass, in the moonlight, for the clouds were breaking away now, and Satan took the dog's head in his lap and put the eye back in its place, and the dog was comfortable, and he wagged his tail and licked Satan's hand, and looked thankful and said the same; I knew he was saying it, though I did not understand the words.
Then the two talked together a bit, and Satan said:
"He says his master was drunk."
"Yes, he was," said we.
"And an hour later he fell over the precipice there beyond the Cliff Pasture.""We know the place; it is three miles from here.""And the dog has been often to the village, begging people to go there, but he was only driven away and not listened to."We remembered it, but hadn't understood what he wanted.
