I went across to my master’s quarters, where everyone was still asleep except for the cook and a couple of maids. The latter were clearing up in the dining room where the banquet had been held the day before, while the former prepared breakfast – this morning, a snack from the leftovers. I approached the maids first. In the dining room shards of glass from drinking vessels and windows lay scattered about. Some sections of floor retained what guests had evacuated from one or the other end of their revelling bodies. Others held large pools of spilt wine and beer. The whole floor looked like a map, actually, on which someone had set out to portray various oceans, islands and expanses of dry or at least firmer land. Altogether, the dining room stank far worse than my goose house, which is why I didn’t hang around but went on to the kitchen instead. There I stood in front of the fire and let my wet clothes dry out completely, waiting in fear and trembling to see what fate had in store for me when my master got up. As I waited, I reflected on all the silliness and stupidity in the world. I let my mind wander over all that had happened to me in the last twenty-four hours or so – all the things I’d seen and heard and experienced. And as I pondered, my hermit’s poor, simple life seemed to me so full of contentment that I wished both him and myself back in its embrace.
Three
The other pageboy is paid for his tuition, and Simplicius is appointed jester
When my master rose, he sent his bodyguard to fetch me from the goose house. The man reported back with the news that he’d found the door open, a hole having been cut around the bolt with a knife. The prisoner had evidently made his own escape. However, before the report reached my master, he heard from other sources that I’d been seen in the kitchen only recently. In the meantime, servants had been dispatched to fetch last night’s guests for breakfast. These included the priest, who was required to appear earlier than the others since my master had something he wished to discuss with him before the meal began. Earnestly, my master asked him whether he thought I was amusing or just stupid. Was I weak in the head or actually mischievous? He told the priest all about my appalling behaviour of the day before and at last night’s banquet and how some of his guests had taken it badly, assuming it had been staged to poke fun at them. Also that he’d had me locked in a goose house for his own protection, not wanting me to direct any further mockery at him. Ditto that I’d then broken out of the goose house and was now lording it in the kitchen like someone who was no longer at his beck and call. He’d never (he told the priest) felt so humiliated in the presence of so many respectable folk. All he could think of was to have me thrashed and, if I went on being stupid, told to go to hell again.
In the meantime, with my master blathering on about me like this, one by one his guests assembled. And when he ran out of breath, the priest replied to the effect that, if the esteemed governor would be so good as to listen patiently for a moment, he (the priest) would tell him (the governor) one or two pertinent things about Simplicius that would not only prove that he (Simplicius) was blameless but also help those who found his conduct abhorrent to shed their misconceptions.
While I was being talked about like this above our heads, downstairs in the kitchen I and the sex-crazed ensign I’d imprisoned in my place negotiated an agreement (with the man issuing threats and me accepting his bribe) whereby I promised to keep mum about what he’d done.
As on the previous day, the tables were now filled with dishes of food and surrounded by guests. Vermouth and other wines made from sage, elecampagne, quince, lemon and hippocras were required to soothe the heads and bellies of boozers who, not unnaturally, all ‘felt like hell’. They talked of nothing but themselves and how bravely they’d drunk one another under the table. No one would own up to having been drunk, although some had begged, the night before, for the devil to take them. Hand on heart, they’d sworn that they couldn’t drink another drop. Yet their cries of ‘Wine, sir! More wine over here!’ had gone on and on. Some did admit to having had a good time, but others insisted they’d never get drunk again. However, when they tired of swapping yarns on the subject of their own stupidities, it was poor Simp’s turn to suffer: the governor himself was reminding the priest of his promise to disclose some entertaining material.
Begging earnestly to be forgiven if he felt he must utter words that might sound out of place, coming from a man of the cloth, said man of the cloth went on to relate a number of things: how natural causes (‘He’s a martyr to wind, you know’) had left me with no alternative but to quite spoil the atmosphere in the clerk’s office that day; how as well as soothsaying I’d been taught a wheeze to avoid a repeat performance; how badly the wheeze had gone wrong when I tried it; also, how strange I had found dancing, never having witnessed it before. He told what my friend had then said to me about it, trying to explain why I had grabbed the respectable lady and had ended up in the goose house. Yet he told the whole story in such a posh voice that everyone had to laugh – loudly, too. And in the process he excused my simplicity and ignorance to such good effect that I recovered my master’s favour and was once again allowed to wait at table. However, about what had so upset me in the goose house and about my subsequent escape he decided to remain silent, fearing that he might annoy the grimmer stick-in-the-mud types who felt clergymen ought always to look on the gloomy side. Instead, my master thought it might amuse his guests to enquire what I’d paid my friend to teach me such neat tricks. When I answered, ‘Nothing!’ he replied, ‘All right, I’ll pay your tuition fees for you.’ At which he had the fellow tied over a trencher and thrashed – as I had been the day before when I’d tried the wheeze out and found it didn’t work.
By this time my master, having heard enough on the subject of my simple-mindedness, decided to have me perform further comic turns for him and his guests. Musicians were worthless, he realized, when folk had me. Everyone seemed to find my jesting better than any band. He asked why I’d cut open the door of the goose house. I answered, ‘No, someone else must’ve done that.’ ‘Who would that be?’ he asked. ‘Maybe the man who followed me in,’ I said. ‘Who followed you in?’ To which my answer was: ‘Ah, that I mustn’t tell.’ My master was no fool. He spotted a flea and pounced: ‘Ah, who said you mustn’t?’ ‘The mad ensign,’ was my equally prompt reply. Everyone burst out laughing, and I knew at once that I’d dropped a clanger. The mad ensign (who was also among those sitting at table) went as red as a beetroot, so I decided to say no more without his permission. However, when my master gestured briskly in his direction rather than barking an order I felt released from my promise. The governor went on to ask what the mad ensign had been up to, joining me in the goose house. I replied, ‘He brought a girl in with him.’ ‘What did he do then?’ my master wanted to know. I replied, ‘Well, I thought he wanted to pee in the straw.’ ‘What did the girl do then?’ my master asked. ‘Wasn’t she embarrassed?’ ‘Oh no, sir!’ I said. ‘She lifted her skirt to (and here I beg the esteemed reader, who seeks only decency, honour and virtue, to forgive the rudeness of my pen in forming the word I uttered at the time) crap.’ At this the whole company exploded into gales of laughter – above which my master could no longer hear himself speak, let alone ask further questions. Anyway, these were unnecessary. They’d have served one purpose only: to hold the pious maiden (if I may call her that) up to ridicule.
The steward then entertained the whole table with an account of how, on returning from the ramparts recently, I’d claimed to have worked out where thunder and lightning came from. I’d seen huge round vessels mounted on cut-down wagons. Men stuffed the hollow vessels with onion seeds and an iron turnip with the tail cut off, then went round behind and tickled them a bit with a jagged spike. Out of the front end came smoke, thunder and fire that put me in mind (I’d apparently said) of hell. There followed a run of funny stories. Throughout the meal the talk centred on me. I was the butt of all jokes. In fact, disastrously for my future, the general consensus was: if I was teased enough, in time I’d make a splendid jester – fit t
o honour the world’s greatest potentates and even make the moribund laugh.
Four
Is about the man who brings the money, and the kind of war service Simplicius performed for the King of Sweden, as a result of which he became known as Simplicissimus
While folk were feasting, as they had the day before, a sentry entered, handed the governor a letter, and announced that a commissar was waiting outside. He had orders from the King of Sweden’s council of war to review the garrison and inspect the citadel. This put a damper on everyone’s fun, and the laughter subsided like wind escaping from a bagpipe when the blowing stops. Musicians and guests dispersed the way tobacco smoke vanishes, leaving only the smell behind. My master, accompanied by his adjutant (who carried the keys) and a party of guards, many carrying storm lanterns, set off for the gate to admit the Ink-sprayer (as he called him) personally – the governor voicing the hope that the devil would smash the man’s brass neck into a million pieces before he penetrated the citadel. However, once the commissar had been admitted and my master was bidding him welcome on the inner drawbridge, the latter almost thrust his own person forward to perform the office of steadying the stirrup as the visitor dismounted. Subsequently, moving in solemn procession towards the governor’s quarters, the two men clumsily swapped positions several times, each trying to leave the other’s sword arm free. They actually hopped about – prompting the thought: ‘What phoneys we are, always trying to make the other man look silly!’ As we approached the guardroom, the soldier on sentry duty cried, ‘Who goes there?’, although he could see it was the governor himself. My master gave no answer, leaving that honour to his visitor, so the sentry repeated his cry even louder. Eventually the commissar sang out, ‘The man who brings the money!’ We were now passing the sentry box, and since I was towards the rear of the party I heard said soldier (a recent recruit, formerly a young Vogelsberg farmer by trade) mutter, ‘You must be kidding – “the man who brings the money!” The swine who takes the money, more like! You’ve had so much of the stuff off me, I’d be happy to see a hailstorm strike you down before you leave!’ From that moment on I was convinced that the foreigner in the velvet cap must be a saint. Not only did no insults stick to him; even fellows who hated his guts gave him every good wish, showed him every sign of deep affection, and heaped all good things on his head. That very evening he was treated like royalty, rendered completely legless, and afterwards tucked up in a sumptuous bed.
Next day’s review was a farce. Even a simpleton like myself managed to fool the clever commissar (not a position, I promise you, that youngsters are admitted to). I sussed in no more than an hour that I had only to count up to five and nine and beat out the relevant rhythm on the drum. I was too small, you see, to pose as a musketeer. They kitted me out for the purpose in a borrowed uniform (my gathered pageboy breeches being not quite up to the job) and gave me a borrowed instrument to play. Well, I was on loan myself, wasn’t I? And I passed muster. However, since my simple wits couldn’t be trusted either to answer my name or come when addressed by a different one, Simplicius I had to stay. The governor himself chose the surname, and had me enrolled as Simplicius Simplicissimus. Like a whore’s child, I was made the first of my line, although I did, as he said himself, bear a certain resemblance to his sister. I kept the name and surname subsequently (until I learnt the correct ones), and under them I played out my role well enough – to the advantage of my master and no serious disadvantage to the Swedish Crown. It was the only time I performed war service for the latter in my life, so its enemies can hold nothing against me on that score.
Five
Simplicius is carried off to hell by four devils and there served Spanish wine
When the commissar had gone, the priest had me summoned to his lodgings in secret to be told, ‘Simp, I worry about your youth, and the ordeal coming your way moves me to pity. Listen, child: your master means to rob you of your wits and make you his fool. He’s already having a costume run up for you, and tomorrow you’ll be going to jester school to unlearn common sense. There they’ll also drill you so relentlessly that, unless God and natural means stand in their way, you’ll end up a dreamer – no doubt of it. However, that’s a difficult as well as dangerous occupation. So because your hermit was so holy a man and you yourself are so innocent, I’ve made up my mind, in a spirit of true Christian love, to assist with advice and provide you with some medication. Trust me: this powder will strengthen both brain and memory in a way that will enable you to come through with your mental faculties intact. I’m also giving you an ointment. Rub a bit on each temple, the crown of your hair, the back of your neck, and beneath each nostril. Take both remedies in the evening when you go to bed, because you can never be sure you won’t be hauled out of it. But don’t tell anyone about what I’ve said or the medicine I’ve given you. Otherwise, we’ll both be in trouble. And if they insist on putting you through this damned cure, do please watch your step. Don’t fall for everything they tell you – just pretend you believe it all, but don’t say much. We don’t want your instructors noticing their efforts are wasted; they might change their approach. Not that I’ve any way of knowing how they’re going to treat you – none at all. But one day, when you’re wearing your fool’s costume, come back and see me and I’ll give you some more tips. Meanwhile, I’ll pray that God will preserve your good sense and your health.’ So saying, he handed me said powder and ointment and I took them back with me.
Things turned out just as the priest had predicted. That evening I’d only just dozed off when four fellows wearing fearsome devil masks appeared at my bedside, prancing around like itinerant entertainers at carnival time. One brandished a glowing halberd, another a torch, while the other two whisked me out of bed and danced me about for a moment before starting to force me into my clothes. I submitted, just as if I’d taken them for real devils while nevertheless making a hideous fuss, wailing horribly and giving every indication of sheer terror. However, after winding a towel around my head so tightly that I could neither hear, see, nor scream, they led me by a roundabout route, climbing and descending a great many stairs, down to a cellar where I could both hear and feel a large fire burning. Removing the towel, they began drinking toasts with me (which of course meant I had to toast them back) in Spanish wine and malmsey. To an extent they were drinking to their own success in convincing me that I’d died and gone to hell – so effectively did I pretend to have swallowed all their lies. ‘That’s the stuff!’ they said. ‘Drink away! You’re ours for ever now – get it? But the minute you stop drinking, it’s into that fire you go!’ The poor fellows were trying to disguise their voices, but I knew instantly that these were some of my master’s orderlies. Not that I gave anything away, mind you, though I chuckled inside at blokes who, thinking they were making a fool of me, were in fact making fools of themselves. I knocked quite a bit of that Spanish wine back, but they still drank more than me; throats like theirs don’t often get the chance to quaff such heavenly nectar. Confident they’d lose the use of their legs before I did, when the time seemed right I copied the kind of stagger I’d seen guests performing. ‘I couldn’t drink another drop,’ I told them. ‘I need my pit.’ However, seizing the halberds that they’d left in the fire all this time, they harried and prodded me all round the cellar – seemingly quite out of their minds. I must either keep drinking, I was told, or at least not nod off. And whenever their weary victim collapsed on the floor (as I made a point of doing often), they hauled me to my feet and made as if to throw me in the fire. I felt like a falcon being kept awake during training. That was my undoing, actually. Drinkwise and sleepwise I might well have outlasted them, but they weren’t all involved all of the time; they worked in shifts, and in the end I really couldn’t go on. Three days and two nights I spent in that smoke-filled cellar, where no other light penetrated than what the fire gave off. Eventually, with my head fizzing and buzzing fit to explode, I simply had to find a way of ending the torment and getting rid of my tormento
rs. I did what the fox does when the dogs are about to catch up and it sees no way of escape: I (begging your pardon) peed in their faces. At the same time, answering another call of nature, I stuck a finger down my throat. The resultant stink was so awful that even my devils could barely stand it. They rolled me in a sheet and gave me so merciless a thrashing that I must have come close to coughing up my innards – my very soul, even. I lay as if dead. What they did with me afterwards I’ve no idea; I was that far out of it.
Six
Simplicius gets to heaven and is transformed into a calf
When I came to I was no longer in that dreadful cellar with the devils but in a spacious room, being attended to by three of the most hideous crones that ever walked the Earth. At first, as I raised my eyelids a fraction, I took them for actual infernal spirits. If I’d been conversant with the old pagan poets I’d have taken them for the Eumenides or at least one of them for Tisiphone, come up from hell to rob me of my wits, as happened to Athamas (I’d been told previously, you see, that I was there to be turned into a fool). She had eyes like two will-o’-the-wisps flanking a long, thin, hooked nose whose pointed tip really did reach right down to the drooping lower lip. There were only two teeth in her mouth, so far as I could see, but they were perfection itself, being long, stout and rounded in shape, each looking like a goldfinger flower, almost, but having the colour of real gold. Altogether, here was ivory enough for a whole mouthful of teeth – just badly distributed. Her face resembled Spanish leather, and her white hair hung about her head in a curiously straggly manner (she’d just been hauled out of bed, you see). Her dangling breasts I can only compare to a couple of floppy cow bladders that have lost two-thirds of their puff. Underneath, each one ended in a dark brown protruberance as long as half your finger. A ghastly sight, to be frank with you; it would have curbed the frenzied lust of a billy goat. The other two biddies were no lovelier, but for their snub, monkey-like noses and the fact they were more decently clad. Once I’d recovered a little I could see that, of the three, one was our washer-up and the others wives of orderlies. I made as if I couldn’t move, nor was it an invitation to dance exactly when the old grannies stripped me stark naked and washed all the muck off me as if I’d been an infant. They did it very gently, though, working with enormous patience and showing great sympathy for my plight. In fact, I came close to telling them how well I was doing. But I thought, ‘Steady on, Simp! Never trust a crone. Think yourself lucky that at your tender age you can already pull the wool over the eyes of three old bats so cunning they could be used to catch the devil himself in open country. Take it as a sign that when you’re older you’ll do even better.’ Having finished washing me by now, they laid me in a luxurious bed, where I drifted off to sleep without further ado as they gathered up their buckets and other washing things and took away my messy clothes. This time I reckon I slept for more than twenty-four hours. I woke to find two winged boys at my bedside, wearing white robes adorned with taffeta ribbons, pearls, gems, gold chains and other showy stuff. One held a gilt bowl full of wafers, sweetmeats, marzipan and other confectionery, the other a gilt cup. These angels (as they called themselves) tried to persuade me that I was now in heaven, having successfully survived purgatory and eluded the devil and all his works, etc. I need only ask (they said), and I should receive my heart’s desire. All my favourite things were on hand, and if not they could get hold of them. My mouth felt as dry as a bone, and the cup was in front of me, so I asked for a drink. This was promptly provided. It wasn’t wine, however, but a delicious sleeping draught, which I drank without hesitation. As it warmed up inside me, I slid back into sleep.
The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus Page 12
