The Little Blacksmith Verholen
The little blacksmith was seated on a low stool with his elbows on his
anvil, a prey to gloomy thoughts.
Indeed, things were going very badly for him. He, who was formerly the
merry wag of the village, scarcely dared to go out for fear of meeting
his friends and acquaintances, whose indiscreet questions made him blush
with shame.
Gone were the days when his anvil rang merrily under the blows of ten
workmen from dawn till often far into the night. Gone also the days when
the savoury smell of ham and sausages pervaded the house, and his cellar
was well stocked with barrels of delightful Brussels beer. The workmen
had all left; there was now barely enough work for one. There was dearth
in the kitchen, and Smith’s brewer lived at the bottom of a brick well,
under the walnut-tree in front of his door.
He had lost all his customers. It was useless to give him work, as he
had no money with which to procure the necessary materials. Of iron
there were a few rusty scraps in the corners. Of coal there was hardly
enough to heat the oven for an hour, and he was unable to buy any more.
Yes! the village urchins spoke true when they sang outside his window in
the evening:
Smith Verholen,
Smith Verholen,
Without wood and without coal,
Without iron and without lead,
Ah! is Smith Verholen dead?
Dead! No, he did not wish to die, however miserable he felt, for that
would mean the end of all things, and one is dead such a long time!
He loved to live and to let live, and he still retained a grain of faith
in the old proverb, “While there is life there is hope.”
When evening fell, Smith, who for obvious reasons had no thoughts of
supper, was aroused from his dreams by a gentle knocking at the door.
No, that could not be an urchin playing him a trick, or a customer, as
every one in the village knew of his distress. A stranger perhaps?
Smith got up, opened the door, and saw an old man carrying a carpenter’s
bag and leading a donkey, on which sat a young woman, feeding her little
baby. By force of habit, Smith said, “What can I do for you, my friend?”
“Smith,” replied the old man, “I know it is a late hour to trouble you;
but we have come a very long way, and we have still a very long way to
travel to-night. My donkey has cast a shoe; I beg you to shoe the beast
at once, that we may continue our journey.”
“I would do so with pleasure, my friend,” said the blacksmith, “but I am
very much afraid I have not a horseshoe left. You have no doubt noticed
how poverty-stricken I am. However, come along.”
He immediately began to search right and left to see if he could
discover a small piece of iron.
“Perhaps I shall find enough to shoe your donkey, and then I shall be
very pleased to do what you ask.” He then turned to the young woman, who
had dismounted, and said, “Rest yourself in the kitchen. If there is
bread and milk in the larder, I pray you eat it. I possess very little,
but what I have is at your service.”
Smith unearthed an old shoe from a heap of old iron; the donkey was soon
tied up to the brake, and the fire was soon blazing with the help of the
bellows. The shoe was tried on, put back into the fire, and then on to
the anvil to round it with a stroke of the hammer, and everything was in
order.
“What do I owe you, Smith?” asked the old man.
The blacksmith, who had noticed the stranger’s poor clothing and
downtrodden shoes, shrugged his shoulders, and thought to himself, “Can
I ask payment for such a small service from these poor creatures who
have a long journey before them? I should be ashamed to do so, although
I have not a penny to bless myself with.”
He answered, “You owe me nothing, my friend; I do it for you for pity’s
sake.”
The old man’s eyes shone with a strange light, and in a solemn voice he
said, “As you have helped me for the love of God, I grant you three
wishes. Whatever you may ask of my wife, little child, and I, we will
grant you.”
“Three wishes,” thought the smith; “no matter what I wish it will be
granted. These poor creatures so miserably clothed have the power to
grant them. Who can they be?”
Only half credulous, he wished that any one who sat in his chair should
be unable to get up without his consent; that any one who had the
audacity to climb up his walnut-tree should not come down unless he
wished it; and, lastly, that anything that was in his purse should
remain in it unless he wished otherwise.
“You might have wished for Heaven, and you wish for such childish
things, but never mind, your wishes are granted. Adieu, and once again
thank you for your kindness.”
In the darkening twilight, the trio set forth, and the smith standing at
his threshold saw luminous circles shining round their heads. He then
shut the door, locked it, and went to the kitchen to rest on the couch
he had placed there. He had hardly taken off his coat when--tap, tap,
tap--three short but loud knocks sounded at the door.
“Who is there?” asked the smith rather crossly.
No answer, but soon afterwards another knock.
“All right, who is there?” the smith cried louder.
“Rat-tat-tat.” Again the short hard blows rang on the wood, and only
after asking “Who is it?” for the third time did Smith receive an
answer.
“Open the door, Smith. He who is before your door brings you happiness
and riches!”
As soon as the door was opened, the night air wafted in a strong smell
of burning phosphorus, and a gentleman dressed in black from head to
foot, limping heavily with one foot, came into the kitchen.
The gentleman had strange pointed ears, and a green light shone in his
eyes.
“Smith,” began the stranger, “I know that poverty stares you in the
face; you, who knew prosperity and plenty, must find life insupportable
now that your larder is bare. You deserve a better fate. Solely out of
compassion for you I have journeyed a hundred thousand miles. I bring
you, if you will accept them at my hands, prosperity, riches, and
happiness. Come”--so saying, the sombre man drew a piece of parchment
from his pocket--“put your signature to this paper, and for seven years
you will have as much iron and coal as you need to employ twenty
workmen.”
Smith thought, “You are the Devil himself, or my name’s not Smith. It is
not merely for the pleasure of possessing my signature that you will
give me a seven years’ supply of iron and coal. You have something up
your sleeve.”
In order to find out, he asked to read the document. There he found
written in black and white, that after seven years the Devil would be
master of Smith’s most treasured possession, his immortal soul.
However, our Smith was not unduly alarmed. “If I accept,” he thought, “I
am saved and shall be able to laugh in the face of those who have
despised me. If, on the other hand, I refuse, one day I shall kill
myself in my despair, and I shall be in the
hands of the little black gentleman. The best thing to do is to sign the
agreement. Later on I shall discover a means of saving my soul from
Hell.”
Without further hesitation, he put his name to the paper, and even
before the Devil departed, the miraculous took place.
His fire lighted itself, and a delicious joint of beef was roasting on
the spit. On the table he found a large jug of foaming beer, all kinds
of pastries, and, better than all, half a dozen carts drawn up at the
door of the forge, from which about twenty workmen were silently
unloading coal, wood, iron, lead, zinc, and even copper. They carried
everything into the forge.
From early morning the forge again trembled under the strokes of the
hammer. They often resounded even after the village slept.
Meanwhile the days flew by, days became weeks, weeks months, and months
years. Before Smith had had time to think about it, the seven years had
passed, and the Devil came to claim poor Smith’s soul.
“Hallo! Listen to me, Smith Verholen.
Don’t you remember that for seven years’ iron and coal
You sold to me your immortal soul?”
Smith was as unperturbed as though he were serving a customer. “Hallo!
Good morning,” he cried, laughing. “How are you? You appear to be well
fed, for you have a face like a butcher’s, and calves like a groom.”
The fallen angel was visibly impatient at this nonsense, and answered
sharply, “You know what you sold to my master seven years ago. No more
shuffling, follow me at once to Hell.”
“How should I have forgotten our agreement?” said Smith. “How could you
think me guilty of such a thing? I am a man of honour, as I am about to
convince you. Only I cannot go with you in my working clothes, and
without washing my hands and brushing my hair. A moment’s patience. Rest
a while in this chair. I shall be with you directly.”
The Devil, quite unsuspecting, sat down on the chair, and waited. A few
minutes later Smith reappeared in his best clothes.
“Hallo! old fellow, have you rested long enough?” he asked. “I am quite
ready to start.”
With a broad grin on his face, he watched the Devil’s vain efforts to
rise.
“Oh, what has happened?” said the Devil. “It seems to me that black
magic is also practised here. I cannot rise from this chair.”
“Yes, my friend,” said Smith, with the most innocent look, “it is a
little joke of my own. Do you know what it means? That you will remain
there at my pleasure.”
The Devil made frantic efforts to rise, but all in vain; he was at
Smith’s mercy, and was as though screwed to the chair. This was hardly
to his liking, and when he saw Smith heating an iron bar, and glancing
at him significantly from time to time, he decided that his best course
was to take it quietly.
“Smith,” he began in pleading tones, “listen to me. I will give you
iron, wood, and coal for another seven years, but for the love of God
let me get out of this chair.”
“I accept; you are free,” replied the other, rubbing his hands, and the
Devil departed.
Now the blacksmith Verholen had as much iron and coal as he could wish.
From dawn till evening the anvil shook under the strokes of the hammer.
Again the days flew by, became weeks, months, then years, and one fine
morning the same Devil came to Smith’s door, and cried in thundering
tones, “Hallo! How now! Smith Verholen.
Don’t you remember that for seven years’ iron and coal
You sold to me your immortal soul?”
“Ha ha! there you are again,” said our friend, and he immediately took
off his leather apron in preparation for a start. “You are a little
later than the appointed time. I have such splendid walnuts, I should
like to gather a little basketful to nibble on the way. I have heard
that devils like nuts. Would you gather me a basketful, as you can climb
so well? Come, will you do it?”
The Evil Spirit, seeing no cause for suspicion, climbed up the tree like
a cat.
When Smith returned, he cried in jeering tones, “Hallo! are you coming
down? Have you not gathered enough nuts? I am quite ready to start, you
know.”
The little black gentleman, in spite of all his efforts, could not climb
down from the branches. They closed round him as though they had taken
root. Smith summoned his workmen and ordered them to burn the Devil’s
feet with hot irons. When the martyrdom had continued some minutes, the
Devil shouted to Smith:
“I implore you to make them stop. I will give you iron and coal for yet
another seven years, if only you will let me climb down from this tree.
Ooh! Ooh! my poor toes.”
“You are free as air,” answered Smith; and the Devil fled away as though
pursued by a devil himself.
The years soon sped away, and this time Lucifer, accompanied by many
other devils, came to fetch Smith’s soul. He was dressed in deep black,
as though in mourning for his mother.
Smith greeted this important person very humbly, and exclaimed, “Bravo!
bravo! I am very pleased at the prospective honour of travelling with
such an august person. I am extremely sensible of this great favour.”
“Come, be quick; I have no time to waste in idle words,” the Devil
replied. “You are awaited in my kingdom, where you will be treated with
the honour you deserve! Ahem! If you think you can trick me as you did
the other devil, you are very mistaken. Up you get, forward march!”
“Sire,” replied Smith very quietly, “I have heard say that you possess
the power to make yourself as big as you like. I should like to know if
it is true, as I never believe such foolish tales.”
“I most assuredly can,” said Satan with great dignity, “and to prove my
words I will make myself as tall as the tower of the village church.”
He immediately grew so tall that he went through the roof, sparks
darting from his eyes, and lighting up the countryside: houses, gardens,
fields, and pasture land.
“I must admit it is truly marvellous, but could you make yourself small
enough to go into my purse?”
“I can easily do that,” replied Satan, and in a trice he was in the
little purse, the little enchanted purse, which was immediately shut and
placed on the anvil.
“Ha ha! You did not bargain for that, did you, my friend?” said Smith.
“Now you will receive a few gentle blows with the hammer.” Hearing this,
all the devils flew away in disorder.
He summoned all his workmen, and each in turn pounded Lucifer with their
hammer, so gently, so very gently, until the prisoner promised never to
torment Smith again. On the other hand, he promised that he should
always receive his supplies of coal, iron, and wood from Hell.
With a red-hot nail Smith burnt a little hole in the purse. “Sssst” it
hissed, and the Devil made his escape and disappeared.
Again days became weeks, months, and years, and one day it was not a
messenger from Hell who came to the forge, but Death, who is no
respecter of persons, and Smith left the earth.
He was now in a strange land, the land up above. He found himself before
a forked road. On the left he saw a wide, well-kept road with an avenue
of trees and flowering shrubs. To the right a rough and narrow path
overgrown with brambles and thorns. The wide road descended, and the
narrow path seemed to ascend a mountain side in the direction of Heaven.
Smith chose the wide road, and presently arrived before a high and
gloomy gateway, on which was written in letters of fire, “Hell.”
“I am curious to see what it is like in there,” thought Smith, and he
deliberately pulled the bell.
“Who is there?” said a voice from behind the door.
“Only a poor blacksmith who has just died.”
“What is your name?”
“John James Francis Lewis William Verholen.”
He had hardly uttered the word Verholen, when the door-keeper began to
scream so loudly that all the devils, including Lucifer himself, ran to
see what was the matter. All he could say was, “Smith Verholen is there;
the terrible Smith Verholen.”
Then hundreds of evil spirits trembled and shivered so violently that
the door creaked on its rusty hinges, and the windows of Hell rattled.
“If that is the state of things, I shall never succeed in getting
inside,” said Smith, and he decided to retrace his steps, and to take
the narrow path.
After walking some hours, he arrived before a splendid castle surmounted
with high pointed turrets, and surrounded by a high wall, in which was a
white carved doorway, on which was written in luminous letters, “This is
the Gate of Paradise. Here enter the good and wise.”
Without hesitation, Smith decided to try his luck with the inhabitants
of Heaven. He very carefully wiped his hands on his leather apron, and
then knocked at the door. After a few minutes the grill in the door was
opened, and an old man’s bearded face appeared. He asked in a pleasant
but severe voice, “Your name?”
“John James Francis Lewis William Verholen,” our pilgrim replied, as he
had done at the Gate of Hell.
“Smith Verholen,” cried St. Peter indignantly, “you are reckless
boldness personified. How dare you come here? You sold your soul to the
Devil. Your place is in the nethermost Hell.”
“That was my own idea, but they refused me admission. As I have come
such a long way, I beseech you, good St. Peter, let me at least look
through a crack in the door to catch a glimpse of the Divine radiance.”
“You shall never enter here,” said St. Peter, and he was about to close
the grill, when a voice behind him said, “Little Peter, let that good
fellow have a glimpse of Heaven.... I know him, he is very good-hearted.
He gave shelter to Mary and me when we were fleeing into Egypt.”
St. Peter did not altogether approve, but dared not oppose St. Joseph’s
wishes. He half opened the door, and Verholen put his head through the
crack and looked in. As quick as thought our pilgrim threw his leather
apron inside, and uttered all kinds of strange cries, such as “Ooh! boo!
ooh! my poor head, you are crushing it. Ooh! ooh! my ear, my neck, my
nose.” He pushed the door with his shoulder, and before St. Peter could
stop him, he was seated on his leather apron, and cried, “Here I am,
sitting on my own property, my friend. No one can turn me out.”
St. Joseph laughed heartily, and St. Peter himself was forced to
acknowledge that Smith had played his part well.
So Smith remained in Heaven and had as much work to do as on earth. He
had to repair the swords, breastplates, helmets, and shields which the
archangels wore when they amused themselves by punishing the devils who
became too bold.
This work was a pleasant pastime for Smith. In his spare moments he
chatted a little with old friends he met in Paradise,
humble and simple folk like himself, such as the Girl without Hands,
Hop-o’-my-Thumb, Little Red Riding Hood, the Babes in the Wood,
Snowdrop, and Puss in Boots.
There was one thing which very much displeased Smith. He enjoyed the
rice pudding with plenty of sugar, which was served in golden plates and
eaten with silver spoons, and the heavenly scones with butter spread
thickly. But he never had a drop to drink, never a hand at “whist” or
“bridge.” He found that dull, so dull that sometimes he secretly wished
himself back on earth, among his friends and acquaintances in his own
village in Brabant.
It was Easter Eve, the bells of Heaven were ringing for the great feast.
St. Peter came to Smith, and said to him, “As you are aware, Smith,
to-morrow we fête the Lord’s Resurrection. On this occasion, the
heavenly host goes forth in procession. All the saints and all the elect
take part. I know you are very strong. Will you carry the large flag and
walk at the head of the procession? You will go out by the principal
gate, mount the fortifications, and continue straight ahead to the end
of the Milk-and-Honey Avenue. Directly you hear the sound of the cannon,
you will turn round. Every one in the procession will do the same, and,
retracing their steps, re-enter Heaven.”
“Dear me,” thought Smith, “that may be my opportunity for returning to
earth.” He placed himself in St. Peter’s hands and promised to do his
best.
Easter dawned, High Mass was over, and the procession set forth. Right
in front walked our Smith bearing the flag, then followed a countless
host of cherubim, seraphim, and other angels led by St. Michael, seated
on the flaming horse which drew Elisha’s chariot; then dressed in
glittering armour, all mounted on flaming chargers, St. Martin, St.
George, St. Victor, St. Maurice, St. Sebastian. All these had been
warriors on earth. Then came the martyrs, confessors, hermits, and
pilgrims--more than tongue could number; then followed the Blessed
Virgin surrounded by seraphim; and, lastly, Our Lord Himself clothed in
papal robes, under a golden canopy.
Smith did exactly as he was told; he went out by the Great Gate, mounted
the fortifications of Heaven. He walked with great dignity and with
measured tread until he reached the Milk-and-Honey Avenue. Then
suddenly, “boom” the canon sounded, and was answered by all the echoes
of Heaven. Smith turned round, all the procession did likewise and
re-entered Paradise. When our standard-bearer found he was the last
before the gate, he signed to an angel in front of him and begged him to
hold the flag for a moment; he then turned round and disappeared to the
left.
In a few hours he found himself on earth once more before the door of
his smithy.
No one in Heaven grieved at his departure. Smith recommenced his happy
life on earth, and from the words of the song which is still sung by
Flemish children, one may conclude he is still alive.
Smith Verholen, Smith Verholen,
For seven years received wood and coal,
Iron, lead and copper,
From the devil Lucifer.
Smith Verholen may burn, may be knocked on the head,
But Smith Verholen is never dead.