Flemish Legends

IV. Of the two branches

In this wise Smetse had his revenge on Slimbroek, who thereafter dared not look him in the face, and hid when he passed.

But the good smith, nevertheless, had no more pleasure in anything than before, for with every passing day he became more and more needy, having already, with his wife, used up what help came to them from the guild, and also a small sum of silver from Middelburg in Walcheren.

Ashamed to get his living by begging and knavery, and knowing how to bear with his lot no longer, he resolved to kill himself.

So one night he left his house, and went out to the moats of the town, which are bordered by fine trees, forked and spreading down to the ground. There he fastened a stone to his neck, commended his soul to God, and, stepping back three paces to get a better start, ran and jumped.

But while he was in the very act he was caught suddenly by two branches, which, falling upon his shoulders, gripped him like man’s hands and held him fast where he was. These branches were neither cold nor hard, as wood naturally is, but supple and warm. And he heard at the same instant a strange and scoffing voice saying: “Where goest thou, Smetse?”

But he could not answer by reason of his great astonishment.

And although there was no wind the trunks and branches of the tree moved and swung about like serpents uncoiling, while all around there crackled above ten hundred thousand sparks.

And Smetse grew more afraid, and a hot breath passed across his face, and the voice, speaking again, but nearer, or so it seemed, repeated: “Where goest thou, Smetse?”

But he could not speak for fear, and because his throttle was dry and his teeth chattering.

“Why,” said the voice, “dost not dare answer him who wishes thee naught but well? Where goest thou, Smetse?”

Hearing so pleasant and friendly a speech, the good smith took heart and answered with great humility: “Lord whom I cannot see, I was going to kill myself, for life is no longer bearable.”

“Smetse is mad,” said the voice.

“So I am, if you will, Lord,” answered the smith; “nevertheless when my smithy is lost to me by the cunning of a wicked neighbour, and I have no way to live but by begging and knavery, ’twould be greater madness in me to live than to die.”

“Smetse,” said the voice, “is mad to wish himself dead, for he shall have again, if he will, his fair smithy, his good red fire, his good workmen, and as many golden royals in his coffers as he sees sparks in this tree.”

“I,” exclaimed the smith in great delight, “shall never have such fine things as that! They are not for such miserables as I.”

“Smetse,” said the voice, “all things are possible to my master.”

“Ah,” said the smith, “you come from the devil, Lord?”

“Yes,” answered the voice, “and I come to thee on his account to propose a bargain: For seven years thou shalt be rich, thou shalt have thy smithy the finest in the town of Ghent; thou shalt win gold enough to pave the Quai aux Oignons; thou shalt have in thy cellars enough beer and wine to wet all the dry throttles in Flanders; thou shalt eat the finest meats and the most delicate game; thou shalt have hams in plenty, sausages in abundance, mince-pies in heaps; every one shall respect thee, admire thee, sing thy praises; Slimbroek at the sight of it shall be filled with rage; and for all these great benefits thou hast only to give us thy soul at the end of seven years.”

“My soul?” said Smetse, “’tis the only thing I have; would you not, My Lord Devil, make me rich at a less price?”

“Wilt thou or wilt thou not, smith?” said the voice.

“Ah,” answered Smetse, “you offer me things that are very desirable, even, My Lord Devil (if I may say it without offence), more than I wish; for if I might have only my forge and enough customers to keep the fire alight I should be happier than My Lord Albert or Madam Isabella.”

“Take or leave it, smith,” said the voice.

“Lord Devil,” answered Smetse, “I beg you not to become angry with me, but to deign to consider that if you give me but my forge, and not all this gold, wine, and meats, you might perhaps be content to let my soul burn for a thousand years, which time is not at all to be compared with the great length of all eternity, but would seem long enough to whomever must pass it in the fire.”

“Thy forge for thee, thy soul for us; take or leave it, smith,” said the voice.

“Ah,” lamented Smetse, “’tis dear bought, and no offence to you, Lord Devil.”

“Well then, smith,” said the voice, “to riches thou preferest beggary? Do as thou wilt. Ah, thou wilt have great joy when, walking with thy melancholy countenance about the streets of Ghent, thou art fled by every one and dogs snap at thy heels; when thy wife dies of hunger, and thou chantest mea culpa in vain; then when, alone in the world, thou beatest on thy shrunken belly the drum for a feast, and the little girls dancing to such music give thee a slap in the face for payment; then, at last, when thou dost hide thyself in thy house so that thy rags shall not be seen in the town, and there, scabby, chatter-tooth, vermin-fodder, thou diest alone on thy dung-hill like a leper, and art put into the earth, and Slimbroek comes to make merry at thy downfall.”

“Ah,” said Smetse, “he would do it, the knave.”

“Do not await this vile end,” said the voice, “it were better to die now: leap into the water, Smetse; leap, Smee.”

“Alas,” lamented he, “if I give myself to you, I shall burn for all eternity.”

“Thou wilt not burn,” said the voice, “but serve us for food, good smith.”

“I?” cried Smetse, much frightened at these words, “do you think to eat me down there? I am not good for eating, I must tell you. There is no meat more sour, tough, common, and vulgar than mine is. It has been at one time and another diseased with plague, itch, and other vile maladies. Ah, I should make you a shabby feast, you and the others, My Lord Devil, who have in hell so many souls which are noble, succulent, tasty, and well-fed. But mine is not at all good, I declare.”

“Thou art wrong, smith,” said the voice. “Souls of wicked emperors, kings, princes, popes, famous captains of arms, conquerors, slayers of men, and other brigands, are always as hard as an eagle’s beak; for so their omnipotence fashions them; we break our teeth off bit by bit in eating them. Others, having been eaten up beforehand by ambition and cruelty, which are like ravenous worms, give us hardly a crumb to pick. Souls of girls who, without want or hunger, sell for money what nature bids them give for nothing, are so rotten, putrid, and evil-smelling that the hungriest of devils will not touch them. Souls of vain men are bladders, and within there is nothing but wind; ’tis poor food. Souls of hypocrites, canters, liars, are like beautiful apples without, but beneath the skin are full of bile, gall, sour wine, and frightful poison; none of us will have any ado with them. Souls of envious men are as toads, who from spleen at being so ugly, run yellow spittle on whatever is clean and shining, from mouth, feet, and all their bodies. Souls of gluttons are naught but cow-dung. Souls of good drinkers are always tasty, and above all when they have about them the heavenly smell of good wine and good bruinbier. But there is no soul so tasty, delectable, succulent, or of such fine flavour as that of a good woman, a good workman, or a good smith such as thou. For, working without intermission, they have no time for sin to touch and stain them, unless it be once or twice only, and for this reason we catch them whenever we can; but ’tis a rare dish, kept for the royal table of My Lord Lucifer.”

“Ah,” said Smetse, “you have made up your mind to eat me, I see well enough; nevertheless ’twould not cost you much to give me back my forge for nothing.”

“’Tis no great discomfort,” said the voice, “to be so eaten, for My Lord and King has a mouth larger than had the fish whereby Jonah the Jew was swallowed in olden time; thou wilt go down like an oyster into his stomach, without having been wounded by his teeth in any wise; there, if it displease thee to stay, thou must dance with feet and hands as hard as thou canst, and My Lord will at once spit thee out, for he will not find it possible to stand for long such a drubbing. Falling at his feet thou wilt show him a joyous face, a steady look in his eyes, and a good countenance, and the same to Madam Astarte, who, without a doubt, will take thee for her pet, as she has done already to several; thereafter thou wilt have a joyous time, serving My Lady merrily and brushing his hair for My Lord; as for the rest of us, we shall be right glad to have you with us, for, among all these familiar vile and ugly faces of conquerors, plunderers, thieves, and assassins, ’twill do us good to see the honest countenance of a merry smith, as thou art.”

“My Lord Devil,” said Smetse, “I do not merit such honour. I can well believe, from what you tell me, that ’tis pleasant enough down there with you. But I should be ill at ease, I must tell you, being naturally uncouth in the company of strangers; and so I should bring no joy with me, and should not be able to sing; and therefore you would get but poor amusement from me, I know in advance. Ah, give me back rather my good forge and my old customers, and hold me quit; this would be the act of a royal devil and would sit well upon you.”

Suddenly the voice spoke with anger: “Smith, wilt thou pay us in such ape’s coin? Life is no longer of benefit to thee, death is abhorrent, and thou wouldst have from us without payment the seven full, rich and joyous years which I offer thee. Accept or refuse, thy forge for thee, thy soul for us, under the conditions I have told thee.”

“Alas,” said Smetse, “then I will have it so, since it must be, Lord Devil!”

“Well then,” said the voice, “set thy mark in blood to this deed.”

And a black parchment, with a crow’s quill, fell from the tree at the smith’s feet. He read on the parchment, in letters of fire, the pact of seven years, opened his arm with his knife, and signed with the crow’s quill. And while he was still holding the parchment and the quill, he felt them suddenly snatched from his hands with violence, but he saw nothing, and only heard a noise as of a man running in slipper-shoes, and the voice saying as it went into the distance: “Thou hast the seven years, Smetse.” And the tree ceased its swaying, and the sparks in the branches went out.

V. Of the flaming ball, of the forge relit, and of the terrible great buffet which the man with the lantern gave to Smetse’s wife

Smetse, greatly amazed, rubbed his eyes, thinking he was dreaming. Suddenly shaking himself: “This devil,” said he, “was he not making fun of me after all? Have I verily gotten my good forge back again? I will go and see.”

Having said this he started running in haste, and from far away saw a great light reddening the sky above the houses, and it seemed to him that the fire sending up this light was on the Quai aux Oignons; and he said to himself: “Could that be my forge?” And he ran the faster.

Coming to the quay he found it lit up as if by a sun, from the paving-stones up to the tops of the trees which stood alongside, and he said to himself: “It is my forge.”

Then he was seized and shaken with joy, his legs failed him, and his breath grew short; but he kept running as hard as he could, and coming at last to his house he saw his smithy wide open as in the daytime, and at the back of it a great bright fire.

Unable to contain himself at this sight he fell to dancing, leaping, and bursting out into laughter, crying: “I have my forge, my own forge! Ghent is mine!” Then he went in. Inspecting, examining, touching everything, he saw at the sides, laid out in good order, iron of all kinds: armour-iron, iron bars, plough-iron. “By Artevelde!” he said, “the devil was not lying!” And he took up a bar, and having made it red with the fire, which was done quickly, started beating it, making the hammer ring on the anvil like thunder, and crying: “Ha, so I have my good tools back again, and hear once more this good music which has so long been silent!” And while he was wiping away a tear of joy, which gave an unaccustomed wetness to his eye, he saw on a chest near by a good pewter pot standing, and beside it a fine mug, and he filled up the mug several times and drank it down with relish: “Ah,” he said, “the good bruinbier, the drink which makes men! I had lost the taste for it! How good it is!” Then he went back to hammering the iron bar.

While he was making all this noise, he heard himself called by name, and looking to see whence the voice came he perceived his wife in the half-open door which led from the kitchen, thrusting through her head and looking at him with a startled face.

“Smetse,” she said, “is it thou, my man?”

“Yes, wife,” said he.

“Smetse,” she said, “come close to me, I dare not set foot in this forge.”

“And why not, wife?” said he.

“Alas,” she said, clinging to him and gazing into the forge, “wert thou alone there, my man?”

“Yes,” said he.

“Ah,” she said, “Smetse, while you were away there were strange happenings!”

“What happenings, wife?”

“As I was lying in bed,” she said, “suddenly the house trembled, and a flaming ball passed across our room, went out through the door, without hurting anything, down the stairs, and into the forge, where, bursting, as I suppose, it made a noise like a hundred thunder-claps. Suddenly all the windows and doors were thrown open with a great clatter Getting out of bed, I saw the quay all lit up, as it is now. Then, thinking that our house was on fire, I came down in haste, went into the forge, saw the fire lit, and heard the bellows working noisily. In each corner the iron of different kinds arranged itself in place according to the work for which it was used; but I could see no hands moving it, though there must have been some for sure. I began to cry out in a fright, when suddenly I felt, as it were, a glove of hot leather pressed against my mouth and holding it shut, while a voice said: ‘Do not cry out, make no sound, if thou wilt not have thy husband burnt alive for the crime of sorcery.’ Nevertheless he who thus ordered me to keep silent made himself more noise than I should ever have dared, but by a miracle none of our neighbours heard it. As for me, my man, I had no more heart to make a sound, and I fled back hither into the kitchen, where I was praying to God when I heard thy voice, and dared to open the door a crack. Oh, my man, since thou art here, explain, if thou can, all this tumult.”

“Wife,” answered Smetse, “we must leave that to those more learned than ourselves. Think only to obey the order of the voice: keep thy mouth shut, speak to no one of what thou hast seen to-night, and go back to thy bed, for it is still pitch-dark.”

“I go,” she said, “but wilt thou not come also, my man?”

“I cannot leave the forge,” said he.

While he was speaking thus there came towards them, one after another, a baker carrying new-baked bread, a grocer carrying cheeses, and a butcher carrying hams.

Smetse knew well enough that they were devils, from their white faces, hollow eyes, scorched hair, twisted fingers, and also from the fact that they walked with so little sound.

His wife, amazed to see them coming into her house with all this food, would have stopped them, but they slipped between her hands like eels, and went into the kitchen, walking straight and silently.

There, without a word spoken, the baker arranged his loaves in the pan, while the butcher and grocer put their cheeses and hams in the cool-of the cellar. And they finished their work, taking no notice of the smith’s wife, who kept crying: “’Tis not here you must bring these things; you have made a mistake, I tell you, my good men. Go elsewhither.”

But they, notwithstanding her voice, arranged the loaves, meat, and cheeses quietly.

This made the good woman more than ever put out, and she grew angry: “I tell you,” she exclaimed, “you have made a mistake; do you not hear me? You have made a mistake, ’tis not here you should be; I say here, with us, in this place, in the house of Smetse the beggar, who has not a farthing to his name, who will never pay you. Alas, they will not listen to me!”

And crying out at the top of her voice: “Masters, you are at Smetse’s, do you not understand? Smetse the beggar! Do I not say it loud enough? Jesus, Lord, God! Smetse the needy! Smetse the ragged! Smetse the starved! Smetse who is rich in nothing but lice! Who will pay you nothing: do you hear me? Who will pay you nothing, nothing, nothing!”

“Wife,” said the smith, “you are losing your head, my dear. ’Tis I who sent for these good men.”

“Thou!” said his wife, “thou! but thou art mad, my man; yes, he is mad, my masters, altogether mad. Ah, ’tis thou who sent for them! ’Tis thou who sendest for loaves, hams, and cheeses in this profusion, like a rich man, when thou knowest well enough we cannot pay for them, and so showest thy bad faith!”

“Wife,” answered Smetse quietly, “we are rich, and will pay for everything.”

“We rich?” she said, “ah, poor beggar-man. Do I not know what is in our chest? Hast ever put thy nose in to see, any more than in the bread-pan? Art thou become the housewife? Alas, my man is mad, God help us!”

Meanwhile the three men came back into the smithy.

Seeing them again, the wife ran to them: “Master trades-men,” said she, “you heard me well enough, for you are not deaf, I believe; we have nothing, we can pay you nothing; take back your provisions.”

But without looking at her, nor seeming to hear her, the three went off, walking stiff and silently.

No sooner had they gone out than a brewer’s cart drew up at the door, and the brewer’s men came into the smithy carrying between them a great barrel full of bruinbier.

“Smetse,” said his wife, “this is too much! Master brewers, this is not for us; we do not like beer at all, we drink water. Take this barrel to one of our neighbours, it is no concern of ours, I tell you.”

None the less the brewer’s men took down the barrel of bruinbier into the cellar, came up again, and went out to fetch others, and placed them alongside the first to the number of twenty. The good wife, trying to stop them, was pushed aside, while Smetse could not speak for laughing, and could only draw her to his side, and so prevent her from hurting herself on the barrels, which the men were carrying from street to cellar with marvellous speed and dispatch.

“Oh,” she wailed, “let me be! This is too much, Smetse! Alas! Now we are worse than beggars, we are debtors, Smetse: I shall go and throw myself into the river, my man. To run up debts to fill a famished stomach, that is shame enough; but to do so from simple gluttony, that is unbearable deceit. Canst thou not be content with bread and water got honestly with thy two hands? Art thou then become such a delicate feeder that thou must have cakes, fine cheeses, and full barrels? Smetse, Smetse, that is not like a good man of Ghent, but rather like a Spanish rogue. Oh, I shall go and drown myself, my man!”

“Wife,” said Smetse, troubled at seeing her in such distress, “do not weep. ’Tis all ours, my dear, duly, and by right.”

“Ah,” she said moaning, “’tis an ill thing to lose in this wise in your old age that honesty which was your only crown.”

While the smith was endeavouring, but in vain, to console her, there entered a vintner followed by three-and-thirty porters, each carrying a basket full of bottles containing precious wines of great rarity, as was shown by the shape of those said bottles.

When the good wife saw them she was overcome with despair, and her courage failed her: “Come in,” she said in a piteous voice, “come in, master vintners; the cellar is below. You have there a goodly number of bottles, six score for certain. That is none too much for us who are wealthy, wealthy of misery, vermin, and lice; come in, my masters, that is the door of the cellar. Put them all there, and more besides if you will.”

And giving Smetse a push: “Thou art happy, no doubt,” said she, “for ’tis a fine sight for a drunkard, such as thou art, to see all this good wine coming into the house without payment. Ah, he laughs!”

“Yes, wife,” said Smetse, “I laugh with content, for the wines are ours, ours the meats, ours the loaves and cheeses. Let us make merry over it together.” And he tried to embrace her: but she, shaking herself free: “Oh, oh,” she said, “he runs up debts, he tells lies, he laughs at his shame: he has all the vices, none is wanting.”

“Wife,” said Smetse, “all this is ours, I tell thee again. To this amount am I paid in advance for certain large orders which have been graciously given me.”

“Art thou not lying?” said she, growing a little calmer.

“No,” said he.

“All this is ours?”

“Yes,” he said, “by the word of honour of a citizen of Ghent.”

“Ah, my man, then we are henceforward out of our trouble.”

“Yes, wife,” said he.

“’Tis a miracle from God.”

“Alas,” said he.

“But these men come hither by night, against the usual custom, tell me the reason of that.”

“He who knows the reason for everything,” said Smetse, “is an evil prier. Such a one am not I.”

“But,” said she, “they speak never a word.”

“They do not like to talk,” said Smetse, “that is clear. Or it may be that their master chose them dumb, so that they should not waste time chattering with housewives.”

“Yes, that may be,” she said, while the thirty-first porter was going past, “but ’tis very strange, I cannot hear their footfalls, my man?”

“They have for certain,” said Smetse, “soles to suit their work.”

“But,” she said, “their faces are so pale, sad, and motionless, that they seem like faces of the dead.”

“Night-birds have never a good complexion,” said Smetse.

“But,” said his wife, “I have never seen these men among the guilds of Ghent.”

“Thou dost not know them all,” said Smetse.

“That may be, my man.”

In this manner the smith and his wife held converse together, the one very curious and disturbed, the other confused and ashamed at his lies.

Suddenly, as the three-and-thirtieth porter of the master-vintner was going out of the door, there rushed in in great haste a man of middling height, dressed in a short black smock, pale-haired, large-headed, wan-faced, stepping delicately, quick as the wind, stiff as a poker; for the rest, smiling continually, and carrying a lantern.

The man came up to Smetse hurriedly, without speaking bade him follow, and seized him by the arm. When Smetse hung back he made him a quick sign to have no fear, and led him into the garden, whither they were followed by the good wife. There he took a spade, gave his lantern to Smetse to hold, dug in the earth rapidly and opened a great hole, pulled out of the hole a leathern bag, opened it quickly, and with a smile showed Smetse and his wife that it was full of gold coin. The good wife cried out at the sight of the gold, whereupon he gave her a terrible great buffet in the face, smiled again, saluted, turned on his heel and went off with his lantern.

The good wife, knocked down by the force of the blow, and quite dazed, dared not cry out again, and only moaned softly: “Smetse, Smetse,” said she, “where art thou, my man? my cheek hurts me sorely.”

Smetse went to her and picked her up, saying: “Wife, let this buffet be a lesson to thee henceforward to control thy tongue better; thou hast disturbed with thy crying all the good men who have come here this night for my good; this last was less patient than the rest and punished thee, not without good reason.”