[adapted]

by
Washington Irving

My grandfather was a bold dragoon, for it’s a job, you see, that has been in the family. All my family before me have been dragoons and died in battle except me, and I hope my children after me may be able to say the same; however, I don’t mean to be too proud. Well, my grandfather, as I said, was a bold dragoon, and had served in the Low Countries. In fact, he was in that very army, which, according to my uncle Toby, “swore so terribly in Flanders.” He could swear very well himself; and, also, was the very man who brought the idea Corporal Trim mentions, of radical heat and radical moisture; or, in other words, the way of keeping out the wet of ditch water by burnt brandy. Anyway, it is not the main point of my story. I only tell it to show you that my grandfather was a man not easily fooled. He had been in many battles; or, in his own words, “he had seen the devil” — and that says everything.

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was on his way to England, where he planned to get on a ship at Ostend; — bad luck to that place, for one where I was stopped by storms and winds against me for three long days, and not a single jolly companion or pretty face to comfort me. Well, as I was saying, my grandfather was on his way to England, or rather to Ostend — no matter which, it’s all the same. So one evening, near night, he rode happily into Bruges. Maybe you all know Bruges, gentlemen, a strange, old Flemish town, once, they say, a great place for buying and selling and making money, in old times, when the Dutchmen were in their best days; but almost as big and as empty as an Irishman’s pocket today.

Well, gentlemen, it was the time of the fair that came every year. All Bruges was crowded; and the canals were full of Dutch boats, and the streets were full of Dutch traders; and it was hard to move because of goods, wares, and merchandise, and farmers in big pants, and women in ten skirts.

My grandfather rode happily along in his easy, free way, for he was a bold, cheerful man — looking around him at the mixed crowd, and the old houses with pointed ends facing the street and storks’ nests on the chimneys; winking at the women who showed their faces at the windows, and joking with the women on both sides in the street; all of whom laughed and took it very well; for though he did not know a word of their language, yet he always had a way of making himself understood among the women.

Well, gentlemen, as it was the time of the yearly fair, all the town was crowded; every inn and tavern was full, and my grandfather asked from one to the other to be let in, but it was no use. At last he rode up to an old shaky inn that looked ready to fall to pieces, and which all the rats would have run away from, if they could have found room in any other house to put their heads. It was just such a strange building as you see in Dutch pictures, with a tall roof that reached up into the clouds; and as many attics, one over the other, as the seven heavens of Mahomet. Nothing had saved it from falling down but a stork’s nest on the chimney, which always brings good luck to a house in the Low Countries; and at the very time when my grandfather arrived, there were two of these long-legged graceful birds, standing like ghosts on the chimney top. Indeed, but they’ve kept the house on its legs to this very day; for you may see it any time you pass through Bruges, as it still stands there; only it is turned into a brewery — a brewery of strong Flemish beer; at least it was so when I came that way after the battle of Waterloo.

My grandfather looked at the house with curiosity as he came near. It might not have pleased him much, if he had not seen in large letters over the door,

HEER VERKOOPT MAN GOEDEN DRANK.

My grandfather had learned enough of the language to know that the sign said there was good drink. “This is the house for me,” he said, stopping suddenly in front of the door.

The sudden arrival of a handsome soldier on horseback was an event in an old inn, visited only by the peaceful men of trade. A rich citizen of Antwerp, a proud, big man, in a broad Flemish hat, and who was the important man and great customer of the inn, sat smoking a clean long pipe on one side of the door; a fat little maker of gin from Schiedam, sat smoking on the other, and the big-nosed innkeeper stood in the door, and the pretty hostess, in a folded cap, beside him; and the hostess’ daughter, a plump Flanders girl, with long gold earrings in her ears, was at a side window.

“Humph!” said the rich citizen of Antwerp, with an angry look at the stranger.

“The devil!” said the fat little drink maker from Schiedam.

The landlord saw with the quick look of a pub owner that the new guest was not at all, at all, to the liking of the old ones; and to tell the truth, he did not himself like my grandfather’s bold look.

He shook his head — “Every attic in the house was full.”

“Not an attic!” repeated the landlady.

“Not an attic!” said the daughter again.

The man from Antwerp and the little maker of strong drink from Schiedam kept smoking their pipes in a bad mood, looked at the enemy sideways from under their wide hats, but said nothing.

My grandfather was not a man to be bullied. He threw the reins on his horse’s neck, tilted his hat to one side, put one hand on his hip, slapped his big thigh with the other hand —

“Honestly!” he said, “but I’ll sleep in this house tonight!”

My grandfather was wearing a tight pair of leather pants — the slap went to the landlady’s heart.

He kept his promise by jumping off his horse, and going past the staring gentlemen into the public room. Maybe you’ve been in the barroom of an old inn in Flanders — indeed, it was as nice a room as you would wish to see; with a brick floor, a big fireplace, with the whole Bible story in shiny tiles; and then the mantel-piece, sticking far out of the wall, with a long row of cracked teapots and clay jugs lined up on it; not to mention half a dozen large Delft plates hung around the room like pictures; and the little bar in one corner, and the lively barmaid inside it with a red cotton cap and yellow earrings.

My grandfather snapped his fingers over his head, as he looked around the room: “Well, this is the very house I’ve been looking for,” he said.

There was some more show of resistance from the people inside, but my grandfather was an old soldier, and an Irishman as well, and not easily turned away, especially after he had got into the building. So he talked nicely to the landlord, kissed the landlord’s wife, tickled the landlord’s daughter, patted the bar-maid under the chin; and everyone agreed that it would be a great pity, and a great shame as well, to turn such a brave soldier into the streets. So they talked together, that is, my grandfather and the landlady, and at last they agreed to give him an old room that had been closed for some time.

“Some say it has ghosts!” said the landlord’s daughter in a low voice, “but you are a brave soldier, and I think you are not afraid of ghosts.”

“Not at all!” said my grandfather, pinching her soft cheek; “but if I am ever bothered by ghosts, I have been to the Red Sea in the past, and have a nice way to make them go away, my darling!”

And then he whispered something to the girl which made her laugh, and gave him a friendly slap on the ear. So, there was nobody who knew better how to get along with women than my grandfather.

In a little while, as he usually did, he acted like he owned the house: walking proudly all over it; — into the stable to look after his horse; into the kitchen to look after his supper. He had something to say or do with everyone; smoked with the Dutchmen; drank with the Germans; slapped the men on the shoulders, tickled the women under the ribs: — never since the days of Ally Croaker had such a lively man been seen. The landlord stared at him in surprise; the landlord’s daughter hung her head and giggled whenever he came near; and as he turned his back and walked proudly along, his tight jacket showing his broad shoulders and plump leather pants, and his long sword dragging by his side, the maids whispered to one another — “What a fine man!”

At supper my grandfather took charge of the shared dinner table as if he were at home; helped everybody, not forgetting himself; talked with everyone, whether he understood their language or not; and became close to the rich citizen of Antwerp, who had never been known to be friendly with anyone in his life. In fact, he completely changed the whole place, and made it so lively, that the very house seemed to shake with it. He stayed at the table longer than everyone except the small, fat distiller from Schiedam, who had sat drinking for a long time before he burst out; but when he did, he was like a real devil. He took a strong liking to my grandfather; so they sat drinking, and smoking, and telling stories, and singing Dutch and Irish songs, without understanding a word the other said, until the little Hollander was completely overcome by his own gin and water, and carried off to bed, whooping and hiccuping, and singing the chorus of a Low Dutch love song.

Well, gentlemen, my grandfather was shown to his rooms, up a huge staircase made of lots of cut wood; and through long, winding passages, hung with darkened paintings of fruit, and fish, and wild animals, and country fun, and huge kitchens, and fat mayors, like the ones you see in old-fashioned Flemish inns, until at last he arrived at his room.

An old-fashioned room it was, sure enough, and crowded with all kinds of useless things. It looked like a hospital for old and worn-out furniture; where everything damaged and broken was sent to be cared for, or to be forgotten. Or rather, it might have been taken for a general meeting of old real furniture, where every kind and country had an example. No two chairs were alike: such high backs and low backs, and leather bottoms and woolen bottoms, and straw bottoms, and no bottoms; and cracked marble tables with legs shaped in a curious way, holding balls in their claws, as if they were going to play at ninepins.

My grandfather made a bow to the mixed group as he entered, and after he undressed, put his candle in the fireplace, saying sorry to the tongs, which seemed to be in love with the shovel in the corner of the fireplace, and whispering soft nonsense in its ear.

The rest of the guests were by this time sound asleep; for Dutch men sleep a lot. The house maids, one by one, went up yawning to their rooms under the roof, and not a woman’s head in the inn was put on a pillow that night without dreaming of the Bold Dragoon.

My grandfather, for his part, got into bed, and pulled over him one of those big bags of soft feathers, under which they cover a man so much he cannot breathe well in the Low Countries; and there he lay, melting between two feather beds, like an anchovy sandwich between two slices of toast and butter. He was a man who got hot easily, and this smothering was very bad for him. So, sure enough, in a little while it seemed as if a crowd of little devils were pulling at him and all the blood in his veins felt hot with fever.

He lay still, though, until all the house was quiet, except the snoring of the gentlemen from the different rooms; who answered one another in all kinds of tones and sounds, like so many bull-frogs in a swamp. The quieter the house became, the more restless my grandfather became. He got warmer and warmer, until at last the bed became too hot to hold him.

“Maybe the maid had warmed it too much?” said the curious man, asking a question.

“I think the opposite,” replied the Irishman. “But anyway, it got too dangerous for my grandfather.”

“I can’t stand this any longer,” he says; so he jumped out of bed and went walking around the house.

“What for?” said the curious man.

“Why, to cool himself, of course,” replied the other, “or maybe to find a more comfortable bed — or maybe — but it doesn’t matter what he went for — he never said; and there’s no use in wasting our time guessing.”

Well, my grandfather had been away from his room for some time, and was returning, perfectly calm, when just as he reached the door he heard a strange noise inside. He paused and listened. It seemed as if someone was trying to hum a tune, even though they had asthma. He remembered the story that the room was haunted; but he did not believe in ghosts. So he pushed the door gently a little open, and looked in.

My goodness, gentlemen, there was a wild dance going on inside enough to have surprised St. Anthony.

By the light of the fire he saw a pale thin-faced fellow in a long nightgown and a tall white night-cap with a tassel to it, who sat by the fire, with a bellows under his arm like a bagpipe, from which he squeezed out the wheezy music that had bothered my grandfather. As he played, too, he kept twitching about with a thousand strange twists; nodding his head and bobbing his night-cap with a tassel.

My grandfather thought this very strange, and very rude, and was ready to ask what right he had to play his flutes and horns in another gentleman’s room, when he saw a new thing that surprised him. From the opposite side of the room a chair with a long back and bent legs, covered with leather, and covered all over in a fancy way with little brass nails, suddenly started to move; it put out first a claw foot, then a bent arm, and at last, making a bow, slid gracefully up to an easy chair, of worn brocade, with a hole in its seat, and led it politely out in a ghostly dance around the floor.

The musician now played wilder and wilder, and moved his head and His nightcap about like crazy. Little by little the dance madness seemed to take hold of all the other pieces of furniture. The old, long-backed chairs paired up in couples and did a country dance; a three-legged stool danced a hornpipe, though terribly puzzled by its extra leg; while the loving tongs grabbed the shovel around the waist, and spun it around the room in a German waltz. In short, all the movable things started to move, jumping about; spinning, hands across, right and left, like so many devils, all except a great wardrobe, which kept making curtsies again and again, like an old noble lady, in one corner, in perfect time with the music; — being either too fat to dance, or perhaps unable to find a partner.

My grandfather decided the last was the reason; so, being, like a true Irishman, very fond of women, and always ready for fun, he jumped into the room, calling to the musician to start playing “Paddy O’Rafferty,” danced up to the wardrobe and grabbed two handles to lead her out: — When, whoosh! — the whole party was over. The chairs, tables, tongs, and shovel slipped in an instant as quietly into their places as if nothing had happened; and the musician disappeared up the chimney, leaving the bellows behind him in his hurry. My grandfather found himself sitting in the middle of the floor, with the wardrobe lying spread out before him, and the two handles pulled off and in his hands.

“Then after all, this was only a dream!” said the curious man.

“Not a bit of a dream!” replied the Irishman: “there never was a truer fact in this world. Truly, I would have liked to see any man tell my grandfather it was a dream.”

Well, gentlemen, as the wardrobe was a very heavy thing, and my grandfather also, especially at the back, you can easily guess two such heavy things falling to the floor would make quite a noise. Indeed, the old house shook as if it thought it was an earthquake. The whole house was alarmed. The landlord, who slept just below, hurried up with a candle to find out the cause, but even with all his hurry his daughter had hurried to the place of noise before him. The landlord was followed by the landlady, who was followed by the lively barmaid, who was followed by the smiling chambermaids all holding together, as well as they could, such clothes as they had first grabbed; but all in a terrible hurry to see what on earth was going on in the room of the bold dragoon.

My grandfather told about the wonderful scene he had seen, and the wardrobe lying on the floor, and the broken handles, were proof of it. There was no arguing with such proof; especially with a lad like my grandfather, who seemed able to prove every word either with a sword or a club. So the landlord scratched his head and looked silly, as he often did when confused. The landlady scratched — no, she did not scratch her head, — but she frowned, and did not seem very pleased with the explanation. But the landlady’s daughter confirmed it by remembering that the last person who had lived in that room was a famous juggler who had died of St. Vitus’s dance, and no doubt had infected all the furniture.

This put everything right, especially when the maids said that they had all seen strange things going on in that room; — and since they said this “on their honor,” there could be no doubt about it.

“And did your grandfather go to bed again in that room?” said the curious gentleman.

“That’s more than I can tell. Where he spent the rest of the night was a secret he never told. In fact, though he had served a long time, he did not know geography very well, and was likely to make mistakes in his travels between inns at night, so that it would have been very hard for him to explain in the morning.”

“Did he often walk in his sleep?” said the wise old gentleman.

“Never that I heard of.”