Selected Tales of the Brothers Grimm(33)

“No doubt,” replied the old man. “It’s been a long time since he went away. He must have changed considerably.”

“Would you still recognize him if he were standing here before you?” asked the stranger.

“Probably not by his face,” replied the peasant, “but he had a birthmark on his shoulder the size of a bean.”

As soon as the peasant said this, the stranger took his coat off, bared his shoulder, and showed him the bean-shaped birthmark.



“God in heaven,” cried the old man, “you are indeed my son,” and the love he felt for his own flesh and blood welled up in his heart. “But how can you be my son?” he added. “You’ve become a fine gentleman and live in the lap of luxury. How did you get rich?”

“Oh, Father,” replied the son, “this tree was bound to no pole, he didn’t grow up straight – and now he’s too old and it’s too late to straighten him out. How did I get rich, you ask. I became a thief. But don’t worry, I’m a master thief. There’s no lock I can’t pick or bolt I can’t break, whatever I want is mine. I don’t steal like a common thief, I only take from the surplus of the rich. Poor people have nothing to fear from me. I’d rather give to than take from them. And I won’t waste my time with a heist that doesn’t demand the utmost effort, stealth, and finesse to bring off.”

“Oh, my son,” said the father, “a thief is still a thief. It won’t end well, I tell you.”

The father took him to his mother, and when she heard it was her son, she wept for joy, but when he told her he’d become a master thief, a second stream of tears ran down her face. Finally she said, “Thief or no thief, you are still my son, and my eyes are glad to see you again.”

They sat down at the table, and he ate again with his parents the poor man’s dish he hadn’t tasted in years.

The father said, “If the lord, the count in the castle over there, discovers who you are and what you do, he won’t take you in his arms and rock you as he did at your baptism when you were born. He’ll let you swing from the gallows.”

“Don’t fret, dear Father, I know my craft, he won’t do a thing to me. I’ll go present myself to him today.” When night fell, the master thief set out in his carriage to the castle.

The count received him with the utmost courtesy, as he took him for a gentleman of quality. But when the stranger revealed who he was, the count turned pale and went silent for a while. Finally he said to him, “You are my godchild, so I will have mercy on you. Since you claim to be a master thief, I’ll put your skill to the test, but if you fail, you’ll dangle with the hangman’s daughter, and the crowing of ravens will be your wedding music.”

“Sir count,” replied the master thief, “think up three tests as hard as they might be, and if I don’t succeed you can do with me as you wish.”

The count pondered for a while, and then he said, “Very well then, first off, you will steal my horse from the stable; second, you will steal the sheets out from under my wife and myself as we sleep, and my wife’s wedding ring to boot, without waking us; third and last, you will steal the pastor and the sexton out of the church. Mind all I said, or it’ll cost you your neck.”

The master thief proceeded to the nearest city. There he bought the clothes off the back of an old peasant woman and put them on. Then he applied brown makeup to his face and painted in wrinkles, so that no one would recognize him. Finally he filled a jug with old Hungarian wine in which he mixed a strong sleep potion. He placed the jug in a basket hung from his back and made his way with deliberately tottering steps to the count’s castle. It was already dark by the time he arrived. There he sat himself down on a flat stone in the courtyard and began to cough like an old woman suffering from consumption and rubbed his hands together as though he trembled with cold. Soldiers sat around a fire in front of the stable. One of them noticed the old woman and called to her, “Come join us, old mother, and warm yourself by our fire. You’ve got no place to rest your weary bones. Better take what you can get.” The old woman stumbled over, took the basket from her shoulders, and sat down beside the fire.

“What do you have there in that jug, old biddy?” a soldier asked.

“A swallow of wine,” she replied. “I peddle it to the thirsty. For a coin or two and a few kind words I’ll gladly give you a glassful.”

“Here, give us a gulp,” said the soldier, and once he’d downed a glass, he winked and said, “It’s a good vintage, old mother, I’ll gladly have another glass.” Whereupon he emptied another glass, and the others promptly followed his example. “Hey, fellas,” the drunken soldier cried to the stableboys, “there’s an old lady here peddling wine that’s as old as she is. Come have a drop. It’ll warm you better than this fire.”