The Legend of Ulenspiegel, Volume 2 (of 2) Read online

  "Alas! Messire," answered Ulenspiegel, "you wrongly accuse your ringer,for if he is pale, it is not from having drunk wine, but for wantof drinking enough, from which cause he is so loosened that if he isnot stopped his very soul will escape by streams into his shoes."

  "The poor we have always with us," said the provost, taking a deepdraught of wine from his tankard. "But tell me, my son, if thou,who hast the eyes of a lynx, hast not seen the robbers?"

  "I will keep good watch for them, Messire Provost," repliedUlenspiegel.

  "May God have you both in his joy, my children," said the provost,"and live soberly. For it is from intemperance that many evils comeupon us in this vale of tears. Go in peace."

  And he blessed them.

  And he sucked another marrow bone in soup, and drank another greatdraught of wine.

  Ulenspiegel and Pompilius went out from him.

  "This scurvy fellow," said Ulenspiegel, "would not have given you asingle drop of his wine to drink. It will be blessed bread to stealmore from him still. But what ails you that you are shivering?"

  "My shoes are full of water," said Pompilius.

  "Water dries quickly, my son," said Ulenspiegel. "But be merry,to-night there will be flagon music in the Ketel-straat. And we willfill up the three night watchmen, who will watch the town with snores."

  Which was done.

  However, they were close to Saint Martin's day: the church was adornedfor the feast. Ulenspiegel and Pompilius went in by night, shut thedoors close, lit all the wax candles, took a viol and bagpipe, andbegan to play on these instruments all they might. And the candlesflared like suns. But that was not all. Their task being done, theywent to the provost, whom they found afoot, in spite of the late hour,munching a thrush, drinking Rhenish wine and opening both eyes tosee the church windows lit up.

  "Messire Provost," said Ulenspiegel to him, "would you know who eatsyour meats and drinks your wines?"

  "And this illumination," said the provost, pointing to the windowsof the church. "Ah! Lord God, dost thou allow Master Saint Martinthus to burn, by night and without paying, poor monks' wax candles?"

  "He is doing something besides, Messire Provost," said Ulenspiegel,"but come."

  The provost took his crozier and followed with them; they went intothe church.

  There, he saw, in the middle of the great nave, all the saints comedown from their niches, ranged round and as it seemed commandedby Saint Martin, who out-topped them all by a head, and from theforefinger of his hand, outstretched to bless, held up a roastturkey. The others had in their hands or were lifting to their mouthspieces of chicken or goose, sausages, hams, fish raw and cooked,and among other things a pike weighing full fourteen pounds. Andevery one had at his feet a flask of wine.

  At this sight the provost, losing himself wholly in anger, becameso red and his face was so congested, that Pompilius and Ulenspiegelthought he would burst, but the provost, without paying any heed tothem, went straight up to Saint Martin, threatening him as if he wouldhave laid the crime of the others to his charge, tore the turkey awayfrom his finger and struck him such heavy blows that he broke his arm,his nose, his crozier, and his mitre.

  As for the others, he did not spare them bangs and thumps, and morethan one under his blows laid aside arms, hands, mitre, crozier,scythe, axes, gridirons, saw, and other emblems of dignity and ofmartyrdom. Then the provost, his belly shaking in front of him,went himself to put out all the candles with rage and speed.

  He carried away all he could of hams, fowl, and sausages, and bendingbeneath the load he came back to his bedchamber so doleful and angrythat he drank, draught upon draught, three great flasks of wine.

  Ulenspiegel, being well assured that he was sleeping, took away tothe Ketel-straat all the provost thought he had rescued, and alsoall that remained in the church, not without first supping on thebest pieces. And they laid the remains and fragments at the feet ofthe saints.

  Next day Pompilius was ringing the bell for matins; Ulenspiegel wentup into the provost's sleeping chamber and asked him to come downonce more into the church.

  There, showing him the broken pieces of saints and fowls, he saidto him:

  "Messire Provost, you did all in vain, they have eaten all the same."

  "Aye," replied the provost, "they have come up to my sleeping chamber,like robbers, and taken what I had saved. Ah, master saints, I willcomplain to the Pope about this."

  "Aye," replied Ulenspiegel, "but the procession is the day afterto-morrow, the workmen will presently be coming into the church: ifthey see there all these poor mutilated saints, are you not afraidof being accused of iconoclasm?"

  "Ah! Master Saint Martin," said the provost, "spare me the fire,I knew not what I did!"

  Then turning to Ulenspiegel, while the timid bellringer was swingingto his bells:

  "They could never," said he, "between now and Sunday, mend SaintMartin. What am I to do, and what will the people say?"

  "Messire," answered Ulenspiegel, "we must employ an innocentsubterfuge. We shall glue on a beard on the face of Pompilius; it isalways respectable, being always melancholic; we shall dight him upwith the Saint's mitre, alb, amice, and great cloak; we shall enjoinupon him to stand well and fast on his pedestal, and the people willtake him for the wooden Saint Martin."

  The provost went to Pompilius who was swaying on the ropes.

  "Cease to ring," said he, "and listen to me: would you earn fifteenducats? On Sunday, the day of the procession, you shall be SaintMartin. Ulenspiegel will get you up properly, and if when you are borneby your four men you make one movement or utter one word, I will haveyou boiled alive in oil in the great caldron the executioner has justhad built on the market square."

  "Monseigneur, I give you thanks," said Pompilius; "but you know thatI find it hard to contain my water."

  "You must obey," replied the provost.

  "I shall obey, Monseigneur," said Pompilius, very pitifully.

  VII

  Next day, in bright sunshine, the procession issued forth from thechurch. Ulenspiegel had, as best he could, patched up the twelve saintsthat balanced themselves on their pedestals between the banners ofthe guilds, then came the statue of Our Lady; then the daughters ofthe Virgin all clad in white and singing anthems; then the archersand crossbowmen; then the nearest to the dais and swaying more thanthe others, Pompilius sinking under the heavy accoutrements of MasterSaint Martin.

  Ulenspiegel, having provided himself with itching powder, had himselfclothed Pompilius with his episcopal costume, had put on his gloves andgiven him his crozier and taught him the Latin fashion of blessing thepeople. He had also helped the priests to clothe themselves. On somehe put their stole, on others their amice, on the deacons the alb. Heran hither and thither through the church, restoring the folds ofdoublet or breeches. He admired and praised the well-furbished weaponsof the crossbowmen, and the formidable bows of the confraternity ofthe archers. And on everyone he poured, on ruff, on back or wrist,a pinch of itching powder. But the dean and the four bearers of SaintMartin were those that got most of it. As for the daughters of theVirgin, he spared them for the sake of their sweetness and grace.

  The procession went forth, banners in the wind, ensigns displayed,in goodly order. Men and women crossed themselves as they saw itpassing. And the sun shone hot.

  The dean was the first to feel the effect of the powder, and scratcheda little behind his ear. All, priests, archers, crossbowmen, werescratching neck, legs, wrists, without daring to do it openly. Thefour bearers were scratching, too, but the bellringer, itching worsethan any, for he was more exposed to the hot sun, did not dare evento budge for fear of being boiled alive. Screwing up his nose, hemade an ugly grimace and trembled on his tottery legs, for he nearlyfell every time his bearers scratched themselves.

  But he did not dare to move, and let his water go through fear,and the bearers said:

  "Great Saint Martin, is it going to rain now?"

  The priests were singing a hymn to Our L
ady.

  "Si de coe ... coe ... coe ... lo descenderes O sanc ... ta ... ta ... ta ... Ma ... ma ... ria."

  For their voices shook because of the itching, which became excessive,but they scratched themselves modestly and parsimoniously. Even sothe dean and the four bearers of Saint Martin had their necks andwrists torn to pieces. Pompilius stayed absolutely still, totteringon his poor legs, which were itching the most.

  But lo on a sudden all the crossbowmen, archers, deacons,priests, dean, and the bearers of Saint Martin stopped to scratchthemselves. The powder made the soles of Pompilius's feet itch,but he dared not budge for fear of falling.

  And the curious said that Saint Martin rolled very fierce eyes andshowed a very threatening mien to the poor populace.

  Then the dean started the procession going again.

  Soon the hot sun that was falling straight down on all theseprocessional backs and bellies made the effect of the powderintolerable.

  And then priests, archers, crossbowmen, deacons, and dean were seen,like a troop of apes, stopping and scratching shamelessly whereverthey itched.

  The daughters of the Virgin sang their hymn, and it was as the angels'singing, all those fresh pure voices mounting towards the sky.

  All went off wherever and however they could: the dean, stillscratching, rescued the Holy Sacrament; the pious people carried therelics into the church; Saint Martin's four bearers threw Pompiliusroughly on the ground. There, not daring to scratch, move, or speak,the poor bellringer shut his eyes devoutly.

  Two lads would have carried him away, but finding him too heavy, theystood him upright against a wall, and there Pompilius shed big tears.

  The populace assembled round about him; the women had gone to fetchhandkerchiefs of fine white linen and wiped his face to preserve histears as relics, and said to him: "Monseigneur, how hot you are!"

  The bellringer looked at them piteously, and in spite of himself,made grimaces with his nose.

  But as the tears were rolling copiously from his eyes, the women said:

  "Great Saint Martin, are you weeping for the sins of the town ofYpres? Is not that your honoured nose moving? Yet we have followed thecounsel of Louis Vives and the poor of Ypres will have wherewithal towork and wherewithal to eat. Oh! the big tears! They are pearls. Oursalvation is here."

  The men said:

  "Must we, great Saint Martin, pull down the Ketel-straat in ourtown? But teach us above all ways of preventing poor girls from goingout at night and so falling into a thousand adventures."

  Suddenly the people cried out:

  "Here is the beadle!"

  Ulenspiegel then came up, and taking Pompilius round the body, carriedhim off on his shoulders followed by the crowd of devout men and women.

  "Alas!" said the poor ringer, whispering in his ear, "I shall die ofitch, my son."

  "Keep stiff," answered Ulenspiegel; "do you forget that you are awooden saint?"

  He ran on at full speed and set down Pompilius before the provostwho was currying himself with his nails till the blood came.

  "Bellringer," said the provost, "have you scratched yourself like us?"

  "No, Messire," answered Pompilius.

  "Have you spoken or moved?"

  "No, Messire," replied Pompilius.

  "Then," said the provost, "you shall have your fifteen ducats. Nowgo and scratch yourself."

  VIII

  The next day, the people, having learned from Ulenspiegel what hadhappened, said it was a wicked mockery to make them worship as asaint a whining fellow who could not hold in his water.

  And many became heretics. And setting out with all their goods,they hastened to swell the prince's army.

  Ulenspiegel returned towards Liege.

  Being alone in the wood he sat down and pondered. Looking at thebright sky, he said:

  "War, always war, so that the Spanish enemy may slay the poor people,pillage our goods, violate our wives and daughters. And all the whileour goodly money goes, and our blood flows in rivers without profitto any one, except for this royal churl that would fain add anotherjewel of authority to his crown. A jewel that he imagines glorious,a jewel of blood, a jewel of smoke. Ah! if I could jewel thee as Idesire, there would be none but flies to desire thy company."

  As he thought on these things he saw pass before him a whole herd ofstags. There were some among them old and tall, with their dowcetsstill, and proudly wearing their antlers with nine points. Gracefulbrockets, which are their squires, trotted alongside them seeming allprepared to give them succour with their pointed horns. Ulenspiegelknew not where they were going, but judged that it was to their lair.

  "Ah!" said he, "old stags and graceful brockets, ye are going, merryand proud, into the depths of the woodland to your lair, eatingthe young shoots, snuffling up the balmy scents, happy until thehunter-murderer shall come. Even so with us, old stags and brockets!"

  And the ashes of Claes beat upon Ulenspiegel's breast.

  IX

  In September, when the gnats cease from biting, the Silent One, withsix field guns and four great cannon to talk for him, and fourteenthousand Flemings, Walloons, and Germans, crossed the Rhine atSaint Vyt.

  Under the yellow-and-red ensigns of the knotty staff of Burgundy, astaff that bruised our countries for long, the rod of the beginning ofservitude that Alba wielded, the bloody duke, there marched twenty-sixthousand five hundred men, and rumbled along seventeen field piecesand nine big guns.

  But the Silent One was not to have any good success in this war,for Alba continually refused battle.

  And his brother Ludwig, the Bayard of Flanders, after many citieswon, and many ships held to ransom on the Rhine, lost at Jemmingenin Frisia to the duke's son sixteen guns, fifteen hundred horses,and twenty ensigns, all through certain cowardly mercenary troops,who demanded money when it was the hour of battle.

  And through ruin, blood, and tears, Ulenspiegel vainly sought thesalvation of the land of our fathers.

  And the executioners throughout the countries were hanging, beheading,burning the poor innocent victims.

  And the king was inheriting.

  X

  Going through the Walloon country, Ulenspiegel saw that the princehad no succour to hope for thence, and so he came up to the townof Bouillon.

  Little by little he saw appearing on the road more and more hunchbacksof every age, sex, and condition. All of them, equipped with largerosaries, were devoutly telling their beads on them.

  And their prayers were as the croakings of frogs in a pond at nightwhen the weather is warm.

  There were hunchback mothers carrying hunchback children, whilstother children of the same brood clung to their skirts. And there werehunchbacks on the hills and hunchbacks in the plains. And everywhereUlenspiegel saw their thin silhouettes standing out against theclear sky.

  He went to one and said to him:

  "Whither go all these poor men, women, and children?"

  The man replied:

  "We are going to the tomb of Master Saint Remacle to pray him thathe will grant what our hearts desire, by taking from off our backshis lump of humiliation."

  Ulenspiegel rejoined:

  "Could Master Saint Remacle give me also what my heart desireth,by taking from off the back of the poor communes the bloody duke,who weighs upon them like a leaden hump?"

  "He hath not charge to remove humps of penance," replied the pilgrim.

  "Did he remove others?" asked Ulenspiegel.

  "Aye, when the humps are young. If then the miracle of healing takesplace, we hold revel and feasting throughout all the town. And everypilgrim gives a piece of silver, and oftentimes a gold florin to thehappy one that is cured, becomes a saint thereby and with power topray with efficacy for the others."

  Ulenspiegel said:

  "Why doeth the wealthy Master Saint Remacle, like a rascal apothecary,make folk pay for his cures?"

  "Impious tramp, he punishes blasphemers!" replied the pilgrim,shaking his hump in fury.
r />   "Alas!" groaned Ulenspiegel.

  And he fell doubled up at the foot of a tree.

  The pilgrim, looking down on him, said:

  "Master Saint Remacle smites hard when he smites."

  Ulenspiegel bent up his back, and scratching at it, whined:

  "Glorious saint, take pity. It is chastisement. I feel between myshoulder bones a bitter agony. Alas! O! O! Pardon, Master SaintRemacle. Go, pilgrim, go, leave me here alone, like a parricide,to weep and to repent."

  But the pilgrim had fled away as far as the Great Square of Bouillon,where all the hunchbacks were gathered.

  There, shivering with fear, he told them, speaking brokenly:

  "Met a pilgrim as straight as a poplar ... a blaspheming pilgrim... hump on his back ... a burning hump!"

  The pilgrims, hearing this, they gave vent to a thousand joyfuloutcries, saying:

  "Master Saint Remacle, if you give humps, you can take them away. Takeaway our humps, Master Saint Remacle!"

  Meanwhile, Ulenspiegel left his tree. Passing through the empty suburb,he saw, at the low door of a tavern, two bladders swinging from astick, pigs' bladders, hung up in this fashion as a sign of a fairof black puddings, panch kermis as they say in the country of Brabant.

  Ulenspiegel took one of the two bladders, picked up from the groundthe backbone of a schol, which the French call dried plaice, drewblood from himself, made some blood run into the bladder, blew itup, sealed it, put it on his back, and on it placed the backbone ofthe schol. Thus equipped, with his back arched, his head wagging,and his legs tottering like an old humpback, he came out on the square.