Death and the Devil

Shaking his head, Jacob followed her, taking care not to slip on the greasy steps. At the bottom they found themselves in something that was more like a cave than a cellar, though surprisingly spacious. What was immediately obvious was that it was a well-filled wine store. There was a constant drip of moisture from the ceiling and a slightly foul smell from the latrine, which Jacob had noticed next to the cellar. “Dungeon” was the word that occurred to Jacob, though one he would not have minded being locked up in.

Even stranger, however, were the two men sitting on the floor, a candle between them, earthenware jugs in their hands, continuing their debate as if Jacob and Richmodis were simply two further casks that would form the basis of some future dispute. They were around fifty. One was short and fat, with no neck at all, a bright red face, and a few remaining hairs, the color of which had gradually faded to somewhere between brown and nothing. His fingers were grotesquely twisted, recalling trees that had been struck by lightning. A thin, wavy beard, obviously attempting to emulate Jacob’s shock of hair, stuck out in all directions. Despite the cool temperature, sweat was streaming from his every pore.

The other was the exact opposite. Emerging from the plain habit was a long scrawny neck on top of which a round head, equipped with a dangerously long, pointed nose and chin, which always seemed to be on the attack, was nodding back and forth all the time. Apart from the arched brows he was completely bald. From the sum total of his physical attributes, he ought to have been frighteningly ugly, but strangely enough he wasn’t. His little eyes glinted with intelligence and high spirits, and the corners of his mouth were turned up in an expression of permanent amusement. Jacob was immediately drawn to him.

And both were talking and moaning, moaning and talking.

“Silence!” shouted Richmodis.

It was as if St. Augustine had performed a miracle. They shut their mouths and looked at each other in bewilderment. The fat one grimaced, as if he had a headache.

“Why are you shouting, Richmodis, my child?” he asked.

“Jacob,” she said, without taking her eyes off the man, “this is my dearly beloved father, Goddert von Weiden. Beside him you see my uncle, the learned dean and physician, Dr. Jaspar Rodenkirchen, master of the seven liberal arts and professor of canon law at the Franciscan College. Both must have been sitting in this cellar since around midday yesterday, and they ask me why I’m shouting.”

“I quite agree with my daughter,” said Goddert von Weiden, in a voice as solemn as if he were laying a foundation stone. “Our behavior has been unchristian in the extreme. If you hadn’t gone and filled your cellar with wine, I could lead a life that was more pleasing in the sight of God.”

“Your birth wasn’t pleasing in the sight of God,” Jaspar teased him with a wink in Jacob’s direction. After a certain amount of toing and froing Richmodis and Jacob had managed to lure the two disputants out of the cellar. They continued their disputation as they made their way up to the surface, but turned out to be less drunk than Richmodis had feared. Now they were sitting under the oppressively low beams of the downstairs room, around a table with an elaborately woven cloth showing St. Francis preaching.

“You’re wearing my coat,” Goddert remarked.

Jacob felt weary and worn out. The pain in his shoulder was almost unbearable. He would have been quite happy to take off Goddert’s coat, but by now his arm was stiff and almost useless.

“He’s wearing your coat because he needs help.” Richmodis came out of the back room and placed a yeast cake on the table.

“Just the thing!” exclaimed Jaspar.

“Neither of you deserve it. Do you realize, Father, since early yesterday I’ve been looking after the house, seeing to the customers, dyeing the cloth, and slaving away from morning to night, not to mention having to invent the most ridiculous stories to stop the men pestering me?”

“Including that one?” asked Goddert warily, pointing at Jacob.

“Of course not!” She gave Jacob a look full of warmth and started to tear off pieces of the loaf and hand them around.

“Jacob gave me a whistle,” she said with unmistakable pride.

“And what did you give him in return?” Jaspar giggled.

“Father’s old clothes.”

Goddert von Weiden went even redder in the face, if that was possible, but instead of the expected lecture, he just cleared his throat and bit off a piece of his cake.

Jacob was totally baffled. “Weren’t you telling me he chased you all around the house crying blue murder?” he said in a low voice to Richmodis.

“I did,” she replied with an impenetrable smile.

“But he—”

She leaned down and said softly, “I was pulling your leg. He’s the most kindhearted of men. Only you must never tell him or he might start getting too full of himself.”

“Hey!” shouted Goddert, cheeks bulging. “Stop that whispering.”