There are several modifications current of the story of the Jew in the
Thicket just told. A similar story which in olden time was popular in
England, is given under the heading 'A Mery Geste of the Frere and the
Boye,' in Ritson's Pieces of Ancient Popular Poetry, London, 1791.
Again, a somewhat similar story is current in Greece. A lad has a flute
given to him by some superhuman being. He goes to the market-place of
the town, where piles of crockery are exhibited for sale. As soon as he
begins to play, all the pots, jugs and basins fly about in the air and
clash against each other until they are broken to pieces. The personage
whom he compels to dance in the thorns is a priest.[74]
Perhaps the most tragic incident of this kind is the sad fate of the
Pope's wife, related by the Wallachians. It need scarcely be said that
it does not concern the Pope of Rome, who, as everyone knows, has no
wife. But in Wallachia the common village priest of the Greek Church is
called Pope, and may marry. He generally avails himself of the
permission.
As regards Bakala, whose music, as we shall presently see, killed the
Pope's wife, various tricks of his are on record, which clearly show
that he was a great fool, somewhat resembling the German Till
Eulenspiegel, who had perhaps more happy ideas than many persons who
have passed for wise.
Well, Bakala, one fine day, took it into his head to ascend a high
mountain, merely for pleasure, and for the sake of boasting. Arrived at
the top of the mountain he was fortunate enough to make the
acquaintance of a well-disposed spirit, who offered him a present from
the clouds. The articles from which Bakala was invited to select a
keepsake looked mean and shabby, like those which people generally
consign to the lumber-room. Bakala, however, examined them carefully,
and chose an old and dusty bagpipe; for he imagined, as some people are
apt to do, that he was madly fond of music. Moreover, the sound of the
bagpipe--this Bakala soon discovered--had the power of making everyone
dance.
When Bakala had come down from the mountain he engaged himself as
shepherd to a village Pope in the valley. Every day he led the sheep
into the fields, and blowing his bagpipe he made them caper and jump
into the air like grasshoppers. And when, one morning, his master had
sneaked out before him into the fields, and had hid himself in some
bushes of sloes and dog-roses to watch his servant's strange
proceedings, Bakala made the Pope dance as well as his flock.
The Pope was a soft-hearted sort of man. Quietness he loved above all
things in the world; for its sake no sacrifice appeared to him too
great. As to his wife, she was of a different disposition. To say the
truth, she was just the reverse of her husband. She had more courage in
her little finger than he had in all his limbs. His _Yes_ was her _No_,
and when he called a thing white she was sure to declare that she had
long since found it to be very black indeed. Neither would she believe
in the power of Bakala's bagpipe. When the poor Pope, after his return
from the sloes and dog-roses, showed her his tattered clothes and
scratched limbs, all the sympathy he got from her was, "Tush! tush!
nonsense! If I were as soft-hearted as some people are said to be, I
might perhaps pity you."
"Well, my dear," replied the cowed husband, "you shall hear him
to-night. I want to convince you"----
"Convince me?" cried the Pope's wife: "Fudge! I to be frightened by a
bagpipe? Let him come on!"
Then the Pope thought that it was time to withdraw for the sake of
quietness. But in the evening he took Bakala aside, and desired him
just to serenade their mistress for a little while under the window.
Before Bakala commenced playing the Pope sat down on the ground and
bound two heavy stones to his feet by way of precaution, while his wife
busied herself in the upper story of the house. No sooner had Bakala
begun his performance than she danced so furiously that she made the
whole house shake. Bakala played faster and faster; her stamping grew
louder and louder. She danced until she had actually stamped a hole in
the floor, through which she descended into the lower story. The Pope
peeped into the room; and when he saw what had happened he felt sorry,
and he beckoned Bakala to leave off playing. But, alas! he beckoned too
late! The poor lady had danced herself to death.
Now, one might have thought the Pope would have dismissed Bakala,
telling him that his services were not any further required. But this is
just precisely what he did not do. On the contrary, he kept Bakala in
his service, and treated him even better than before.[75]