The Legend of Ulenspiegel. Volume 2 of 2

Book V

I

The monk that Lamme captured, perceiving that the Beggars did not desire to have him dead, but paying ransom, began to lift up his nose on board the ship:

“See,” quoth he, marching and wagging his head furiously, “see in what a gulf of vile, black, and foul abominations I have fallen in setting foot on this wooden tub. Were I not here, I whom the Lord anointed…”

“With dog’s grease?” asked the Beggars.

“Dogs yourselves,” replied the monk, continuing his discourse, “aye, mangy dogs, strays, defiled, starveling, that have fled out of the rich pathway of our Mother the Holy Roman Church to enter upon the parched highway of your tattered Reformed Church. Aye! if I were not here in your wooden shoe, your tub, long since would the Lord have swallowed it up in the deepest gulfs of the sea, with you, your accursed arms, your devils’ cannon, your singing captain, your blasphemous crescents, aye! down to the very deeps of the unfathomable bottom of Satan’s kingdom, where ye will not burn, nay, but where ye shall freeze, shall shiver, shall die of cold throughout all long eternity. Yea! the God of heaven will thus quench the fire of your impious hate against our sweet Mother the Holy Roman Church, against messieurs the saints, messeigneurs the bishops and the blessed edicts that were so mildly and so ripely devised. Aye! and I should see you from the peak of paradise, purple as beetroots or white as turnips so cold ye should be. ’T sy! ’t sy! ’t sy! So, so, so, so be it.”

The sailors, soldiers, and cabin boys jeered at him, and shot dried peas at him through peashooters. And he covered his face with his hands against this artillery.

II

The duke of blood having quitted the country, Messires de Medina-Coeli and De Requesens governed it with less cruelty. Then the States General ruled them in the name of the king.

Meanwhile, the folk of Zealand and of Holland, most lucky by reason of the sea and their dykes, which are natural ramparts and fortresses to them, opened free temples to the God of free men; and the murderous Papists might sing their hymns beside them; and Monseigneur the Silent of Orange refrained from founding a royal dynasty of stadtholders.

The Belgian country was ravaged by the Walloons who were dissatisfied by the peace of Ghent, which, men said, was to quench all hatreds. And these Walloons, Pater-noster knechter, wearing upon their necks big black rosaries, of which there were found two thousand at Spienne in Hainaut, stealing oxen and horses by twelve hundred, two thousand at a time, choosing out the best, carrying off women and girls by field and by marsh; eating and never paying, these Walloons used to burn within their farmsteads the armed peasants that tried to prevent the fruit of their hard toil from being carried away.

And the common folk would say to one another: “Don Juan is soon to come with his Spaniards, and his Great Highness will come with his Frenchmen, not Huguenots but Papists: and the Silent, desiring to rule in peace over Holland, Zealand, Gueldre, Utrecht, Overyssel, cedes in a secret treaty the lands of Belgium, for Monsieur d’Anjou to make himself a king therein.”

Some of the commonalty were still confident. “The States,” said they, “have twenty thousand well-armed men, with plenty of cannon and good cavalry. They will repel all foreign soldiery.”

But the thoughtful ones said: “The States have twenty thousand men on paper, but not in the field; they lack cavalry and let their horses be stolen within a league of their camps by the Pater-noster knechten. They have no artillery, for while needing it at home, they decided to send one hundred cannon with powder and shot to Don Sebastian of Portugal; and no man knoweth whither has gone the two million crowns we have paid on four occasions by way of taxes and contributions; the citizens of Ghent and Brussels are arming, Ghent for the Reformation, and Brussels even as Ghent; at Brussels the women play the tambourine while their men toil at the ramparts. And Ghent the Bold is sending to Brussels the Gay powder and cannon, the which she lacketh for her defence against the Malcontents and the Spaniards.”

And man by man in the towns and the flat country, in ’t plat landt, sees that trust cannot be placed either in the lords or in many another. “And we citizens and common folk are sore at heart for that giving our money and ready to give our blood, we see that nothing goes forward for the good of the country of our sires. And the Belgian land is cowed and angered, having no trusty chiefs to give it the chance of battle and to give it victory, through great effort of arms all ready against the foes of liberty.”

And the thoughtful folk said among themselves:

“In the Peace of Ghent, the lords of Holland and of Belgium swore the abolishment of hate, mutual help between the Belgian Estates and the Estates of the Netherlands; declared the edicts null and void, the confiscations cancelled, peace between the two religions; promised to raze each and every column, trophy, inscription, and effigy set up by the Duke of Alba to our dishonour. But in the hearts of the chiefs the hatreds are still afoot; the nobles and the clergy foment division between the States of the Union; they receive money to pay soldiers, they keep it for their own gluttony; fifteen thousand law suits for the recovery of confiscated property are suspended; the Lutherans and Romans unite against the Calvinists; lawful heirs cannot succeed in driving the despoilers from out their inheritance; the duke’s statue is on the ground, but the image of the Inquisition is enshrined within their hearts.”

And the poor commonalty and the woeful burgesses waited ever for the valiant and trusty chief that would lead them to battle for freedom.

And they said among themselves: “Where are the illustrious signatories to the Compromise, all united, so they said, for the good of the country? Why did these two-faced men make such a ‘holy alliance,’ if they were to break it at once? Why meet together with so much commotion, rouse the king’s wrath, to dissolve like cowards and traitors after? Five hundred as they were, great lords and low lords banded like brothers, they saved us from the fury of Spain; but they sacrificed the welfare of the land of Belgium to their own profit, even as did d’Egmont and de Hoorn.

“Alas!” said they, “see Don Juan come now, handsome and ambitious, the enemy of Philip, but more the enemy of his country. He is coming for the Pope and for himself. Nobles and clergy are traitors.”

And they began a semblance of war. Upon the walls along the main streets and the little streets of Ghent and Brussels, nay even upon the masts of the Beggars’ ships, were then to be seen posted up the names of traitors, army chiefs, and commanders of fortresses: the names of the Count of Liederkerke, who did not defend his castle against Don Juan; of the provost of Liége, who would have sold the city to Don Juan; of Messieurs d’Aerschot, de Mansfeldt, de Berlaymont, de Rassenghien; the name, of the Council of State, of Georges de Lalaing, governor of Frisia, that of the army leader the seigneur de Rossignol, an emissary of Don Juan, the go-between for murder between Philip and Jaureguy, the clumsy assassin of the Prince of Orange; the name of the Archbishop of Cambrai, who would have given the Spaniards entry into the town; the names of the Jesuits of Antwerp, offering three casks of gold to the States – that was two million florins – not to demolish the castle and to hold it for Don Juan; of the Bishop of Liége; of Roman preachers defaming and abusing the patriots; of the Bishop of Utrecht, whom the citizens sent elsewhere to pasture on the grass of treachery; the orders of begging friars, which intrigued and plotted at Ghent in favour of Don Juan. The folk of Bois-le-Duc nailed on the pillory the name of Peter the Carmelite, who helped by their bishop and his clergy, undertook to hand over the town to Don Juan.

At Douai they did not indeed hang the rector of the university in effigy, a man no less Spaniardized; but upon the ships of the Beggars were seen on the breast of mannikins hanging by their necks the names of monks, abbots, and prelates, of eighteen hundred rich women and girls of the nunnery of Malines who with their money sustained, gilded, and beplumed the country’s butchers.

And on these mannikins, the pillories of traitors, were to be read the names of the Marquis d’Harrault, the commander of the fortress of Philippeville, wasting and squandering munitions of war and food uselessly in order to give up the place to the enemy under pretence of a lack of provisions; the name of Belver, who surrendered Lembourg, when the town might have held out another eight months; that of the President of the Council of Flanders; of the magistrate of Bruges, of the magistrate of Malines, holding their towns for Don Juan, of the members of the Exchequer Council of Guelderland, closed by reason of treachery; of those of the Council of Brabant, of the Chancellery of the Duchy; of the Privy Council and the Council of Finance; of the Grand Bailiff and the Burgomaster of Menin; and of the ill neighbours of Artois, who gave passage without let to two thousand Frenchmen bent upon pillage.

“Alas!” said the city folk among themselves, “here is the Duke of Anjou with a footing in our country: he would fain be king among us; did ye behold him entering into Mons, a little man, with fat hips, big nose, a yellow phiz, a fleering mouth? ’Tis a great prince, loving loves out of the common; he is called, that he may have in his name woman’s grace and man’s force, Monseigneur monsieur Sa Grande Altesse d’Anjou.”

Ulenspiegel was pensive. And he sang:

“Blue are the skies, the clear bright skies;Cover the banners all in crêpe,With crêpe the handle of the sword;Hide every gem;Turn the mirrors over;I sing the song of Death,The traitors’ song.“They have set foot upon the bellyAnd on the bosom of the proud landsOf Brabant, Flanders, Hainault,Antwerp, Artois, Luxembourg.Nobles and clergy are traitors;The bait of reward allures them.I sing the traitors’ song.“When the foe sacks everywhere,When the Spaniard enters Antwerp,Abbés, prelates, and army chiefsGo through the streets of the town,Clad in silk, bedecked with gold,Their faces shining with good wine,Displaying thus their infamy.“And through them, the InquisitionWill wake again in high triumph,And new TitelmansWill arrest the deaf and dumbFor heresy.I sing the traitors’ song.“Signatories to the Compromise.Coward signatories,Be your names all accursed!Where are ye in the hour of war?Ye march like corbiesIn the Spaniards’ train.Beat upon the drum of woe.“Land of Belgium, future yearsWill condemn thee for that thou,All in arms, didst let thyself be pillaged.Future, hasten not;See the traitors labouring:There are twenty, a thousand,Filling every post,The great give them to the little.“They have plotted and agreedThat they might fetter all defence,With discord and sloth,Their treacherous devices.Cover the mirrors with crêpeAnd the hilts of the swords.’Tis the traitors’ song.“They declare rebelsAll Spaniards and malcontents;Forbid to help themWith bread or shelter,With lead or powder.If any are taken to be hanged,To be hanged,They release them at once.“‘Up!’ say the men of Brussels,‘Up!’ say the men of GhentAnd the Belgian commons,Poor men, they mean to crush youBetween the kingAnd the Pope who launchesThe crusade against Flanders.“They come, the hirelings,At the smell of blood;Bands of dogs,Of serpents and hyænas.They hunger, they are athirst.Poor land of our sires,Ripe for ruin and death.“’Tis not Don JuanThat makes ready the taskFor Farnèse, the Pope’s minion.But those thou didst loadWith gold and distinctions,Who confessed thy womenThy girls and thy children!“They have flung thee to groundAnd the Spaniard holdsThe knife at thy throat;They jeer at thee,Feasting at BrusselsThe coming of Orange.“When on the canal were seenSo many fireworksExploding their joy,So many triumphing boats,Paintings, tapestries,They were playing, O Belgium,The old tale of JosephSold by his brothers.”

III

Seeing that he was allowed to say what he pleased, the monk lifted up his nose on board the ship; and the sailors and soldiers, to make him the more ready and eager to preach, slandered Madame the Virgin, Messieurs the Saints, and the pious practices of the Holy Roman Church.

Then, becoming enraged, he vomited out a flood of abuse against them.

“Aye!” he cried, “aye, here am I then in the den of the Beggars! Yea, these are indeed those accursed devourers of the land! Yea. And they say that the Inquisitor, that holy man, has burned too many of them! Nay: there is still some of the filthy vermin left. Aye, on these goodly and gallant ships of our Lord the King, once so clean and well scoured, now can be seen the vermin of the Beggars, aye, the stinking vermin. Aye, they are vermin, foul, stinking, infamous vermin, the singing captain, the cook with his belly filled with impiety, and all of them with their blasphemous crescents. When the king will have his ships scoured with the suds of artillery, it will need more than a hundred thousand florins’ worth of powder and cannon shot to clear away this filthy, beastly stinking infection. Aye, ye were all born in Madame Lucifer’s alcove, condemned to dwell with Satanas between walls of vermin, under curtains of vermin, on mattresses of vermin. Yea, and there it was that in their infamous loves they begat and conceived the Beggars. Aye, and I spit upon you.”

At this word the Beggars said to him:

“Why do we keep here this idle rascal, who is good for nothing but to spew up insults? Let us hang him rather.”

And they set about doing it.

The monk, seeing the rope ready, the ladder propped against the mast, and that they were about to bind his hands, said woefully:

“Have pity upon me, Messieurs the Beggars, it is the demon of anger that speaks in my heart and not your humble captive, a poor monk that hath but one only neck in this world: gracious lords, have mercy: shut my mouth if ye will with a choke-pear; ’tis a bitter fruit, but hang me not.”

But they, without giving heed, and despite his furious struggles, were dragging him towards the ladder. He cried then so shrill and loud that Lamme said to Ulenspiegel, who was with him and tending him in the cook’s galley:

“My son! my son! they have stolen a pig from the stable, and they are making off. Oh, the robbers! if I could but rise!”

Ulenspiegel went up and saw nothing but the monk. And he, catching sight of Ulenspiegel, fell upon his knees, with his hands outstretched to him.

“Messire Captain,” said he, “captain of the valiant Beggars, redoubtable on land and on sea, your soldiers are fain to hang me because I have transgressed with my tongue: ’tis an unjust punishment, Messire Captain, for so must all advocates, procurators, preachers, and women, be given a hempen collar, and the world would be unpeopled; Messire, save me from the rope. I shall pray for you; you will never be damned: grant me pardon. The devil of prating carried me away and made me speak without ceasing: ’tis a mighty misfortune. My poor bile soured then and made me say a thousand things I never think. Grace, Messire Captain, and you, Messieurs, intercede for me.”

Suddenly Lamme appeared on the deck in his shirt and said:

“Captain and friends, ’twas not the pig but the monk that was squealing; I am overjoyed. Ulenspiegel, my son, I have conceived a high design with regard to His Paternity; give him his life, but leave him not at liberty, else will he do some ill trick upon the ship: rather have a cage built for him on the deck, a strait cage well opened and airy, where he can do no more than sit down and sleep; such a one as they make for capons; let me feed him, and let him be hanged if he does not eat as much as I will.”

“Let him be hanged if he will not eat,” said Ulenspiegel and the Beggars.

“What dost thou mean to do with me, big man?” said the monk.

“Thou shalt see,” replied Lamme.

And Ulenspiegel did as Lamme wished, and the monk was put in a cage, and all could contemplate him at their leisure.

Lamme had gone down into his galley; Ulenspiegel followed and heard him disputing with Nele:

“I will not lie down,” he was saying, “no, I will not lie down to have others groping and fumbling with my sauces; no, I will not stay in my bed, like a calf!”

“Do not be angry, Lamme,” said Nele, “or your wound will reopen and you will die.”

“Well,” said he, “I will die: I am tired of living without my wife. Is it not enough for me to have lost her, without your trying furthermore to prevent me, me the master cook of this place, from myself keeping watch over the soup? Know ye not that there is a health inherent in the steam of sauces and fricassees? They even nourish my spirit and armour me against misfortunes.”

“Lamme,” said Nele, “thou must needs hearken to our counsel and let thyself be healed by us.”

“I am fain to let myself be healed,” said Lamme: “but rather than another should enter here, some ignorant good-for-naught, a frowsy, ulcerous, blear-eyed, dropping nosed fellow, and come to king it as master cook in my place, and paddle with his filthy fingers in my sauces, I would rather kill him with my wooden ladle, which would be iron for that task.”

“All the same,” said Ulenspiegel, “thou must have an assistant; thou art sick…”

“An assistant for me,” said Lamme, “for me, an assistant! Art thou then stuffed with naught but ingratitude, as a sausage is full of minced meat? An assistant, my son, and ’tis thou that dost say so to me, thy friend, who have nourished thee so long time and so succulently! Now will my wound reopen. False friend, who then would dress thy food like me? What would ye do, ye two, if I were not there to give thee, chief-captain, and thee, Nele, some dainty stew or other?”

“We will work ourselves in the galley,” said Ulenspiegel.

“Cooking,” said Lamme: “thou art good to eat of it, to smell it, to sniff it up, but to perform it, no: poor friend and chief-captain, saving your respect, I could make thee eat leather wallets cut up into ribbons, and thou wouldst take it for toughish tripe: leave me, my son, to be still the master cook of here, else I shall dry up, like a lathstick.”

“Remain master cook then,” said Ulenspiegel; “if thou dost not heal, I will shut up the galley and we shall eat naught save biscuits.”

“Ah! my son,” said Lamme, weeping for joy, “thou art good and kind as Notre Dame herself.”

IV

And in any case he appeared to be healing.

Every Saturday the Beggars saw him measuring the monk’s waist girth with a long leather thong.

The first Saturday he said:

“Four feet.”

And measuring himself, he said:

“Four feet and a half.”

And he seemed melancholy.

But, speaking of the monk, on the eighth Saturday he was full of joy and said:

“Four feet and three quarters.”

And the monk, angry, when he took his measure, would say to him:

“What do you want with me, big man?”

But Lamme would put out his tongue at him without a word.

And seven times a day, the sailors and soldiers saw him come with a new dish, saying to the monk:

“Here be rich beans in Flemish butter: didst thou eat the like in thy monastery? Thou hast a goodly phiz; there is no starving on this ship. Dost thou not feel cushions of fat coming on thy back? Before long thou wilt have no need of a mattress to lie on.”

At the monk’s second meal:

“Here,” he would say, “there are koeke-bakken after the Brussels fashion; the French folk call them crêpes, for they wear crapes on their kerchiefs for a sign of mourning: these are not black, but fair of hue and golden browned in the oven: seest thou the butter streaming off them? So shall it be with thy belly.”

“I have no hunger,” the monk would say.

“Thou must needs eat,” was Lamme’s answer. “Dost thou deem that these are pancakes of buckwheat? ’tis pure wheat, my father, father in grease, fine flour of the wheat, my father with the four chins: already I see the fifth one coming, and my heart rejoices. Eat.”

“Leave me in peace, big man,” said the monk.

Lamme, becoming wrathful, would reply:

“I am the lord and disposer of thy life: dost thou prefer the rope to a good bowl of pea soup with sippets, such as I am about to fetch thee presently?”

And coming with the bowl:

“Pea soup,” quoth Lamme, “loves to be eaten in company: and therefore I have just added thereto knoedels of Germany, goodly dumplings of Corinth flour, cast all alive into boiling water: they are heavy, but make plenteous fat. Eat all thou canst; the more thou dost eat the greater my joy: do not feign disgust; breathe not so hard as if thou hadst over much: eat. Is it not better to eat than to be hanged? Let’s see thy thigh! it thickens also; two feet seven inches round about. Where is the ham that measureth as much?”

An hour after he came back to the monk:

“Come,” said he, “here are nine pigeons: they have been slaughtered for thee, these innocent beasts that wont to fly unfearing above the ships: disdain them not; I have put into their bellies a ball of butter, breadcrumbs, grated nutmeg, cloves pounded in a brass mortar shining like thy skin: Master Sun rejoices to be able to admire himself in a face as bright as thine, by reason of the grease, the good grease I have made for thee.”

At the fifth meal he would fetch him a waterzoey.

“What thinkest thou,” quoth he, “of this hodgepodge of fish? The sea carries thee and feedeth thee: she could do no more for the King’s Majesty. Aye, aye, I can see the fifth chin visibly a-coming a little more on the left side than on the right side: we must fatten up this side that is neglected, for God saith to us: ‘Be just to each.’ Where would justice be, if not in an equitable distributing of grease? I will bring thee for thy sixth repast mussels, those oysters of the poor, such as they never served thee in thy convent: ignorant folk boil them and eat them so; but that is but the prologue to the fricassee; they must next be stripped of their shells, and their gentle bodies put in a pan, then stewed delicately with celery, nutmeg, and cloves, and bind the sauce with beer and flour, and serve them with buttered toast. I have done them in this fashion for thee. Why do children owe so great a gratitude to their fathers and mothers? Because they have given them shelter and love, but beyond all things, food: thou oughtest then to love me as thy father and thy mother, and even as to them thou owest me the gratitude of thy stomach: roll not against me then such savage eyes.

“Presently I shall bring thee a soup of beer and flour, well sweetened with cinnamon a-plenty. Knowest thou for why? That thy fat may become translucent and shiver upon thy skin: such it is seen when thou movest. Now here is the curfew ringing: sleep in peace, taking no thought for the morrow, certain to find thy succulent repasts once more, and thy friend Lamme to give them thee without fail.”

“Begone and leave me to pray to God,” said the monk.

“Pray,” said Lamme, “pray with the cheerful music of snoring: beer and sleep will make grease for thee, goodly grease. For my part, I am glad of it.”

And Lamme went off to put himself in bed.

And the sailors and soldiers would say to him:

“Why, then, do you feed so richly this monk that wishes thee no good?”

“Let me alone,” said Lamme, “I am accomplishing a mighty work.”

V

December was come, the month of long dark nights. Ulenspiegel sang:

“Monseigneur Sa Grande AltesseTakes off his mask,Eager to reign over the Belgian land.The Estates SpaniardizedBut not AngevinedDeal with the taxes.Beat upon the drumOf Anjou’s thwarting.“They have within their powerDomains, excise, and funds,Making of magistratesAnd offices as well.He hateth the ReformedMonsieur Sa Grande Altesse,An atheist in FranceOh! Anjou’s thwarting.“For he would fain be kingBy the sword and by force,King absolute in all.This Monseigneur, this Grande Altesse;Fain would he foully seizeMany fair towns, yea, Antwerp, too;Signorkes and pagaders rise early,Oh! Anjou’s thwarting!“’Tis not upon thee, France,That this folk rushes, mad with rage;These deadly weaponed blowsFall not upon thy noble body;And they are not thy offspringWhose corpses in great heapsChoke the Kip-Dorp Gate.Oh! the thwarting of Anjou!“No, these are no sons of thineThe people fling from the ramparts.’Tis the High Highness of Anjou,The passive libertine Anjou,Living, France, on thy very blood,And eager to drink ours;But ’twixt the cup and lip…Oh! the thwarting of Anjou.“Monsieur Sa Grande Altesse.In a defenceless townCried, ‘Kill! kill! Long live the Mass!’With his handsome minions,With eyes wherein gleamsThe shameful fire, impudent, restless,Lust without love.Oh! the thwarting of Anjou!“’Tis they that are smitten, not thee, poor folk,On whom they weigh with tax,Salt tax, poll tax, deflowering,Contemning thee, making thee giveThy corn, thy horses, thy wains,Thou that art a father to them.Oh! the thwarting of Anjou!“Thou that art a mother to them,Suckling the misbehaviourOf these parricides that sullyThy name abroad, France, that dost feastOn the savours of their gloryWhen they add by savage feast.Oh! the thwarting of Anjou!“A floret to thy soldier crown,A province to thy territory.Give the stupid cock ‘Lust and battle’Thy foot on the neck.People of France, people of men,The foot that treads them down!And all the peoples will love theeFor the thwarting of Anjou.”