The Legend of Ulenspiegel, Volume 2 (of 2) And Lamme Goedzak, and their Adventures Heroical, Joyous and Glorious in the Land of Flanders and Elsewhere — A Reader’s Guide

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In Category - Folklore
Coster, Charles de, 1827-1879, Atkinson, F. M. (Frederick MacCurdy), 1878-1973 [Translator], Lepper, John Heron, 1878-1952 [Translator] Project Gutenberg 2012 Not confirmed
Adventure stories; Eulenspiegel (Satire) -- Legends Readers of public-domain and historical texts
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Words 96,758
Reading time 421 min
Text sections 70

The source record for The Legend of Ulenspiegel, Volume 2 (of 2) And Lamme Goedzak, and their Adventures Heroical, Joyous and Glorious in the Land of Flanders and Elsewhere — A Reader’s Guide measures this digital text at 96,758 words, 7 hr 1 min estimated reading time, and 70 detected text sections.

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This volume follows Ulenspiegel and Lamme Goedzak through Flanders during the Spanish Inquisition, blending folkloric adventure with historical persecution. The narrative shifts between picaresque episodes and grim executions, using recurring motifs like 'the ashes beat upon my heart' to link personal vengeance with collective resistance.
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was the saintly man whose beadle Ulenspiegel became. He served him well during mass, not without filling the flagons three times, twice for himself and once for the provost. The ringer Pompilius Numan helped him at it on occasion.

Ulenspiegel, who saw Pompilius so flourishing, paunchy, and full cheeked, asked him if it was in the provost's service he had laid up for himself this treasure of enviable health.

"Aye, my son," replied Pompilius, "but shut the door tight for fear that one might listen to us."

Then speaking in a whisper:

"You know," said he, "that our master the provost loveth all wines and beers, all meats and fowl, with a surpassing love. And so he locks his meats in a cupboard and his wines in a cellar, the keys of which are ever in his pouch. And he sleeps with his hand on them.... By night when he sleeps I go and take his keys from his pouch and put them back again, not without trembling, my son, for if he knew my crime he would have me boiled alive."

"Pompilius," said Ulenspiegel, "it needs not to take all that trouble, but the keys one time only; I shall make keys on this pattern and we shall leave the others on the paunch of the good provost."

"Make them, my son," said Pompilius.

Ulenspiegel made the keys; as soon as he and Pompilius judged about eight of the clock in the evening that the good provost was asleep they would go down and take what they chose of meats and bottles. Ulenspiegel would carry two bottles and Pompilius the meats, because Pompilius always was trembling like a leaf, and hams and legs of mutton do not break in falling. They took possession of fowl more than once before they were cooked, which brought about the accusation of several cats belonging to the neighbourhood, which were done to death for the crime.

They went thereafter into the Ketel-straat, which is the street of the bona robas. There they spared nothing, giving liberally to their dears smoked beef and ham, saveloys and poultry, and gave them wine of Orleans and Romagna to drink, and Ingelsche bier, which they called ale on the other side of the sea, and which they poured in floods down the fresh throats of the pretty ladies. And they were paid in caresses.

However, one morning after dinner the provost sent for both of them. He had a formidable look, sucking a marrow bone in soup, not without anger.

Pompilius was trembling in his shoes, and his belly was shaken with fear. Ulenspiegel, keeping quiet, felt at the cellar keys in his pocket with pleased satisfaction.

The provost, addressing him, said:

"Someone is drinking my wine and eating my fowl, is it thou, my son?"

"No," replied Ulenspiegel.

"And this ringer," said the provost, pointing to Pompilius, "hath not he dipped his hands in this crime, for he is pallid as a dying man, assuredly because the stolen wine is poison to him."

"Alas! Messire," answered Ulenspiegel, "you wrongly accuse your ringer, for if he is pale, it is not from having drunk wine, but for want of drinking enough, from which cause he is so loosened that if he is not stopped his very soul will escape by streams into his shoes."

"The poor we have always with us," said the provost, taking a deep draught of wine from his tankard. "But tell me, my son, if thou, who hast the eyes of a lynx, hast not seen the robbers?"

"I will keep good watch for them, Messire Provost," replied Ulenspiegel.

"May God have you both in his joy, my children," said the provost, "and live soberly. For it is from intemperance that many evils come upon us in this vale of tears. Go in peace."

And he sucked another marrow bone in soup, and drank another great draught of wine.

Ulenspiegel and Pompilius went out from him.

"This scurvy fellow," said Ulenspiegel, "would not have given you a single drop of his wine to drink. It will be blessed bread to steal more from him still. But what ails you that you are shivering?"

"My shoes are full of water," said Pompilius.

"Water dries quickly, my son," said Ulenspiegel. "But be merry, to-night there will be flagon music in the Ketel-straat. And we will fill up the three night watchmen, who will watch the town with snores."

The second volume of Charles de Coster's The Legend of Ulenspiegel opens with a terse, almost biblical sentence: 'He goes away, the Silent One, God guideth him.' This abrupt shift in voice—from the earlier book's rambunctious trickster tales to a solemn chronicle of political repression—signals a change in pace and tone. The narrative now intercuts Ulenspiegel's earthy proverbs with reports of executions on the Horse Market at Brussels, where 'the drummers drummed before and behind' as lords were beheaded. The translator's English retains a deliberate archaism, mixing colloquial dialogue with formal, almost liturgical phrasing.

Voice and the Weight of History

The narrative voice in this volume oscillates between two registers: the folkloric, where Ulenspiegel speaks in parables ('One day a Jew of Amsterdam summoned one of his enemies'), and the historical, which reports events with stark brevity. When Ulenspiegel tells Lamme about the Duke of Alba's summons, he frames it as a comic anecdote, but the narrator immediately undercuts the humor: 'And they did so, refusing to appear. Egmont and de Hoorn did not follow their example. And weakness in duty evokes the hour of God and fate.' This juxtaposition—a joke followed by a moral verdict—creates a rhythm of levity and gravity. The translator's choice to keep the present tense in historical passages ('At this time were beheaded…') lends a sense of immediacy, as if the reader stands among the crowd. The phrase 'the ashes beat upon my heart' recurs like a refrain, tying Ulenspiegel's personal quest to the larger martyrdom of Flanders.

Pace and the Werewolf Episode

The werewolf sequence in the dunes near Heyst exemplifies a deliberate change in narrative pace. Earlier chapters move quickly through political events; here, the story slows to a detailed, almost procedural account of Ulenspiegel's preparations. He forges an engine, speaks with the bailiff, and consults the curé, who warns: 'no man passes alone at night, by the dunes, on Saturday without being bitten.' The dialogue becomes measured, each exchange building tension. Ulenspiegel's repeated answer—'The ashes beat upon my heart'—functions as a rhythmic anchor, slowing the reader's progress through the scene. The description of the sea ('roaring like thunder, and the wind came from England whistling in the rigging of shipwrecked boats') expands the moment, contrasting with the terse execution reports earlier. This shift from historical summary to sensory immersion highlights de Coster's ability to modulate pace according to the episode's emotional stakes.

Recurring Motifs and Structural Echoes

Several motifs recur across the excerpts, creating structural echoes that bind the volume. The image of fire appears both in executions ('the Spanish troopers escorting them and carrying blazing torches burned their bodies') and in Ulenspiegel's forge work. The phrase 'the ashes beat upon my heart' links his father Claes's death (from Volume 1) to his present actions. The sea, described as 'boisterous' and 'tempestuous,' mirrors the political turmoil—'black clouds that pass so swift, be ye like Vengeance upon the heels of Murder.' Even the werewolf's howling in the graveyard echoes the 'cry terribly' of the executed lords. These repetitions give the narrative a poetic cohesion, suggesting that Ulenspiegel's personal vengeance is part of a larger, almost elemental cycle of oppression and resistance. The translator preserves these echoes through consistent diction, reinforcing the sense of a world where natural and political forces are intertwined.

Translators' Choices and Archaic Register

The translation by F. M. Atkinson and John Heron Lepper adopts a deliberately archaic English, with inversions ('Dost thou hear'), contractions ('thou'st'), and compound epithets ('well-sharpened cutlass'). This register distances the text from modern speech, aligning it with the folkloric tradition. However, the translators vary the formality: Ulenspiegel's dialogue is colloquial ('I am going to shoot sea-mews'), while the narrator uses Latinate constructions ('evokes the hour of God and fate'). The effect is a layered voice that shifts between the earthy and the elevated. Notably, the translators retain the French 'wacharm' (alarm) and 'weer-wolf' (werewolf), preserving local color. This choice may slow the reader but reinforces the setting's specificity. The archaism is not uniform—some passages read as straightforward prose—suggesting a deliberate strategy to mark moments of heightened drama or folk wisdom.

Readers should attend to the rhythm of de Coster's prose: the alternation between swift historical narration and lingering folkloric scenes. The werewolf episode, in particular, rewards close reading for its pacing and sensory detail. The translators' archaic English may require adjustment, but it underscores the text's roots in oral tradition. Consider how the repeated phrase 'the ashes beat upon my heart' functions as both a personal motto and a collective lament, linking Ulenspiegel's story to the wider suffering of Flanders.

I keep thinking about how The Legend of Ulenspiegel carries that ache of history—the ashes beating under the skin of a whole people. It reminded me, quietly, of the old English tales, where heroism is just stubbornness in the face of what’s lost. There’s a similar weight in Early English Hero Tales — Themes and Context, that same slow pulse of memory, like a hand held out across centuries.

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