The Devil's Storybooks, Page 2

  So Jack took the harp and off the brothers went, back round the World to Hell.

  It took a good deal longer to go down than it had to come up—a fact about which one may draw one’s own conclusions—and the brothers, who were already cross about missing the chance to steal, soon grew bored with flying and began to argue.

  “Here,” said Basil. “Let me take the harp for a while. There’s no reason you should get to have it all the time.”

  “I’ll be hanged if I will,” said Jack. “You’d only drop it.”

  “Selfish!” said Basil.

  And Jack said, “Clumsy!”

  “Donkey!” said Basil.

  “Pig!” said Jack.

  “You’re another.”

  “Am not.”

  “Are too.”

  And right there in the air between Heaven and Hell, Basil and Jack began to fight.

  It was a glorious fight, with a great tearing of costumes, and a great snatching out of feathers from wings, and a great noise full of yells, thumps, swats, and wallops; and right in the middle was the poor little harp, yanked this way and that like tug of war.

  They fought all the way back to Hell and arrived at last in terrible condition.

  “Where’s the harp?” said the Devil, who had heard them coming. “Hand it over.” He took it away from them, cradled it in one arm, and ran his thumb across the strings.

  But instead of sounding sweeter than zephyrs, the harp gave off a discord that made all three of them wince.

  “Now see what you’ve done with your silly fighting,” said the Devil. “My harp’s all out of tune!”

  “Oh,” said Basil.

  And Jack said, “Well.”

  “And I don’t know how to tune it!” said the Devil.

  “Neither do I,” said Jack.

  And Basil said, “Me either.”

  And that, of course, was that, for the pity of it was that there wasn’t a soul—no one in all of Hell—who knew how to tune a harp from Heaven, not even the piano teacher.

  “Well,” said the Devil to Basil and Jack, “you’ll just have to go back and get another.”

  “If you say so,” said Basil and Jack.

  “I do,” said the Devil.

  So back they went just as they were, in their ragged costumes, and the flying was harder than ever with so many feathers missing from their wings. But still they got there at last without too much complaining, and found the Person still sitting at the gates.

  “Why, Jack and Basil! Here you are again!” said the Person.

  “That’s it,” said Jack.

  And Basil said, “Right.”

  But they were more than a little embarrassed.

  “You’ve come for another harp, I expect,” said the Person at the gates, observing the tears in their costumes.

  “Right,” said Basil.

  And Jack said, “That’s it.”

  “Nothing easier,” said the Person. And he took another harp exactly like the first one from under his robe, and held it out to them.

  This time Basil took the harp and off they started once again for Hell. But after they had been flying for a while, Jack couldn’t stand it any longer. He gave Basil a poke and said, “I never saw anything so silly as you holding on to that harp.”

  “Says who?” said Basil.

  “Says me,” said Jack.

  “Says pigs,” said Basil.

  And they were off again, fighting like a frenzy.

  This time, however, in the middle of the fight, just when things were getting really satisfying, Basil dropped the harp. Down it fell, straight toward the World, and landed—clunk!—on a mountaintop.

  “I told you so,” said Jack.

  Well, they flew down and found it and took it round the World to Hell just the same, and when they gave it to the Devil, he was very upset.

  “Look at this harp!” he said. “It’s all bashed out of shape! No one could play a harp in this condition.”

  “Someone can patch it up,” said Basil.

  “Ding it out with a hammer or something,” said Jack.

  But there wasn’t a goldsmith in all of Hell who knew how to work on a harp from Heaven, and the piano teacher stood to one side and looked scornful.

  “Back you go,” said the Devil to the brothers. “One more time. And this time you’d better do it right.”

  “If you say so,” said Basil and Jack.

  “I do,” said the Devil.

  So back they had to go once more, and this time the Person at the gates sighed and shook his head when he saw them. “Jack and Basil!” he said. “Can it really be you again?”

  “That’s it,” said Jack.

  And Basil said, “Right.”

  But they were more embarrassed than ever.

  “Well,” said the Person at the gates, “there’s one harp left. I hope you make it through with this one.” And he handed them the third harp, went on into Heaven, and shut the gates behind him.

  So Basil and Jack took the harp between them, with both holding on to it, and started back down again toward Hell. And this time they got all the way round the World before anything happened. In fact, they were almost to Hell when Basil’s wings, which were in far worse shape than Jack’s, came loose from his costume and there he was with no way to keep from falling except to cling to his half of the harp.

  “Leave off!” cried Jack, flapping his own wings hard. “You’ll drag us both down!”

  “I can’t leave off!” said Basil. “If I do, I’ll fall.”

  “So fall!” said Jack. “Better you than both of us.” And he tried to pry Basil’s fingers loose from the harp.

  They made quite a picture, there in the air above Hell, grappling and struggling, and in the midst of trying to get a safer grip, Basil snatched at the harp strings and pulled them right out like straws from a broom.

  And that was the way they arrived back in Hell, Jack with the harp and Basil with the strings, and the Devil was so angry that his horns smoked. “I’ll go myself!” he bellowed. “And take my chances!”

  “No use,” said Basil.

  “There’s no harps left,” said Jack.

  “This was the last one,” said both of them together.

  And the pity of it was that there was no one in all of Hell who knew how to put the strings back into a harp from Heaven.

  So the Devil had to give it up, angry or not. And to punish Jack and Basil, he made them take piano lessons from the peevish teacher—thereby punishing her as well, since the lessons went on for hundreds of years and the brothers never could learn anything but scales, no matter how much they practiced. And of course she made them practice all the time.

  But the Devil kept the harps in his throne room just the same. “At least,” he said to himself, “no one can say I don’t have any.” And he pretended to everyone that he could fix the harps any time he wanted to, but just didn’t want to for now.

  THE IMP IN THE BASKET

  THERE WAS a clergyman once who was a very good and gentle man. He scrubbed the steps of the church every day and made his own candles for the altar, and he believed that everyone was just as good as he was himself. No matter how terrible the things were that people did, no matter how often they pounded each other and murdered each other and robbed and cheated and kicked their dogs, he would only sigh and say, “Ah, well, it was all a mistake, I’m sure. They didn’t mean to do it.” And he would say a prayer for them and was always sure they would mend their ways sooner or later.

  One morning when the clergyman went out to scrub the steps of the church, he found a basket waiting and in the basket was a baby. “Aha!” said the clergyman. “Someone has left this baby here for me so I can raise it in the church in the ways of goodness!” And this pleased him very much. But when he picked up the basket and looked more closely, he saw that the baby was no ordinary baby. “Dear me!” he whispered. “Why, this baby is an imp! No doubt about it. A devil’s baby with skin like a pepper, and the basket reek
s of brimstone!” He set it down again at once, in horror, but the imp peered up at him so sweetly, smiling and smiling, that the clergyman was at a loss to know what to do. He left the basket where it was and went inside the church to sit down and have a talk with himself.

  “A baby is a baby—helpless and in need of protection.”

  “Yes, but this baby can only grow up to be a demon!”

  “And yet, suppose I could prevent that. Just suppose. Shouldn’t I try?”

  “Nonsense. It’s been sent by the Devil to tempt me.”

  “Perhaps. But, on the other hand, it could have been sent by God to test me.”

  “That would be a test, to be sure, turning red into white.”

  “There now—it’s starting to cry out there. It’s hungry, no doubt, and tired after its journey.”

  “Its journey! What am I saying? Why, it must have come up straight from Hell.”

  “Nevertheless, a baby is a baby. I must do what I can.”

  And so, still unsure as to whether he was right or wrong, the clergyman carried the imp home to his cottage behind the churchyard.

  Now, the clergyman saw at once that he would have to have food for the imp. “For,” he thought, “a baby is a baby and mustn’t be let to starve.” So he hurried to a nearby farmhouse to buy a pail of milk.

  “What!” said the farmer’s wife. “A pail of milk? You’ve taken on a child at your age?”

  “I have,” said the clergyman nervously. “A baby. Left on the church steps.”

  He didn’t say the baby was an imp. He was not at all sure what the farmer’s wife might do when she learned about that. But his silence did him no good, for the farmer’s wife turned business-like at once. “I’ll come along and see to the little mite for you,” she said. “What do you know about babies after all, an old bachelor like you?”

  “No, no!” said the clergyman hastily. “I’ll figure things out, no doubt. Don’t trouble yourself.”

  “Twaddle,” said the farmer’s wife. “It’s no trouble.”

  And he couldn’t put her off.

  When they came to the clergyman’s cottage, the farmer’s wife stopped suddenly and sniffed. “Brimstone!” she said. “Smoke and brimstone! Quick, save the baby—your cottage must be on fire!”

  But it wasn’t. When they went inside, the smell of brimstone was very strong, but everything was peaceful. The imp had gone to sleep in its basket. The farmer’s wife went right away to look at it, and when she saw what it was, her mouth fell open. “Why, it’s a devil’s baby!” she gasped. “An imp!” And she turned and ran out of the cottage. “A devil!” she yelled as she ran. “A devil at the very doors of the church! Help! Help! We’ll all of us be cursed!”

  “No, wait!” cried the clergyman, wringing his hands in the doorway. “Stop! It’s only a baby, and a baby is a baby, isn’t it?” And he was quite overcome with doubt.

  But the farmer’s wife went running all around the village, raising a great crowd of people, and in no time at all they were gathered round the clergyman’s cottage. “Come out!” they demanded. “Come out at once and leave the imp behind. We’ll burn the cottage down and the imp with it. It’s the only way to get rid of it.”

  When he heard this, the clergyman was horrified and his doubt dissolved. “You can’t do that!” he answered firmly. “A baby is a baby, imp or not. Helpless, and in need of protection. And anyway, perhaps the imp can be raised in the ways of goodness. The Devil was an angel once, wasn’t he? So there must be hope, even for an imp!”

  But the people said to each other, “He’s mad! He’s out of his senses!” And they called to him again: “Come out and let us burn the cottage down!”

  “Never,” said the clergyman. “I can’t abandon a baby, imp or not. If you burn down the cottage, you must burn it down with both of us inside.”

  The people conferred among themselves and decided it was too late to save the clergyman anyway; the Devil had most certainly possessed him. There was only one thing to do. They brought a torch and set fire to the cottage with the clergyman and the imp, both of them, inside.

  The clergyman stood holding the basket as the flames shot up around him, and prayed a long prayer, for he was very much afraid. But the imp woke up and when it saw the smoke and fire it clapped its little hands and crowed with delight.

  Outside, the people stood back from the heat and watched the cottage burn, and now it was their turn to doubt. “Of course it was only a baby after all, and suppose it could have been raised in the ways of goodness,” they said to each other. “Just suppose.”

  However, it was far too late to put out the fire, for the cottage was small and dry. The roof began to buckle and then it fell in, and the walls fell in around it. But when the smoke cleared, there stood the clergyman in the middle of the mess with his eyes tight shut, entirely unharmed, and the imp and the basket were gone.

  The people were amazed, and then they were thankful, and then they were jubilant. “A miracle!” they cried. “Our clergyman has been saved by God from death!” And as a gesture of their relief and gratitude, they went to work at once to build a new cottage so the clergyman could have his own place once again.

  The clergyman took up his life and duties without a murmur, but for a time he was greatly troubled. Had he really been saved by God, as the people supposed, or had he perhaps—just perhaps—been saved by the Devil? However, he never spoke of this question to anyone. He continued to make candles for the altar, and every morning he came out to scrub the steps of the church. He had noticed at once, of course, the sooty spot on the top step where the imp’s basket had rested, and he tried very hard to scrub it away. But no matter how hard he scrubbed, the spot remained as clear as ever. So at last he brought from inside the church a pot of sickly ivy and set it there. The ivy flourished, standing on the spot, which was strange; but the clergyman scrubbed around it every morning and was glad of it anyway, and to the end of his days he never saw another imp.

  NUTS

  ONE DAY the Devil was sitting in his throne room eating walnuts from a large bag and complaining, as usual, about the terrible nuisance of having to crack the shells, when all at once he had an idea. “The best way to eat walnuts,” he said to himself, “is to trick someone else into cracking them for you.”

  So he fetched a pearl from his treasure room, opened the next nut very carefully with a sharp knife so as not to spoil the shell, and put the pearl inside along with the meat. Then he glued the shell back together. “Now all I have to do,” he said, “is give this walnut to some greedy soul who’ll find the pearl in it and insist on opening the lot to look for more!”

  So he dressed himself as an old man with a long beard and went up into the World, taking along his nutcracker and the bag of walnuts with the special nut right on top. And he sat himself down by a country road to wait.

  Pretty soon a farm wife came marching along.

  “Hey, there!” said the Devil. “Want a walnut?”

  The farm wife looked at him shrewdly and was at once suspicious, but she didn’t let on for a minute. “All right,” she said. “Why not?”

  “That’s the way,” said the Devil, chuckling to himself. And he reached into the bag and took out the special walnut and gave it to her.

  However, much to his surprise, she merely cracked the nut open, picked out the meat and ate it, and threw away the shell without a single word or comment. And then she went on her way and disappeared.

  “That’s strange,” said the Devil with a frown. “Either she swallowed my pearl or I gave her the wrong walnut to begin with.”

  He took out three more nuts that were lying on top of the pile, cracked them open, and ate the meat, but there was no pearl to be seen. He opened and ate four more. Still no pearl. And so it went, on and on all afternoon, till the Devil had opened every walnut in the bag, all by himself after all, and had made a terrible mess on the road with the shells. But he never did find the pearl, and in the end he said to himself, “Well,
that’s that. She swallowed it.” And there was nothing for it but to go back down to Hell. But he took along a stomach ache from eating all those nuts, and a temper that lasted for a week.

  In the meantime the farm wife went on to market, where she took the pearl out from under her tongue, where she’d been saving it, and she traded it for two turnips and a butter churn and went on home again well pleased.

  We are not all of us greedy.

  A PALINDROME

  THERE WAS an artist once who was so kind and good and loving that everyone who knew him liked to say he was “the best fellow in the World.” But the pictures he painted struck a lot of people as being most remarkably evil, for they all showed blank-faced men and women hopping about with their clothes off, or chopping each other into little pieces, and in general behaving in ways unacceptable to decent society.

  In spite of this, the people who knew him, loving him as they did, were more than willing to accept and admire the artist’s pictures. He was very skillful after all, quite a master, and some of his friends, believing there is good and evil in everyone, liked to think that all the evil in the artist came out in his work and left behind nothing but good in the man himself.

  Now, the Devil knew about the artist’s pictures and thought they were magnificent. Sometimes, in fact, he would come up out of Hell in the middle of the night for the sole purpose of hanging about in the studio, admiring them. “Wouldn’t it be splendid,” he would think to himself, “if we had such a fellow for Number One Artist at home!” And then he would go away shaking his head, for he knew, as well as he knew anything, that the artist was too good a man to end up at an easel in Hell.

  The Devil pondered this problem off and on for a long time and after a few years he had an idea. The artist had completed thirty-seven pictures. “When he makes it to forty,” said the Devil to himself, “I’ll just go up there and steal them all and hang them down here in my gallery. Forty is enough, anyway. And then I’ll steal all his canvas, paints, and brushes, and even his easel—after which we’ll just sit back and see what happens.”