The Legend of Tyl Ulenspiegel

Lamme and Ulenspiegel at the Minne-Water

The Legend of the
Glorious Adventures
of Tyl Ulenspiegel in the
Land of Flanders & Elsewhere

by Charles de Coster
With twenty woodcuts by
Albert Delstanche
Translated from the French
By Geoffrey Whitworth

New York
Robert M. McBride & Company
1918

Printed in England
At the Complete Press
West Norwood London

Illustrations

Foreword

The book here offered in English to the English-speaking public has long been known and admired by students as the first and perhaps the most notable example of modern Belgian literature. Its author was born of obscure parentage in 1827, and, after a life passed in not much less obscurity, died in 1879. The ten years which were devoted to the composition of “The Legend of Tyl Ulenspiegel” were devoted to what proved, for de Coster, little more than a labour of love. Recognition came to him but from the few, and it was not till some thirty years after his death that an official monument was raised at Brussels to his memory, and an official oration delivered in his praise by Camille Lemonnier.

To the undiscerning among his contemporaries de Coster may have appeared little else than a rather eccentric journalist with archæological tastes. For a time, indeed, he held a post on the Royal Commission which was appointed in 1860 to investigate and publish old Flemish laws. And towards the end of his life he became a Professor of History and French Literature at the Military School in Brussels. Never, certainly, has a work of imagination, planned on an epic scale, been composed with a closer regard for historical detail than this Legend. But if our present age is less likely to be held by this than by those other qualities in the book of vitality and passion, it can only be that de Coster poured into his work not merely the knowledge and accuracy of an historian, but the love as well and the ardour of a poet and a patriot.

The objection—if it be an objection—that de Coster borrowed unblushingly from his predecessors need never be disputed. His style is frankly Rabelaisian. The stage whereon his actors play their parts is set, scene almost for scene, from the generally available documents that served such a writer as Thomas Motley for his “History of the Rise of the Dutch Republic.” Even the name, the very lineaments of Ulenspiegel, are borrowed from that familiar figure of the sixteenth-century chap-books[1] whose jolly pranks and schoolboy frolics have been crystallized in the French word espièglerie, and in our own day set to music in one of the symphonic poems of Richard Strauss.

Yet from such well-worn ingredients de Coster’s genius has mixed a potion most individually his own. The style of Rabelais is tempered with a finish, a neatness, and a wit that are as truly the product of the modern spirit as was the flamboyant jollity of Rabelais the product of his own Renaissance age; the sensible, historical foreground of a Motley becomes the coloured background to a romantic drama of human vice and virtue, linked in its turn to a conception of the cosmic process which has no other home, surely, than in the author’s brain. While Ulenspiegel himself is now not simply the type of young high spirits and animal good humour, but a being as complex, as many-sided almost as humanity—all brightness of intellect, all warmth of heart, all honour, and all dream—the immortal Spirit of Flanders that knows not what it is to be beaten, whose last song must for ever remain unsung.

What shall we say of those other homely personages who fill the scene—symbols no less of Flemish character at its finest and of the enduringly domestic springs of Flemish national life? Claes the trusty fatherhood, Soetkin the valiant motherhood of Flanders, Nele her true heart, Lamme Goedzak her great belly that hungers always for more and yet more good things to eat and is never satisfied? Or what, again, of the tragic Katheline, half witch, half martyr, and the centre of that dark intrigue which seems to throb like a shuttle through the mazy pattern of the plot, threading it all into unity?

From yet another standpoint: as an envisagement of the horrors of the Spanish Inquisition, de Coster’s work is probably without parallel in an already well-tilled field. The sinister figure of the King of Spain broods over it all like a Kaiser, and the episodes of stake and torture are recorded with a realism which might appear exaggerated had not modern Belgium—though in terms of “scientific warfare”—an even more devilish tale to tell. The fact is that de Coster’s trick of stating horror and leaving it to make its full effect without a touch of the rhetoric of indignation, proves the deadliest of all corrosive weapons; and it is hardly surprising that the book had been hailed in some quarters as a Protestant tract. But de Coster himself was in no sense a theological partisan, and his sympathy with the Beggarmen sprang from his enthusiasm for national liberty far more than from any bias towards the Protestant cause as such. That Catholicism has ever been identified with tyranny the best Catholic will most deplore, nor will de Coster’s “traditional” irreverence blind such a reader’s eyes to the spiritual generosity which permeates the whole work, and is, indeed, its most essential characteristic.

It remains to add that, in the interests of war-time publishing, the present version represents a curtailment of the Legend as it left the author’s hands. Here and there also, to maintain the continuity of incident, the translator has permitted himself some slight modification of the original text. By this means it is hoped that the proportions of the whole have been fairly maintained, and that no vital aspect of plot or atmosphere has been altogether suppressed or allowed an undue prominence.

G. A. W.

[1] The Author’s debt to such sources is especially noticeable in chapters xii, xxiv, xxvi, xxx, and xxxii of the First Book.

HERE BEGINS THE FIRST BOOK OF THE LEGEND OF THE GLORIOUS JOYOUS AND HEROIC ADVENTURES OF TYL ULENSPIEGEL AND LAMME GOEDZAK IN THE LAND OF FLANDERS AND ELSEWHERE

I

At Damme, in Flanders, when the May hawthorn was coming into flower, Ulenspiegel was born, the son of Claes.

When she had wrapped him in warm swaddling-clothes, Katheline, the midwife, made a careful examination of the infant’s head, and found a piece of skin hanging therefrom.

“Born with a caul!” she cried out joyfully. “Born under a lucky star!” But a moment later, noticing a small black mole on the baby’s shoulder, she fell into lamentation.

“Alas!” she wept, “it is the black finger-print of the devil!”

“Monsieur Satan,” said Claes, “must have risen early this morning, if already he has found time to set his sign upon my son!”

“Be sure, he never went to bed,” answered Katheline. “Here is Chanticleer only just awakening the hens!”

And so saying she went out of the room, leaving the baby in the arms of Claes.

At Damme when the Hawthorn was in flower

Then it was that the dawn came bursting through the clouds of night, and the swallows skimmed chirruping over the fields, while the sun began to show his dazzling face on the horizon. Claes opened the window and thus addressed himself to Ulenspiegel.

“O babe born with a caul, behold! Here is my Lord the Sun who comes to make his salutation to the land of Flanders. Gaze on Him whenever you can; and if ever in after years you come to be in any doubt or difficulty, not knowing what is right to do, ask counsel of Him. He is bright and He is warm. Be sincere as that brightness, and virtuous as that warmth.”

“Claes, my good man,” said Soetkin, “you are preaching to the deaf. Come, drink, son of mine.”

And so saying, the mother offered to her new-born babe a draught from nature’s fountain.

II

While Ulenspiegel nestled close and drank his fill, all the birds in the country-side began to waken.

Claes, who was tying up sticks, regarded his wife as she gave the breast to Ulenspiegel.

“Wife,” he said, “hast made good provision of this fine milk?”

“The pitchers are full,” she said, “but that doth not suffice for my peace of mind.”

“It seems that you are downhearted over your good fortune,” said Claes.

“I was thinking,” she said, “that there is not so much as a penny piece in that leather bag of ours hanging on the wall.”

Claes took hold of the bag and shook it. But in vain. There was no sign of any money. He looked crestfallen. Nevertheless, hoping to comfort his good wife—

“What are you worrying about?” says he. “Have we not in the bin that cake we offered Katheline yesterday? And don’t I see a great piece of meat over there that should make good milk for the child for three days at the least? And this tub of butter, is it a ghost-tub? And are they spectres, those apples ranged like flags and banners all in battle order, row after row, in the storeroom? And is there no promise of cool refreshment guarded safe in the paunch of our fine old cask of cuyte de Bruges?”

Soetkin said: “When we take the child to be christened we shall have to give two patards to the priest, and a florin for the feasting.”

But at this moment Katheline returned, with a great bundle of herbs in her arms.

“For the child that is born with a caul,” she cried. ”Angelica that keeps men from luxury; fenel that preserves them from Satan....”

“Have you none of that herb,” asked Claes, “which is called florins?”

“No,” said she.

“Very well,” he answered, “I shall go and see if I cannot find any growing in the canal.”

And with that he went off, with his line and his fishing-net, knowing that he would not be likely to meet any one, since it was yet an hour before the oosterzon, which is, in the land of Flanders, six o’clock in the morning.

III

Claes came to the Bruges canal, not far from the sea. There, having baited his hook, he cast it into the water and let out the line. On the opposite bank, a little boy was lying against a clump of earth, fast asleep. The boy, who was not dressed like a peasant, woke up at the noise that Claes was making, and began to run away, fearing no doubt that it was the village constable come to dislodge him from his bed and to hale him off as a vagabond to the steen. But he soon lost his fear when he recognized Claes, and when Claes called out to him:

“Would you like to earn a penny, my boy? Well then, drive the fish over to my side!”

At this proposal the little boy, who was somewhat stout for his years, jumped into the water, and arming himself with a plume of long reeds, he began to drive the fish towards Claes. When the fishing was over, Claes drew up his line and his landing-net, and came over by the lock gate towards where the youngster was standing.

“Your name,” said Claes, “is Lamme by baptism, and Goedzak by nature, because you are of a gentle disposition, and you dwell in the rue Héron behind the Church of Our Lady. But tell me why it is that, young as you are, and well dressed, you are yet obliged to sleep out here in the open?”

“Woe is me, Mr. Charcoal-burner,” answered the boy. “I have a sister at home, a year younger than I am, who fairly thrashes me at the least occasion of disagreement. But I dare not take my revenge upon her back for fear of doing her some injury, sir. Last night at supper I was very hungry, and I was clearing out with my fingers the bottom of a dish of beef and beans. She wanted to share it, but there was not enough for us both, sir. And when she saw me licking my lips because the sauce smelt good, she went mad with rage, and smote me with all her force, so hard indeed that I fled away from the house, beaten all black and blue.”

Claes asked him what his father and mother were doing during this scene.

“My father hit me on one shoulder and my mother on the other, crying, ‘Strike back at her, you coward!’ but I, not wishing to strike a girl, made my escape.”

All at once, Lamme went pale all over and began to tremble in every limb, and Claes saw a tall woman approaching, and by her side a young girl, very thin and fierce of aspect.

“Oh, oh!” cried Lamme, holding on to Claes by his breeches, “here are my mother and my sister come to find me. Protect me, please, Mr. Charcoal-burner!”

“Wait,” said Claes. “First of all let me give you this penny-farthing as your wages, and now let us go and meet them without fear.”

When the two women saw Lamme, they ran up and both began to belabour him—the mother because of the fright he had given her, the sister because it was her habit so to do. Lamme took refuge behind Claes, and cried out:

“I have earned a penny-farthing! I have earned a penny-farthing! Do not beat me!”

By this time, however, his mother had begun to embrace him, while the girl was trying to force open his hands and to get at the money. But Lamme shouted:

“The money belongs to me. You shall not have it.”

And he kept his fingers tightly closed. But Claes shook the girl roughly by the ears, and said to her:

“If you go on picking quarrels like this with your brother, he that is as good and gentle as a lamb, I shall put you in a black charcoal-pit, and then it won’t be I any longer that will be shaking you by the ears, but the red devil himself from hell, and he will pull you into pieces with his great claws and his teeth that are like forks.”

At these words the girl averted her eyes from Claes, nor did she go near Lamme, but hid behind her mother’s skirts, and when she got back into the town, she went about crying everywhere:

“The Charcoal-man has beaten me, and he keeps the devil in his cave.”

Nevertheless she did not attack Lamme any more; but being the bigger of the two, she made him work in her place, and the gentle simpleton obeyed her right willingly.

Now Claes, on his way home, sold his catch to a farmer that often used to buy fish from him. And when he was home again, he said to Soetkin:

“Behold! Here’s what I have found in the bellies of four pike, nine carp, and a basketful of eels.” And he threw on the table a couple of florins and half a farthing.

“Why don’t you go fishing every day, my man?” asked Soetkin.

“For fear of becoming a fish myself, and being caught on the hook of the village constable,” he told her.

IV

Claes, the father of Ulenspiegel, was known in Damme by the name of Kooldraeger, that is to say, the Charcoal-burner. Claes had a black head of hair, bright eyes, and a skin the colour of his own merchandise—save only on Sundays and Feast Days, when his cottage ran with soap and water. He was a short, thick-set man, strong, and of a joyful countenance.

Towards the end of the day, when evening was coming on, he would sometimes visit the tavern on the road to Bruges, there to rinse his charcoal-blackened throat with a draught of cuyte; and then the women standing at their doorways to sniff the evening dew would cry out to him in friendly greeting:

“A good night and a good drink to you, Charcoal-burner.”

“A good night to you, and a lively husband!” Claes would reply.

And sometimes the girls, trooping home together from their work in the fields, would line up in front of him right across the road, barring his way.

“What will you give us for the right of passage?” they would cry. “A scarlet ribbon, a buckle of gold, a pair of velvet slippers, or a florin piece for alms?”

But Claes, holding one of the girls fast by the waist, would give her a hearty kiss on her fresh cheek or on her neck, just whichever happened to be nearest, and then he would say:

“You must ask the rest, my dears, of your sweethearts.”

And off they would go amidst peals of laughter.

As for the children, they always recognized Claes by his loud voice and by the noise his clogs made on the road, and they would run up to him and cry:

“Good evening, Charcoal-burner.”

“The same to you, my little angels,” he would answer; “but come no nearer, lest perchance I turn you into blackamoors.”

But the children were bold, and oftentimes would make the venture. Then Claes would seize one of them by the doublet, and rubbing his blackened hands up and down the little fellow’s nose, would send him off all sooty, but laughing just the same, to the huge delight of the others.

Claes and Soetkin

Soetkin, wife of Claes, was a good wife and mother. She was up with the dawn, and worked as diligently as any ant. She and Claes laboured together in the field, yoking themselves to the plough as though they had been oxen. It was hard work dragging it along, but even the plough was not so heavy as the harrow, that rustic implement whose task it was to tear up the hardened earth with teeth of wood. But Claes and his wife worked always with a gay heart, and enlivened themselves with singing. And in vain was the earth hard, in vain did the sun hurl down on them his hottest beams, in vain were their knees stiffened with bending and their loins tired with the cruel effort of dragging the harrow along, for they had only to stop a moment while Soetkin turned to Claes her gentle face, and while Claes kissed that mirror of a gentle heart, and straightway they forgot how tired they were.

V

Now the previous day, the town crier had given notice from before the Town Hall that Madame, the wife of the Emperor Charles, being near the time of her delivery, it behoved the people to say prayers on her behalf.

Katheline came to Claes in a great state of excitement.

“Whatever is the matter, my good woman?” he asked.

“Alas!” she cried, catching her breath, “behold! This night the ghosts are mowing men down like grass. Little girls are being buried alive. The executioner is dancing on the body of the dead. And broken, this night, is that Stone which has been sweating blood these nine months past and more!”

“Mercy on us!” groaned Soetkin. “Mercy on us, O Lord! This is a black omen indeed for the land of Flanders.”

“Do you see these things with your own eyes wide awake, or perchance in a dream?” Claes asked her.

“With my own eyes,” Katheline told him. And then all pale and tearful, she continued in these words:

“To-night two children are born: the one in Spain—the infant Philip—and the other in this land of Flanders—the son of Claes, he that later on shall be known by the name of Ulenspiegel. Philip will grow up to be a common hangman, being the child of the Emperor Charles the Fifth, the destroyer of our country. But Ulenspiegel will be a master of the merry words and frolics of youth, yet good of heart withal, having for his father Claes, the brave working man that knows how to earn his own living with courage, honesty, and gentleness. Charles the Emperor and Philip the King will go riding their way through life, doing evil by battle, extortion, and other crimes. But Claes, working hard all the week, living according to right and according to law, and laughing at his laborious lot instead of being cast down thereby, will be the model of all the good workpeople of Flanders. Ulenspiegel, young and immortal, will ramble over the world and never settle in one place. And he will be peasant, nobleman, painter, sculptor, all in one. And he will continue his wanderings hither and thither, lauding things beautiful and good, and laughing stupidity to scorn. Claes, then, O noble people of Flanders, is your courage; Soetkin your valiant motherhood; Ulenspiegel your soul. A sweet and gentle maiden, lover of Ulenspiegel and immortal like him, shall be your heart; and Lamme Goedzak, with his pot-belly, shall be your stomach. And up aloft shall stand the devourers of the people; and beneath them their victims. On high the thieving hornets; and below the busy bees. While in heaven bleed for evermore the wounds of Christ.”

And when she had thus spoken, Katheline, the kindly sorceress, went to sleep.

VI

One day Claes caught a large salmon, and on the Sunday he and Soetkin and Katheline and the little Ulenspiegel had it for their dinner. But Katheline only ate enough to satisfy a sparrow.

“How now, mother?” said Claes. “What has happened to the air of Flanders? Has it suddenly grown solid, so that to breathe it is as nourishing as a plate of beef? Why, if such were the case, I suppose you will be telling me that the rain is as good as soup, and the hail like beans, and the snow some sort of celestial fricassee, fit cheer for a poor traveller?”

But Katheline shook her head, and said not a word.

“Dear me,” said Claes, “our mother is in the dumps it seems! What can it be that grieves her so?”

But Katheline spake as follows, in a voice that was like a breath of wind:

“The wicked night falls blackly. He tells of his coming from afar, screaming like the sea-eagle. I tremble, and pray to Our Lady—all in vain. For the Night knows neither walls nor hedges, neither doors nor windows. Everywhere, like a spirit, he finds a way in. The ladder creaks. The Night has entered into the loft where I am sleeping. The Night seizes me in arms that are cold and hard as marble. His face is frozen, and his kisses like damp snow. The whole cottage seems to be tossed about over the earth, riding like a ship at sea....”

Claes said: “I would counsel you to go every morning to Mass, that our Lord Christ may give you strength to chase away this phantom from hell.”

“He is so beautiful!” said Katheline.

VII

Ulenspiegel was weaned, and began to grow like a young poplar. And soon Claes gave up caressing him, but loved him in a roughish manner, fearing to make a milksop of him. And when Ulenspiegel came home complaining that he had got the worst of it in some boyish affray, Claes would give him a beating because, forsooth, he had not beaten the others. And with such an education Ulenspiegel grew up as valiant as a young lion.

When Claes was from home, Ulenspiegel would ask his mother to give him a liard with which he might go out and amuse himself. Soetkin would grow angry, and ask why he wanted to go out for amusement—he would do better to stay at home and tie up faggots. And when he saw that she was not going to give him anything, the boy would start yelling like an eagle, while Soetkin made a great clatter with the pots and pans that she was washing in the wooden tub, pretending that she did not hear his noise. Then Ulenspiegel would fall to weeping, and the gentle mother would stop her pretence at harshness, and would come and kiss him.

“Will a denier be enough for you?” she would say.

Now it should be noted that a denier is equal to six liards.

Thus did his mother dote on Ulenspiegel even to excess; and when Claes was not there, he was king in the house.

VIII

One morning Soetkin saw Claes pacing up and down the kitchen with head bent, like a man lost in thought.

“Whatever is the matter with you, my man?” she asked him. “You are pale, and you look angry and distracted.”

Claes answered her in a low voice, like a dog growling.

“The Emperor is about to reissue those cursed placards. Death once again is hovering over the land of Flanders. The Informers are to have one half of the property of their victims, if so be that such property does not exceed the value of one hundred florins.”

“We are poor,” Soetkin said.

“Not poor enough,” Claes answered. “Evil folk there are—crows and corpse-devouring vultures—who would as readily denounce us to the Emperor for half a sackful of coal as for half a sackful of florins. What had she, poor old Widow Tanneken that was wife to Sis the tailor, she that was buried alive at Heyst? Nothing but a Latin Bible, three gold florins, and a few household utensils of English pewter. But they were coveted by a neighbour. Then there was Joanna Martens whom they burnt as a witch after she had been thrown into the water, for her body did not sink and they held it for a sign of sorcery. She had a few miserable pieces of furniture and seven gold pieces in a bag, and the Informer wanted his half of them. Alas! I could go on till to-morrow morning giving you instances of the same kind. But to cut a long story short, Mother, life’s no longer worth living in Flanders, and all on account of these placards. Soon every night-time the death-cart will be passing through the town, and we shall hear the arid click of bones as the skeletons shake in the wind.”

Soetkin said: “You ought not to try and frighten me, my man. The Emperor is the father of Flanders and Brabant, and as such he is endowed with long-suffering, gentleness, patience, and pity.”

“He would be obliged to renounce too much if he were all that,” Claes answered, “for he has inherited a great amount of confiscated property.”

At that very moment the sound of a trumpet was heard, and the clash of the Heralds’ cymbals. Claes and Soetkin, carrying Ulenspiegel in their arms by turns, rushed out towards where the sound came from, and with them went a great concourse of people. They came to the Town Hall, in front of which stood the Heralds on horseback, blowing their trumpets and sounding their cymbals, and the Provost with his staff of justice, and the Town Proctor, also on horseback and holding in his hands the Imperial Edict which he was preparing to read out to the assembled multitude.

Claes heard every word, how “that it was once again forbidden to all and sundry to print, read, to possess or to defend, the writings, books or doctrines of Martin Luther, of John Wycliffe, John Hus, Marcilius de Padua, Æcolampadius, Ulricus Zwynglius, Philip Melancthon, Franciscus Lambertus, Joannes Pomeranus, Otto Brunselsius, Justus Jonas, Joannes Puperis, and Gorciamus; as well as any copies of the New Testament printed by Adrien de Berghes, Christophe de Remonda, and Joannes Xel, which books were full of Lutheran and other kinds of heresy, and had been condemned and rejected by the Doctors of Theology at the University of Louvain.

“Likewise and in the same manner it was forbidden to paint, portray or cause to be painted or portrayed any opprobrious paintings or figures of God, or of the Blessed Virgin Mary, or of the saints; or to break, destroy or deface the images or pictures made to the honour, remembrance or recollection of God, the Virgin Mary, or of the saints recognized by the Church.

“Furthermore,” said the placard, “no one, whatever his position in life, should presume to discuss or dispute concerning Holy Writ, even in regard to matters admittedly doubtful, unless he were a theologian, well known and approved by some established university.

“His Sacred Majesty decreed, among other penalties, that suspected persons should not be allowed to carry on any honourable occupation. And as for men who had fallen again into error, or who were obstinate in the same, they should be condemned to be burnt by fire, slow or fast, either in a covering of straw, or else bound to a stake, according to the discretion of the judge. Others, if they were men of noble or of gentle birth, were to be executed at the point of the sword, while working people were to be hung, and the women buried alive. Afterwards their heads were to be fixed on the top of poles for an example. The property of all the aforesaid, in so far as it was situate in places subject to confiscation, was to be made over to the benefit of the Emperor.

“To the Informers His Sacred Majesty gave one half of all the property of the dead, provided that such property did not exceed, on any one occasion, a hundred pounds gross in Flemish money. As for the half that went to the Emperor, he would reserve it for works of piety and mercy, as was done in the case of the confiscations at Rome.”

And Claes went away sadly, with Soetkin and Ulenspiegel.

IX

Once again did Soetkin bear under her girdle the sign of approaching motherhood; and Katheline also was in a like condition. But she was afraid, and never ventured out of her house.

When Soetkin went to see her, “Alas!” said Katheline, “what shall I do? Must I smother the ill-starred fruit of my womb? I would rather die myself. And yet if the Sergeant summons me for having a child without being married, they will make me pay twenty florins like a girl of no reputation, and I shall be flogged in the Market Square.”

Soetkin consoled and comforted her as sweetly as she could, then left her, and returned thoughtfully home.

One day she said to Claes:

“If I brought two children into the world instead of one, would you be angry? Would you beat me, my man?”

“That I cannot say,” Claes answered.

“But if the second were not really mine, but turned out to be like this child of Katheline’s, the offspring of some one unknown—the devil maybe?”

“Devils beget fire, death, smoke,” Claes replied, “but children—no. Yet will I take for my own the child of Katheline.”

“You will?” cried Soetkin. “You really will?”

“I have said it,” Claes replied.

Soetkin hurried off to tell Katheline the news, who when she heard it could not contain her delight, but cried aloud with joy.

“He has spoken, the good man, and his words are the salvation of my body. He will be blessed by God—and blessed by the devil as well, if really”—and she trembled as she spoke the words—“if really it is the devil who is father to the little one that begins to stir beneath my breast!”

And in due time Soetkin and Katheline brought into the world, the one a baby boy and the other a baby girl. Both were brought to baptism as the children of Claes. Soetkin’s son was christened Hans, and did not live. But Katheline’s daughter, who was christened Nele, grew up finely.

She drank of the liquor of life from a fourfold flagon. Two of the flagons belonged to Katheline, and two were Soetkin’s. And there was many a sweet dispute as to whose turn it was to give the child to drink. But much against her will, Katheline was obliged to let her milk dry up, lest questions should be asked as to where it came from, and she no mother....

But when the little Nele, that was her daughter, was weaned, then Katheline took her home to live with her, nor did she let her go back to Soetkin except when Nele called for her “mother.”

The neighbours said that it was a right and natural thing to do for Katheline to look after the child of Claes and Soetkin. For they were needy and poverty-stricken, whereas Katheline was comparatively well off.

X

One day Soetkin said to Claes:

“Husband, I am heart-broken. This is now the third day that Tyl has been away. Know you not where he is?”

Claes answered her sadly:

“He is with all the others, roving vagabonds like himself, on the high road. Verily, it was cruel of God to give us such a son. When he was born I thought of him as the joy of our old age, and as another help in our house, for I hoped to make a good workman of him. But now some evil chance hath turned him into a thief and a good-for-nothing.”

“You are too hard on him, my man,” said Soetkin. “He is our son, and he is but nine years old, and filled with childish folly. It is needful that he also, like the trees of the field, should let fall his husks by the wayside ere he decks himself with the full foliage of virtue and honesty. He is mischievous; I do not deny it. But later on this spirit of his will be turned to good account, if instead of driving him to tricks and frolics it is put to some useful purpose. He makes fun of the neighbours; true. But one day you will find him take his rightful place in the midst of a circle of gay and happy friends. He is always laughing and frivolous; yes, but a young face that is too serious bodes ill for the future. And if he is always running about, it is because his growing body needs to be exercised; and if he is idle and does no work, it is because he is not yet old enough to feel the duty of labour. And if, now and then, he does stay away from us for half a week at a time, it is only because he fails to realize the grief he causes us; for he has a good heart, husband, and at bottom he loves us.”

Claes shook his head and said nothing, and went to sleep, leaving Soetkin to her lonely tears. And she, in the morning, afraid lest her son had fallen sick upon the road, went out and stood at the cottage doorstep to see if he were coming back. But there was no sign of him, and she came back into the cottage, and sat by the window, gazing out all the time into the street. And many a time did her heart dance within her bosom at the light footfall of some urchin that she thought might be her own; but when the sound passed by, and she knew that it was not Ulenspiegel, then she wept, poor mother that she was.

Ulenspiegel, meanwhile, with the fellow-scamps that bore him company, was away at Bruges, at the Saturday market.

There were to be seen the shoemakers and the cobblers, each in his separate stall, the tailors selling suits of clothes, the miesevangers from Antwerp (they that snare tom-tits by night with the aid of an owl); and the poulterers too, and the rascally dog-fanciers, and sellers of catskins that are made into gloves, and of breast-pads and doublets: buyers too of every kind, townsmen and townswomen, valets, servants, pantlers and butlers, and cooks, male and female, all together, buying and selling, each according to his quality shouting his wares, crying up or crying down, with every trick of the trade.

Now in one corner of the market-place stood a wonderful tent made of cloth, raised aloft on four piles. At the door of the tent was a peasant from the level land of Alost, and by his side two monks begged for alms. For the sum of one patard the peasant offered to show to the curious or devout a genuine piece of the shoulder-bone of St. Mary of Egypt. There he was, yelling out in his broken voice the merits of the saint, and not omitting from his song that tale which tells how she, being without money, paid the young ferryman in the beautiful coinage of Nature herself, lest by refusing a workman his due she might be guilty of sin. And all the while the two monks kept nodding their heads, as much as to say that it was Gospel truth that the peasant was speaking. And at their side was a fat, red-faced woman, as lewd-looking as Astarte, blowing a raucous bagpipe, while at her side a young girl sang in a voice sweet as a bird’s, though no one heeded her. Now above the door of the tent, and swung between two poles by a cord fastened to either handle, was a tub of Holy Water which the fat woman affirmed had been brought from Rome; and the two monks lolled their heads backwards and forwards in confirmation or what she said. Ulenspiegel, looking at the tub, grew suddenly thoughtful.

For to one of the posts of the tent was tied a donkey—a donkey that to all appearance was wont to feed on hay rather than on oats. For its head was down, and it scanned the earth in futile hopes of seeing but a thistle growing there.

“Comrades,” said Ulenspiegel, pointing to the fat old woman, the two monks, and the melancholy donkey, “since the masters play so well, let us also make the donkey dance.”

And so saying he went to a stall close by and purchased six liards’ worth of pepper. Then he lifted up the tail of the donkey, and placed the pepper underneath it.

When the donkey began to feel the sting of the pepper, he cast his eye backwards under his tail, endeavouring to discover the cause of the unaccustomed heat. Thinking that it must be at the least some fiery devil from hell, the donkey conceived the not unnatural desire to run away and escape him; so he began to bray as loud as he could, and to kick up his heels, and to shake the post with all his strength. At the first shock, the tub hanging between the two poles tipped over, and the holy water ran about over the tent and over those that were inside. And soon the tent itself collapsed, covering with a dripping mantle all those who were listening to the wondrous tale of St. Mary of Egypt. And Ulenspiegel and his comrades could hear a mighty noise issuing from beneath the tent, a noise of moaning and lamentation. For the devout folk that were within began to accuse one another of having overturned the tub, and presently grew red with rage, and fell upon each other with many furious blows. The tent began to bulge here and there above the frantic efforts of the combatants. And each time that Ulenspiegel descried some rounded form outlined through the cloth of the tent, he went and gave it a prick with a pin. This was the signal for new and louder cries, and for fiercer and more general fisticuffs.

Ulenspiegel was delighted, and soon he was to become even more so, when he saw the donkey begin to run away, dragging behind him tent, tub, tent-posts and all, while the master of the tent, with his wife and daughter, hung on behind the baggage. At last the donkey, being able to go no farther, raised his nose in the air, and gave vent to bray after bray, a music that only ceased at those moments when he was looking back under his tail to see if the fire that still raged there would not soon go out.

All this time, the devout assembly in the tent were still a-fighting. But the two monks, without troubling at all about what was going on inside, began to gather up the money that had fallen from the collection-plate, and Ulenspiegel assisted them devotedly, but not without some profit to himself....

XI

Now all this time that the vagabond son of the charcoal-burner was growing up in merriment and mischief, the moody scion of His Sacred Majesty the Emperor was vegetating like a weed in moody melancholy. The Lords and Ladies of the Court used to watch him as he mouched along the rooms and passages of the palace at Valladolid, a frail, pitiful specimen of humanity, with legs that shook and scarce seemed able to support the weight of the big head that was covered with stiff blond hair.

He loved to haunt dark corridors, and he would stay sitting there whole hours together, with his legs stretched out in front of him, hoping that some valet or other might trip over them by mistake; then he would have the fellow flogged; for he took pleasure in listening to his cries under the lash. But he never laughed.

Another day he would select some other corridor in which to lay a similar trap, and once again he would sit himself down with his legs stretched out in front of him. Then one of the Ladies of the Court, mayhap, or one of the Lords or pages, would stumble across him; and if they fell down and hurt themselves, he took delight in their discomfiture. But he never laughed. And if by chance any one knocked against him but did not fall down, he would cry out as if he had been struck. He liked to see the other’s fright. But he never laughed.

His Sacred Majesty was informed of these goings-on, and he commanded that no notice should be taken of the child, saying that if his son did not want people to walk over his legs he should not place his legs in a position where they were liable to be walked over. Philip was angry at this, but he said nothing and was no more seen, till one fine summer day when he went out into the courtyard to warm his shivering body in the sun.

Charles, riding back from the war, saw his son thus brewing his melancholy.

“How now?” cried the Emperor. “What a difference there is between us two, my son! At your age I loved nothing better than to go climbing trees after squirrels. Or, with the aid of a rope, to clamber down some steep cliff to take young eagles out of their nests. I might easily have broken my bones at the game; but they only grew the harder. And when I went out hunting, the deer fled into the thickets at sight of me, armed with my trusty arquebus.”

“Ah, my Lord Father,” sighed the child, “but you see, I have the stomach-ache.”

“For that,” said Charles, “good wine from Paxarete is a most certain remedy.”

“I don’t like wine. I have a headache, my Lord Father.”

“Then you should run and jump and play about like other children of your age.”

“I have stiff legs, my Lord Father.”

“And how should it be otherwise,” said Charles, “seeing that you make no more use of them than if they were of wood? But you shall go riding on a high-mettled horse.”

The child began to cry.

“Oh no, for mercy’s sake! I have a pain in my back!”

“Come, come,” said Charles, “are you ill everywhere then?”

“I should not be ill at all,” answered the child, “if only they would let me alone.”

“Do you think to pass your royal life away in dreams like a scholar?” the Emperor asked impatiently. “Such people as that, if indeed it be necessary for the inking of their parchments, may rightly seek out silence, solitude, retirement from the world. But for thee, son of the sword, I would desire warm blood, a lynx’s eye, a fox’s craft, and the strength of Hercules. Why do you cross yourself? Blood of God! What should a lion’s cub be doing with this mimicry of women at their prayers!”

“Hark! It is the Angelus, my Lord Father,” answered the child.

XII

May and June that year were in very truth the months of flowers. Never had Flanders known the hawthorn so fragrant, never the gardens so gay with roses, jasmine, and honeysuckle. And when the wind blew eastwards from England it carried with it the breath of all this flowery land, and the people, at Antwerp and elsewhere, sniffed the air joyfully and cried aloud:

“How good the scent of the wind that blows from Flanders!”

Then it was that the bees were busy sucking honey from the flowers, making wax, and laying their eggs within the hives that were all too small to house the swarms. What workman’s music they made, under that canopy of azure sky that was spread so dazzlingly over the rich earth!

The hives were made of rushes, straw, osiers or of wattled hay. And there the bees, like clever basket-makers, lined and tunnelled the hives with their beautifully fitting tools. And as for the bread-makers, this long time past their numbers were scarce sufficient for the work they had to do. In a single swarm there would be as many as three thousand bees and two thousand seven hundred drones! The quality of the comb was so exquisite that the Dean of Damme dispatched eleven combs to the Emperor Charles out of gratitude for the new edicts that had revived in Flanders the earlier vigour of the Holy Inquisition. It was Philip, forsooth, that ate them all; but little good did they do him!

But in Flanders, the rascals of the roads, the beggars and vagabonds and all that lazy good-for-nothing crowd who would risk hanging rather than do a day’s work, were soon enticed by the taste of the honey to come along and steal their share. And by night they prowled around the hives in gangs. Now Claes had made some hives for the purpose of attracting the wandering swarms of bees, and some of these hives were full already, but there were others that stood empty waiting for the bees. Claes kept watch all night to guard this sugary wealth of his; and when he was tired he asked Ulenspiegel to take his place, the which Ulenspiegel did right willingly.

It was a cold night, and Ulenspiegel to avoid the chill took refuge in one of the hives, curling himself up inside, and looking out from two openings that had been made in the roof of the hive.

Just as he was going off to sleep, he heard a rustle in the bushy hedge near by, and then the voices of two men. They were thieves, no doubt, and peering forth from the openings aforesaid, Ulenspiegel saw that they both had long hair and long beards, which was strange, for a long beard is usually the sign of a nobleman. However, the two men went peering from hive to hive, and coming at last to the one in which Ulenspiegel was hiding, they tried its weight, and then——

“Let us take this one,” they said. “It is the heaviest.”

Whereupon they slung it up between them, on a couple of poles, and carried it off. Ulenspiegel did not at all fancy being thus carted away in a hive. But the night was clear, and the two thieves marched along with never a word. When they had gone about fifty paces they would stop to take breath, and then set off again. The man in front grumbled angrily all the time at the weight of his burden. And the man behind whined in a querulous fashion. Even so are there always to be found two sorts of idle fellows in this world, those who are angry at having to work, and those who merely whine at having to.

Ulenspiegel, since there seemed nothing else to do, took hold of the hair of the man in front and gave it a pull. And he did the same to the beard of the man at the rear; and to such purpose that the two men soon grew annoyed at what was happening, and Mr. Angry said to Mr. Whining:

“Hi there, stop pulling my hair, you, or else I’ll give you such a whack on the head that it’ll squash down into your chest, and then you’ll be looking out of your two sides like a thief through the prison grille!”

“I should never think of doing such a thing as to pull your hair,” said the whiner. “But what are you doing there, pulling at my beard?”

To which Mr. Angry made answer:

“It isn’t I that would go hunting for fleas in the wool of a leper!”

“O sir,” said the whiner, “for goodness’ sake don’t go shaking the hive about like this. My poor arms cannot support it any longer.”

“I shall shake it out of your arms altogether,” said the other. Then unloading himself, he placed the hive upon the ground and fell upon his companion. And so they fought together, the one cursing, and the other crying out for mercy.

Ulenspiegel, hearing the sound of blows, came out from the hive, dragged it behind him into the wood close by, and having placed it where he could find it again, returned to Claes.

And thus you may see what sort of a profit it is that thieves derive from their quarrels.

XIII

As he grew up, Ulenspiegel acquired the habit of wandering about among the fairs and markets of the country-side, and whenever he hit upon a man who played the oboe, the rebec, or the bagpipes, he would offer him a patard for a lesson in the art of making those instruments to sing.

He became especially accomplished in the art of playing the rommelpot, an instrument which is constructed out of a round pot, a bladder, and a straight piece of straw. And this is the way he played it. First of all he moistened the bladder and held it over the pot. Then he drew the centre of the bladder round the joint of a straw which itself was attached to the bottom of the pot. Finally he stretched the bladder as tightly as he dared over the sides of the pot. In the morning, when the bladder was dry, it sounded like a tambourine when struck, and if one rubbed the straw it gave forth a humming sound as fine in tone as that of any violin. And Ulenspiegel, with his musical pot that played music like the baying of a mastiff, went out with the other children on the day of Epiphany carrying a star made of luminous paper, and singing carols.

Sometimes an artist would come to Damme to paint the members of one of the Guilds, upon their knees. Ulenspiegel was always anxious to see how the artist worked, and he would beg to be allowed to grind the colours in return for nothing but a slice of bread, three liards, and a pint of ale. But while he worked away at the grinding he would carefully study the method of his master. When the artist went away Ulenspiegel would endeavour to paint pictures like him; and his favourite colour was scarlet. In this way he tried to paint the portraits of Claes, of Soetkin, and of Katheline and Nele, as well as those of the pots and pans in the kitchen. When Claes beheld these works of art he predicted that if only he worked hard enough Ulenspiegel would one day be able to earn florins by the dozen for painting the inscriptions on the festal cars, or speel-wagen as they are called in Zeeland and the land of Flanders.

Ulenspiegel also learnt to carve in wood and in stone, for once a master-mason came to Damme to carve a stall in the choir of Notre Dame. And this stall was made in such a way that the Dean—who was an old man—could sit down when he so desired, yet seem to all appearance as if he were still standing upright.

It was Ulenspiegel too who made the first carved knife-handle ever used by the people of Zeeland. He fashioned this handle in the form of a cage. Inside was a death’s head that moved; and above it a hound couchant. And this was the signification: “Soul true till death.”

Thus it was that Ulenspiegel began to fulfil the prophecy that Katheline had made when she said that he would be painter, sculptor, workman, nobleman, all in one. For you must know that from father to son the family of Claes bore arms three pint pots argent au naturel on a ground bruinbier.

But Ulenspiegel would stick to no one profession, and Claes told him that if he went on in this good-for-nothing way he would chase him out of the house.

XIV

On his return from the wars, the Emperor wanted to know why his son Philip was not there to welcome him.

The Archbishop—the royal Governor—said that the child had refused to leave his solitude and the books which were the only things he loved.

The Emperor asked where he was to be found at the moment. The Governor did not know exactly, but said they had better go and look for him somewhere where it was dark. This they did.

When they had looked through a good number of rooms they came at last to a kind of closet, unpaved and lit only by a skylight. There they found a stake stuck into the ground, and a dear little monkey bound to the stake by a cord round the waist. (Now this monkey had been sent from the Indies as a present to His Highness to amuse him with its youthful gambols).... Round the bottom of the stake were some smoking sticks still glowing, and the closet was filled with a foul smell as of burning hair.

Philip and the Monkey

The poor animal had suffered so much pain while being burnt to death that its little body no longer looked the body of a living animal, but seemed rather like the fragment of some root, all wrinkled and distorted. And its mouth, still open with the death-cry, was filled with froth mixed with blood; and the face was wet with tears.

“Who has done this?” said the Emperor.

The Governor did not dare to answer, and the two men stood there silent, sad, and angry.

All at once, in the silence, there was heard a sound of feeble coughing that came from a corner in the shadow behind them. His Majesty turned and beheld Philip, his son, dressed all in black, sucking an orange.

“Don Philip,” he said, “come and greet your father.”

The child did not move, but gazed at his father with timid eyes that showed no spark of love.

“Is it you,” asked the Emperor, “who have burnt alive in the fire this little animal?”

The child bowed his head.

But the Emperor: “If you have been cruel enough to do such a deed, at least be brave enough to own up to it.”

The child made no answer.

His Majesty seized the orange from the child’s hands, threw it to the ground, and was about to beat his son, who was shaking with terror, when the Archbishop restrained him, whispering in his ear:

“The day will surely come when His Highness shall prove a mighty burner of heretics.” The Emperor smiled, and the two of them went away, leaving Philip alone with the monkey.

But others there were, not monkeys, that were destined to meet their death in the flames....

XV

November was come, the month of hail-storms, when sufferers from cold in the head abandon themselves freely to their concerts of coughing and spitting. This also is the month when the turnip-fields are filled with gangs of youths that there disport themselves and steal whatever they can, to the mighty wrath of the peasants, who try in vain to catch them, chasing after them with sticks and pitchforks.

Well, on an evening when Ulenspiegel was returning home from one of these raids, he heard close by, in a corner of the hedgerow, a sound as of groaning. He leant down, and beheld a dog lying stretched out on the stones.

“Hallo!” he cried. “Poor little beast! What are you doing out here so late at night?”

He patted the dog, and found that its back was all wet, as though some one had been trying to drown it. He took it in his arms to warm it, and when he had reached home he said:

“I have brought back a wounded animal. What shall we do with it?”

“Dress its wounds,” said Claes.

Ulenspiegel laid the dog on the table; whereupon he and Claes and Soetkin saw that it was a little red-haired Luxemburg terrier, and that it was wounded in the back. Soetkin sponged the wounds, and anointed them with ointment, and bound them up with linen bandages. Then Ulenspiegel took the dog and put it in his bed; but Soetkin desired to have it in her own, saying she was afraid that Ulenspiegel would hurt the little red-haired thing. For in those days Ulenspiegel was wont to toss about in his sleep all night like a young devil in a stoup of holy water. Ulenspiegel, however, had his way, and he took such care of the dog that in the space of six days it was walking about like any other dog, and giving itself great airs.

And the village schoolmaster christened him Titus Bibulus Schnouffius: Titus after a certain good Emperor of the Romans who was fond of befriending lost dogs; Bibulus because the dog loved beer with all the passion of a confirmed drunkard; and Schnouffius because he would always run about sniffing and putting his nose into every rat-hole and mole-hole he could find.

XVI

The young prince of Spain was now fifteen years old, and his custom was to wander about the rooms and passages and stairways of the castle. But chiefly was he to be found prowling around the women’s quarters, trying to pick a quarrel with one of the pages, who themselves were wont to lurk on the look out, like cats, in the corridors; while others, again, out in the courtyard, would stand singing some tender ballad, nose in air. When the young prince heard one singing thus, he would show himself at one of the windows, and the heart of that poor page would be stricken with fear as he saw that white face there, instead of the gentle eyes of his beloved.

Now among the Ladies of the Court there was a gentle dame from Dudzeel near by Damme in Flanders. Fair-fleshed she was, like fine ripe fruit, and marvellously beautiful, for she had green eyes and reddish hair all wavy and gleaming gold. And of a gay humour was she, and of an ardent complexion, nor did she make any effort to conceal her taste for that fortunate lord to whom for the time being she was pleased to grant the freedom of the fair estate of her love. Such a one there was even now, handsome and proud, and she loved him well. Every day, at a certain hour, she went to find him—a thing which Philip was not long in finding out.

So, one day, sitting himself down on a bench that stood against a window, he lay in wait for her, and there she saw him as she passed by, with her bright eyes and her mouth half open, all meet for love and fresh from her bath, with the gear of her dress of yellow brocade swinging about her as she stepped along. Without rising from his seat, Philip accosted her.

“Madame,” says he, “could you not spare a moment?”

Restive as some eager mare, stayed in her course towards the gallant stallion that is neighing for her in the field, the lady made answer:

“All here must needs obey the royal will of your Highness.”

“Then sit you down by my side,” said the Prince. And gazing at her lewdly, harshly, cunningly, he spake again:

“I would have you recite to me the Pater Noster in Flemish. They taught it me once, but I no longer remember it.”

The poor lady did as she was bid; and then the Prince commanded her to say it all over again, but more slowly. And so on, and so on, until she had recited it ten times over. After that he began to speak flatteringly to her, praising her beautiful hair, her fresh complexion, and her bright eyes. But he dared not to say a word concerning her lovely shoulders or her rounded throat, or of aught else beside.

When at last she was beginning to hope that she might be able to get away, and was already scanning anxiously the courtyard where her lord was awaiting her, the Prince demanded of her if she could rightly tell him what were the several virtues of woman? She answered nothing, fearing that she might say something to displease him. He then answered for her, setting the matter forth in this wise:

“The virtues of woman are these: chastity, regard for her own honour, and a modest manner of life.” And he counselled her, therefore, that she should dress decently and should always be careful to hide those things which were meet to be hidden. The lady nodded assent, saying that for His Hyperborean Highness she would certainly take care to cover herself with ten bear-skins rather than with a single length of muslin.

Having put him to shame by this answer, she made off gladly.

But in Philip’s heart the fire of youth was alight—not the fiery glow that dares the souls of the brave to lofty deeds, but a dark fire from hell itself, the fire of Satan. And it flamed in his grey eyes like the beam of a winter’s moon shining down upon a charnel-house. And it burned within him cruelly....

XVII

Now this beautiful, gay-hearted lady left Valladolid one day for her Château of Dudzeel in Flanders.

Passing through Damme, with her fat attendant behind her, she noticed a lad of about fifteen years of age sitting against the wall of a cottage blowing a pair of bagpipes. In front of him was a dog with red hair howling dismally, because, as it seemed, he did not at all appreciate the music which his master was making. The sun shone brightly, and at the lad’s side there stood a pretty young girl in fits of laughter at the pitiful howling of the dog.

This then was the sight that met the eye of the beautiful lady and her fat attendant as they passed in front of the cottage: none else but Ulenspiegel blowing his pipes, and Nele in fits of laughter, and Titus Bibulus Schnouffius howling with all his might.

“You naughty boy,” said the dame to Ulenspiegel, “will you never stop making this poor red-hair howl like this?”

But Ulenspiegel, staring back at her, blew his pipes more valiantly than ever, and Bibulus Schnouffius howled the more dismally, and Nele laughed all the louder.

The lady’s attendant grew angry, and pointed at Ulenspiegel, saying:

“If I beat this wretched little imp of a man with the scabbard of my sword he would give over his insolent row.”

Ulenspiegel looked the attendant in the face and called him “Jan Papzak” because of his fat belly, and went on blowing his bagpipes. The attendant came up to him, and threatened him with his fist. But Bibulus Schnouffius went for him straightway and bit him in the leg, and the man fell down, crying for mercy:

“Help, help!”

The dame only smiled, and said to Ulenspiegel:

“Tell me, my player of bagpipes, is the road still the same that leads from Damme to Dudzeel?”

But Ulenspiegel went on playing, and only nodded his head and stared.

“Why do you look at me so fixedly?” she asked him.

But he, still continuing to play, opened his eyes all the wider as though transported by an ecstasy of admiration.

“Are you not ashamed,” she said, “young as you are, to stare at ladies so?”

Ulenspiegel blushed faintly, but went on blowing his pipes, and staring more than ever.

“I have already asked you once,” the lady insisted, “whether the road is still the same that leads from Damme to Dudzeel.”

“It is green no longer since you deprived it of the honour of carrying you,” Ulenspiegel answered.