Six
Is short – and so fervid that Simplicius passes out
Hardly had I settled myself for sleep when I heard a voice intoning, ‘Such ineffable love for us thankless folk! My sole consolation, my hope, my riches, my God!’ And so on and so forth – more than I could take in, actually, let alone inwardly digest.
To a Christian in the pickle I was in at the time, the words might have brought comfort and joy. But to me, in my naivety and ignorance, they meant nothing. The language was so strange I simply found it irritating. Still, the speaker sounded like a bloke who’d want to still hunger and thirst, and my overwhelming need for sustenance on both fronts told me, ‘Sit down at table when you’re invited.’ So, summoning up the courage to quit my hollow tree and approach the source of the voice, I found myself looking up at a tall man with long, grey-black hair that lay on his shoulders in something of a mess. His beard, too, quite like a Swiss cheese in shape, was extremely untidy, although his face, for all its pale yellow colour and raddled appearance, was not unfriendly. But under a long cloak patched with many pieces of motley fabric sewn one on top of another, wound around his neck and chest the figure wore a heavy iron chain like I’d once seen a picture of a saint wearing. Altogether, the sight was so hideous that I started shaking like a wet dog. What scared me most was the huge crucifix he held pressed to his bosom. Initially, knowing no better, I could only suppose this had to be one of the wolves dad had been talking about. In my panic I whipped out my bagpipe (the one treasure I’d salvaged from the raid on dad’s farm), filled it with air and let fly with an ear-splitting jangle in the hope of scaring the beast off. Hit by a blast of such alien music in so wild a place, the hermit went into shock, probably thinking some fiendish spectre had arrived on the scene to tempt him like the great St Anthony and disrupt his devotions. Then, pulling himself together, he began to mock his tempter in the hollow tree (where by this time I’d taken shelter). In fact, so far had he recovered himself that he started pooh-poohing me – ‘enemy of the human race’, he said at one point. ‘Aha!’ he croaked. ‘One of those, are you? Come to mock the saints without God’s leave.’ That’s all I caught, because his threatening approach raised such dread and alarm inside me that I lost control of my wits and fainted away.
Seven
Simplicius is given a hearty welcome in dismal surroundings
I’ve no idea what brought me round, except that when I did come to it was to find the old man, having loosened the front of my jacket, cradling my head in his lap. Seeing the hermit so close to, I began screaming like a stuck pig. He might have been in the act of tearing my heart out. However, what he was saying was ‘Calm down, son, I’ll not hurt you, stop fretting’ – that kind of thing. But the more he soothed and stroked me, the louder I shrieked: ‘You’re going to eat me, you’re going to eat me, you’re the wolf, you’ll gobble me up!’ ‘No, son,’ he said, ‘no, I won’t. I’ll do you no harm.’ This argy-bargy went on until I finally agreed to enter his hut with him. Inside, penury herself kept house, starvation did the cooking, and scarcity was scullery boy. However, some greens and a drink of water soon stopped my stomach from rumbling, and my scattered wits, still all over the place, did in the end get straightened out by the old man’s amiability. Surrendering with a nod to the charms of sweet sleep, I gave nature her due. The old man, sensing my need, left me alone in his hut, where there was only room for one of us to stretch out anyway. Sometime in the night I woke up again and heard him singing this song, which I later learnt by heart:
Sing away, nightingale, night’s sole cheer,
Let your sweet voice sing out with sheer
Joy, sound your anthem
Of praise to your God.
Let your voice ring out,
Night swell with its shout
Of thanks and praise to your God.
While other birds, each with its head
Tucked under its wing, have instead
Opted for silence,
You alone are heard.
Let your voice (etc.)
Though sunlight has all drained away,
Leaving our world in deep darkness,
Night cannot muffle
Your hymn to God’s might.
Let your voice (etc.)
And as Echo’s proud rejoinder,
Bounces your song back, boosts its power,
Enhances your strain,
Multiplies its sound,
Let your voice (etc.)
May our tiredness be banished,
All desire for sleep vanish,
We’ll hear your refrain!
We’ll heed your refrain!
Let your voice (etc.)
The stars that sparkle in the sky,
Likewise extolling God on high,
May they add their song!
Incorporate their song!
Let your voice (etc.)
The owl himself, with his hooting
And howling, will provide his own
Harmony, add his
Haunting eulogy.
Let your voice (etc.)
Hear this my solemn vow, dear bird,
We too will make our voices heard,
All who lie awake
Till dawn brings new life
And new light to the forest’s gloom,
Humanity will praise its God!
Let your voice (etc.)
As the song went on I really felt as if the nightingale and the owl and Echo herself had all joined voices. I’d never heard the morning star actually sing. But the music sounded that good, if the tune had been one I could copy on my bagpipe I’d have slipped out of the hut and joined in. What actually happened was, I fell asleep and didn’t wake till it was light. The hermit was standing over me, saying, ‘Up you get, lad. You’ll be wanting a bite to eat before I show you the path that will put you among folk again. You’ll be in the next village before nightfall.’
I asked him, ‘What do you mean – folk, village? What are you talking about?’
He said, ‘Have you never been in a village before, then? Don’t you even know what folk are? People?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve never been anywhere but here. So tell me: what are folk, people, village – all that stuff?’
‘Lord save us!’ the hermit replied. ‘Are you a simpleton or a smarty-pants?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m mum and dad’s lad. Not a simpleton or – who was the other bloke?’
The hermit stared at me, sighed, crossed himself, then said, ‘Well, dear child, I’m going to have to teach you a thing or two, aren’t I?’
After that our exchange went as follows.
Eight
How Simplicius, in calling a spade a spade, demonstrates his special qualities
Hermit: What’s your name, then?
Simplicius: Lad.
H: Well, I can see you’re not a lass. I mean, what did your father and mother call you?
S: I don’t have no father and mother.
H: Who gave you that vest?
S: Mum, I reckon.
H: So what did mum call you?
S: She called me lad. Quite often scamp. Also butterfingers, gallows fodder—
H: And who was your mother’s husband?
S: No one.
H: Who did mum sleep with nights?
S: With dad.
H: So what did your dad call you?
S: He called me lad too.
H: What was your dad’s name?
S: Dad.
H: But what did your mum call him?
S: Dad. Master, sometimes.
H: Did she never call him anything else?
S: Yes, she did.
H: What, for instance?’
S: Foulmouth, peasant lout, drunken sot – other things when she was cross with him.
H: You’re a numbskull and no mistake if you don’t know your parents’ names or even your own!
S: Well, you don’t neither.
H: Can you say your prayers?
S [having misheard beten as Betten]: No. Mum and our Ann did all that – made the beds and stuff.
H: I’m not talking about housework. I’m asking if you know your Our Father, for instance.
S: I know that, yeah.
H: Let’s hear it, then. How does it go?
S: ‘’Alf Arthur poo arty neville hallo whassname likey tum willy scum erfaneven daily fred—’
H: Stop! Were you never in church [in die Kirchen]?
S: Yes, I love cherries [Kirschen]. I’m good at climbing, too. I brought a whole load home once, stuffed down the front of my shirt.
H: Heaven preserve us! Do you know nothing of Our Lord God?
S: Oh, yes. We’ve got him at home in a little shrine by the door. Mum stuck him up there when she brought him back from the fair.
H: Lord have mercy! More than ever I see what a boon and blessing it is that you give us knowledge of your Being, and how man is as nought without that gift. God grant that I may so honour your holy Name that in so doing I become as worthy to receive that great boon as you are beyond measure munificent in bestowing it. As for you, young Simplicius (which is all I can call you), when you recite the Lord’s Prayer you must say, ‘Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread—’
S: With a bit of cheese, right?
H: Shush, child! Sit still and learn. That’s something you need more than cheese. Why, you really are a scamp, like your mum said. You’re a mere snip, you shouldn’t butt in when an old man is speaking, it’s not right. You should pay attention to what you’re taught. If I knew where your parents live I’d march you straight home and tell them how to bring up a youngster.
S: I don’t know where to go either – not now. Our house has burnt down. Mum got away. She ran off, taking Ursula with her. Dad too. And the maid’s taken ill, I think. She was lying in the stable.
H: Who burnt the house down?
S: Well, these iron men came along, see? Riding beasts as big as oxen, only without horns. They stuck all our sheep and cows and pigs. Later, when I’d run off, I looked back and saw the house burning.
H: But where was your dad?
S: Well, the iron men trussed him up, and our old goat licked his feet. That made dad giggle, and he gave them money, loads of pretty silver coins, big ones, small ones, lovely yellow ones too, and shiny things too, a pretty string with white balls on—
H: When did this happen?
S: When I was meant to be looking after the sheep, of course. They tried to take my bagpipe and all.
H: When were you supposed to be tending the sheep?
S: I said, didn’t I? When the iron men came. Afterwards our Ann said I should slip away, otherwise the soldiers would take me. She meant the iron men. I scarpered then – and came here.
H: Where are you heading now?
S: Search me. I thought I might stay here with you.
H: Out of the question. Keeping you here would suit neither of us. Eat up, then I’ll show you the way to where folk are.
S: Well, tell me at least what these folk are.
H: Individual people like you and me. Your dad, your mum and your Ann are all individuals, and when there are lots of them together they’re called folk.
S: Aha!
H: Now get on and eat.
That’s how our exchange went, with the hermit giving me frequent looks and heaving cavernous sighs – why, I don’t know. Either he took pity on my naivety and ignorance, or his remorse had more to do with things I picked up only gradually, over the years.
Nine
Simplicius, from being a brute beast, becomes a Christian
I started eating and stopped gabbing, but not until I was full and the old man said it was time to go. Then I tried to find the smoothest words my peasant coarseness could bring out, all with the aim of persuading the hermit to let me stay. Clearly my presence upset him. However, he did eventually decide to put up with me – more, I suspect, to instruct me in the Christian religion than for me to be of service to him in his old age. His biggest worry was that my delicate youth might not long stand the strain of the hard life he lived.
A period of three weeks or thereabouts constituted my probationary year. That was how long young St Gertrude of Nivelles spent tilling the fields, and I was supposed to follow in her footsteps. I performed so well that the hermit took a particular liking to me – less because of the work itself (I was used to that) than through having me take as much notice of his instructions as the soft, and of course so far unscratched, wax tablet of my heart showed neatness in recording them. That made him even keener to guide me in all the ways of the good. He began with the case of Lucifer, which brought him to the Garden of Eden. Then, when we and our forebears were turfed out of Paradise, he went on to the Law of Moses and taught me the Ten Commandments and how to interpret them. He said they provided real guidance when it came to identifying God’s holy will and living a life that would please him. Next he showed me how to tell virtue from sin and how to do good and shun evil. Eventually he introduced the Gospel and told me about Christ’s birth, passion, death and resurrection. He ended with the Last Judgement, painting a picture of heaven and hell for me. He included just the right amount of detail without ever over-egging the pudding, always managing to make me understand what he was saying. When he’d finished with one subject he went on to another, patiently shaping his explanations around my questions with such skill that he couldn’t have poured knowledge into me more effectively. His words, together with the whole way he lived, were a perpetual sermon to me. My mind was by no means stupid or wooden, in fact, and by the grace of God it proved quite fertile. Not only did I pick up everything a Christian should know during those three weeks; I enjoyed his teaching so much it kept me awake nights.
I’ve often pondered the matter since, and I’ve decided that Aristotle quite rightly (in Bk III of his Concerning the Soul) compares the human soul to an empty tablet on which anything at all might be noted. He was also right when he said the Supreme Creator did all this with the sole aim of ensuring that the smooth surface received serious impressions that, after lengthy repetition, were gradually brought to perfection. That’s why in Bk II of the same work (where the philosopher says the intellectus is potentia and nothing is set in actum save thorough scientia, meaning that the human soul, albeit capable of a thing, can absorb it only through diligent practice) his commentator Averroes states clearly: such scientia or practice, though nothing in itself, is the perfection of souls. Cicero says the same in Bk II of his Tusculan Disputations, when he likens the intellect, unnourished by learning, knowledge and practice, to a field that, though fertile by nature, remains barren until ploughed and sown.
I showed the truth of all this by my own example. Why I took in so quickly all the pious hermit taught me was because he’d found the tablet of my mind quite empty. No images had been printed on it beforehand that might have prevented anything else from being introduced. Even so, my total naivety, compared to others, also had to be taken into account. That remained, and it was why the hermit (neither of us knowing my real name) had dubbed me ‘Simplicius’.
At the same time I learnt to say my prayers, and when he decided to accept my determination to stay with him, we built a little hut for me like his own, using branches, twigs and clay. In shape it was quite like the ones musketeers put up on campaign – or rather, what some farmers use to cover their beet clamps. It was very low; I could barely sit upright in it. My bed, a heap of dry leaves and grass, was as big as the hut itself. In fact, I wasn’t sure whether my abode should be graced with the term ‘roofed sleeping-place’ or – no, ‘hut’ was the word.
Ten
How he learnt to read and write in the wild forest
The first time I saw the hermit reading the Bible, I couldn’t imagine who he was chatting to in that confidential and (so it seemed) deeply serious way. I could see his lips moving but not his in
terlocutor. However, even knowing nothing of reading and writing, I could tell from the way his eyes were moving that he was interested in what was inside it somewhere. So I kept an eye on it myself, and when he put it down I crept over. Throwing it open, I found myself looking at the first chapter of Job with its frontispiece – a splendid coloured woodcut. I put a few curious questions to the figures in the picture, but when no answer came I lost patience and said straight out (just as the hermit stole up behind me), ‘You rascals, cat got your tongues? You had plenty to say to my father here.’ That was what the hermit wanted me to call him. ‘Aha, I see what you’re up to: you’ve rustled the old scrote’s sheep and torched his house. Hold it right there, I’m going to put that fire out!’ And I stood up to fetch water. This was a clear case of an emergency. ‘Where are you off to, Simp?’ asked the hermit (I’d not noticed him looking over my shoulder). ‘Look at this, father,’ I said, ‘soldiers again, they’re stealing the sheep, they’ve caught the old man you were just talking to, his house is already in flames and if I don’t douse them soon it’ll burn to the ground!’ And I pointed at what I saw. ‘No, no, sit down,’ the hermit said, ‘there’s no danger.’ I said with my usual politeness: ‘Are you blind or what? You stop them driving the sheep off, I’ll get water.’ ‘No, look,’ the hermit said, ‘these figures aren’t real, someone drew them to show us things that happened a long time ago.’ ‘But you were just talking to them,’ I replied. ‘How can you say they’re not real?’
The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus Page 5
