THE POPE'S WIFE.
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 Bakâla, 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, Bakâla, 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 Bakâla was invited to select a keepsake looked mean and shabby, like those which people generally consign to the lumber-room. Bakâla, 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 Bakâla soon discovered—had the power of making everyone dance.
When Bakâla 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, Bakâla 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 Bakâla'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 Bakâla aside, and desired him just to serenade their mistress for a little while under the window.
Before Bakâla 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 Bakâla begun his performance than she danced so furiously that she made the whole house shake. Bakâla 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 Bakâla 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 Bakâla, 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 Bakâla in his service, and treated him even better than before.[75]