It was then All Saints' Eve; bitter was the cold, and Smetse's good
wife was in her kitchen, brewing some good mixture of sugar, yolk of
egg, and bruinbier, to cure her of an evil catarrh, which had lain
upon her ever since her man died.
Smetse came and knocked at the window of the kitchen, whereat his
wife was greatly frightened.
And she cried out sadly: "Do not come and torment me, my man, if
'tis prayers thou wilt have. I say as many as I can, but I will say
more if need be. Wilt thou have masses said? Thou shalt have them,
and prayers and indulgences likewise. I will buy them, my man,
I promise thee; but go back quickly whence thou camest."
Nevertheless Smetse went on knocking. "'Tis not masses or prayers,"
said he, "that I want, but shelter, food, and drink, for bitter is
the cold, rude the wind, sharp the frost. Open, wife."
But she, on hearing him speak thus, prayed the more and cried out
the louder, and beat her breast and crossed herself, but made no move
to open the door, saying only: "Go back, go back, my man; thou shalt
have prayers and masses."
Suddenly the smith discerned an open window in the attic. He climbed
up and entered the house by that means, went down the stair, and,
opening the door, appeared before his wife; but as she kept drawing
back before him as he advanced, crying out and calling the neighbours
at the top of her voice, Smetse stood still so as not to frighten
her further, sat down on a stool, and said:
"Dost not see, mother, that I am indeed Smetse, and wish thee no harm?"
But his wife would listen to nothing and crept back into a
corner. Thence with her teeth a-chatter, and her eyes open wide,
she made a sign to him to leave her, for she could no longer find
her tongue, by reason of her great fear.
"Wife," said the smith in friendly tones, "is it thus that thou givest
greeting and welcome to thy poor husband, after the long time he has
been away? Alas, hast forgot our old comradeship and union?"
Hearing this soft and joyous voice she answered in a low tone and
with great timidity:
"No, dead master."
"Well then," said he, "why art thou so afraid? Dost not know thy man's
fat face, his round paunch, and the voice which in former days sang
so readily hereabout?"
"Yes," she said, "I know thee well enough."
And why," said he, "if thou knowest me, wilt not come to me and
touch me?"
"Ah," said she, "I dare not, master, for 'tis said that whatever
member touches a dead man is itself dead."
"Come, wife," said the smith, "and do not believe all these lying
tales."
"Smetse," said she, "will you in good truth do me no hurt?"
"None," said he, and took her by the hand.
"Ah," she said suddenly, "my poor man, thou art cold and hungry and
thirsty indeed!"
"Yes," said he.
"Well then," said she, "eat, drink, and warm thyself."
While Smetse was eating and drinking he told his wife how he had been
forbidden the door to Paradise, and how he designed to take from the
cellar a full cask of bruinbier and bottles of French wine, to sell
to those who went into the Holy City, so that he might be well paid,
and with the money he received buy himself better food.
"This, my man," she said, "is all very well, but will Master St. Peter
give thee permission to set up at the gates of Paradise such a tavern?"
"Of that," he said, "I have hope."
And Smetse, laden with his cask and bottles, went his way back,
up towards the good Paradise.
Having reached the foot of the wall he set up his tavern in the open
air, for the weather is mild in this heavenly land, and on the first
day all who went in drank at Smetse's stall, and paid him well out
of compassion.
But one or two became drunk, and entering Paradise in this state, set
Master Peter inquiring into the cause of it; and having found it out
he enjoined Smetse to stop his selling, and had him whipped grievously.