The Blacksmith Verholen and a Devil
THE LITTLE BLACKSMITH
VERHOLEN
HE 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.
A gentle Knocking at the Door