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....