Ten
Tells only of heroes and famous artists
It was now time for the midday meal, at which I bravely offered my services once again. I was determined to chide every vanity and pick on every piece of stupidity, as my new status ideally equipped me to do. No diner was above my highlighting his least vice, and if any wouldn’t let me, he’d be treated either to an extra helping of laughter from the rest or a reminder from my master that no one, if he’s wise, picks a bone with a fool. My immediate choice for the pillory was the crazy ensign, my bitterest foe. However, the first person who, at my master’s signal, offered me reasoned argument was the secretary, whom I’d mocked for the elaborate form of address to which he laid claim. A ‘titlesmith’ I called him, asking if he knew what the founder of the human race had been called? He replied, ‘Spoken like a stupid calf! Look, don’t you don’t know that our first parents were followed by a whole line of folk who, by their outstanding qualities, their wisdom, their bold deeds and the many skills they devised, brought such honour upon themselves and their race that others praised them to the stars – even made gods of them? If you were a person and had at least read some history, you too would appreciate that certain distinctions exist between people. You’d happily grant each individual the title he or she has earned. However, since you’re a calf and neither deserve nor attempt to attain individual honour, you also talk about such matters like a silly calf, meanly begrudging humanity something that gives it pleasure.’ To which I replied, ‘I was once a person – quite a widely read one, too. I’m perfectly capable of concluding that either you don’t understand these things properly or self-interest prevents you from speaking any differently. Tell me this: what fine deeds were performed and what praiseworthy skills devised that would justify ennobling whole families for hundreds of years after the heroes or craftsmen concerned had snuffed it? Surely the heroes’ power and the craftsmen’s knowledge and wisdom perished with them? If you can’t see that, and if it’s true that parents pass on character traits to their sprogs, I can only assume you were sired by a codfish and dropped by a flounder.’ ‘Aha!’ replied the secretary. ‘If it comes to trading insults, I can raise you. Not only is your dad a Spessart peasant slob; in a part of the world noted for producing nutters you pip them all by being born a stupid calf.’ ‘Precisely!’ I shot back. ‘That’s just what I’m saying: not all parents pass their ticks on to their nippers, and not all nippers deserve their parents’ titles. Besides, I’m not ashamed of being a calf. It means I have the honour of imitating mighty King Nebuchadnezzar. You never know: maybe it’s God’s will that I become a man again – an even bigger man than dad was! What I say is: good luck to anyone who gets a title for actually doing something!’ ‘Even supposing,’ said the secretary, ‘(and I don’t) that children should not necessarily inherit their parents’ titles, even you would concede that they deserve all the praise coming to them if they attain nobility by continuing to conduct themselves nobly. In which case, since like begets like we’re not wrong to honour the child for the parents’ sake. Surely anyone meeting the descendants of Alexander the Great (if there were any left) would have wanted to celebrate their ancestor’s boldness in battle? Alexander, when too young to bear arms, proved his desire to fight by weeping tears of concern that the father might leave the son nothing to conquer. And hadn’t the son (not yet thirty) conquered the world and pleaded for another, keen to conquer that as well? Had he not, deserted by his troops when fighting the Indians, sweated blood in his fury? Did he not appear wreathed in flame, causing even the barbarian enemy to flee the field in dread? Who’d not have wished to set him above and praise him more highly than ordinary men, knowing as we do (from Quintus Curtius) that his breath smelt like balsam, his sweat like musk, and his corpse like precious herbs and spices? Here I might also cite Julius Caesar and Pompey, of whom the former, above and beyond his civil-war victories, fought in fifty separate battles, striking down and killing a total of one million, one hundred thousand and fifty-two men, and the latter, as well as capturing nine hundred and forty ships from pirates, took and subdued eight hundred and seventy-six towns and villages from the Alpine mountains to the farthest reaches of Spain. Passing over the fame of Marcus Sergius entirely, I cite only that of Lucius Siccius Dentatus, guild master in Rome when Spurius Turpeius and Aulus Eternius were mayors of that city. He survived a hundred and ten battles, beat eight challengers in single combat, could point to forty-five scars on his body (all from wounds inflicted from the front, none from behind), and marched with nine generals in their triumphs (earned in large part by virility). The martial honour of Manlius Capitolinus is not lessened by his having offended against it himself at the end of his life, for he too could display thirty-three scars – not to mention how he once saved the Capitolium and all its treasures from attack by the Gauls. And what of mighty Hercules, what of Theseus, what of the others in connection with whom it is well nigh impossible to recite all their deeds as well as to sing their undying praise? Should they not be honoured in their offspring?
‘But enough of fighting and arms. Let me focus on the arts instead – less important, it would seem, though masters in this sphere have achieved great fame. Look at the skill of a Zeuxis, whose cunning brain and nimble brush captured likenesses of the very birds of the air. Likewise Apelles, who could paint a Venus of such naturalness and perfect beauty, together with details of such delicacy, that all the young men fell in love with her. Plutarch writes that Archimedes, using a block and tackle, hauled a huge ship laden with freight right through the middle of Syracuse market with but one hand and a single rope – just as if he’d been leading a pack animal on a rein. Two dozen oxen couldn’t have done that, nor could two hundred calves like yourself. Shouldn’t true mastery be marked with an honorary title, giving recognition to the inventor? Who’d hesitate to place on a pinnacle the man who, for King Sapor of Persia, built a glass contraption so lofty and spacious that, sitting at its centre, the king saw the stars rise and set beneath his feet? Archimedes made a mirror to set fire to enemy ships out at sea. Ptolemy recalled seeing a marvellous mirror with as many facets as the day has hours. And who would hesitate to praise the first framer of letters? Indeed, who would not elevate to the highest rank the man who invented the noble art of printing – so valued the world over? If Ceres, said to have invented agriculture and milling, is seen as a goddess, why not confer on others a title befitting their achievements? Anyway, what does it matter whether you, a brute calf, can get your feckless brain around this one or not? Remember the dog who lay on a heap of hay and wouldn’t let the oxen have any because he couldn’t eat it himself? Honour is beyond your comprehension, so you resent it being given to those who deserve it.’
That stung. So I replied, ‘Heroic deeds would be more worthy of praise if they’d not been accomplished at the cost of the lives and property of others. But what praise is worth gaining when sullied by the shedding of innocent human blood? What kind of nobility is won by striking thousands dead? As for craft skills, what are they but so much froth, so many frivolities? Why, the crafts are as useless as the titles to which they give rise. They serve only greed or lust or luxury or the annihilation of other human beings, like the terrible guns I saw recently on those carts. Printing and books people could also do without, as the saint proclaimed and himself believed when he said that the whole wide world was book enough for him in which to contemplate the wonders of his Creator and acknowledge God’s omnipotence.’
Eleven
Tells of the arduous, risky business of governing
My master was also keen to tease me, saying, ‘I notice that, not expecting to attain nobility yourself, you scorn titles.’ I answered, ‘Master, if I were elevated to your rank at this moment, I should refuse.’ The governor laughed and said, ‘That I believe! The only thing oxen want is straw. Still, with the sort of mindset the noble is said to have, you’d be scrambling after the highest honours and titles all the time. I personally consider it no small
thing that good fortune has given me status.’ Sighing deeply, I said, ‘Ah, the bliss of the work burden! You know what, sir? No one in Hanau is to be pitied more than you.’ ‘How so?’ asked my master. ‘What do you mean, calf, what are you getting at? I don’t feel that way at all.’ And my reply? ‘The fact that you ask, sir, proves your blindness to the many cares that being the governor of Hanau sets on your shoulders. Sheer arrogance – and it draws nourishment from your position! Either that or you’re made of iron and have no feelings. Granted, you issue the orders, and everyone under you has to obey. But do they bow and scrape for nothing? Aren’t you their slave, in effect? Aren’t you expected to look after each and every one of them individually? Think about it. Right now enemies surround you, and responsibility for holding the fort is yours and yours alone. It’s for you to decide how to weaken the other side. At the same time, you have to make sure no one betrays your plans. And there are times, are there not, when you yourself must do sentry duty like the lowest infantryman. It’s your job, too, to see that no shortages occur, whether of money, arms, food or men. And that means keeping the contributions coming in. You’re constantly having to raise tolls and levies on the entire region. And when you send parties out to collect your income, what they do mainly is pillage, ransack, burn and kill. Only recently they sacked Orb, seized Braunfels, and torched whole towns. All right, they brought home some lovely plunder, but at the cost of massively increasing your debt of guilt in God’s eyes. OK, pleasure may also be to your taste, just as position is. But tell me this: who’s going to share that pleasure? Even supposing you stay rich (and that’s by no means guaranteed), you’ll be leaving your wealth behind when you go; all you’ll be taking are the sins that gained it. Anyway, say you’re lucky enough to benefit from your booty; you’ll only be squandering the sweat and blood of the poor, who live in squalor when they’re not actually starving to death. If I’ve seen it once I’ve seen it a hundred times: how your wits, distracted by the cares of office, keep you awake while I and my fellow calves can settle to sleep in peace without a worry in the world! If you don’t take this or that action, curtains; if you do, you’ll be failing to deal with something else that should have been done if your subjects and the citadel itself are to survive. Look at me: I’ve no such concerns! I know I owe nature a death, so I don’t worry. Let men storm my byre or force me to slog in the fields all day! If I die young – well, I’ll have escaped the hard life of most oxen, that’s all. For you the struggle looks endless: day after day of anxiety, nights of broken sleep. You’ve to suspect every friend as you fear every foe. The thing is, they all think like you: how can I shorten that fellow’s life, steal his money, trash his reputation, undermine his command, or otherwise do the man harm? From foes one expects hatred; it’s only natural. And self-styled friends will secretly envy your success. But you – you’re not even safe from underlings. To say nothing of how ambition drives you on day after day, constantly looking for ways of winning greater glory, higher rank, mounting wealth, playing the next trick on the enemy, taking a key location by surprise – in a nutshell, doing almost anything to hurt others, harm your own soul, and offend the Almighty! And the worst of it is, you’re so surrounded by flattery you no longer know your own mind. Your arse-lickers have so deadened your wits, you can’t see the risks of the path you’ve chosen. Whatever you do, they nod their approval. Your every vice they hail as a virtue. If you’re harsh, they call it justice. And if you scorch the Earth and exterminate the inhabitants, they call you a bold soldier, egging you on to inflict further pain – so keen are they to retain your favour and go on stuffing their purses.’
‘Hark at smarty-pants!’ my master said. ‘Who taught you to sermonize like that?’ ‘But it’s true, master, isn’t it?’ I replied. ‘By blowing in your ear while sitting on their backsides, your toadies have spoilt you so rotten you’re almost past saving. Not to worry. Others will soon see through you. They’ll find plenty to criticize – not just on big issues; on minor matters, too. Look at the greats of old (they’ll say). Is their example nothing to you? The Athenians used to moan about their Simonides, simply because he always shouted. The Thebans complained of their Paniculus’ habit of spitting. The citizens of Sparta rebuked their Lycurgus for the way he kept his head lowered the whole time. In Rome they objected to Scipio snoring so loudly; they even took exception to Pompey scratching himself with only one finger; and Julius Caesar they mocked because he didn’t wear his belt with sufficient style. Uticans slated the great Cato because, as they thought, he chewed too greedily, filling both cheeks. And the men of Carthage criticized Hannibal for always going about bare-chested. What do you say now, master – do you still think I’d want to swap places with a man who on top of having to eat with a dozen or so smarm merchants and scroungers has hundreds, perhaps thousands of clandestine or overt enemies, parasites and jealous rivals? Just think how fulfilled a ruler should feel under whose protection so many folk shelter! Yes, but remember: everyone needs watching over individually, am I right? Every grievance must be listened to. That alone would be labour enough, surely, even without such hostility, such envy? I can see how bitter it must make you, the sheer amount of discontent that lands on your shoulders. And what, dear master, does it bring you in the end? Where does it all get you? If you can’t answer that, let others do so for you. Take Demosthenes the Greek, who boldly and loyally advanced and protected the common good by upholding his fellow Athenians’ rights; contrary to all law and justice, he met with a most cruel misdeed, being banished from the land and reduced to penury. Socrates was even forced to take poison, while Hannibal was treated so badly by his fellows that he had to roam the world as a penniless exile; Roman Camillus likewise. In Greece, Lycurgus and Solon suffered a similar fate: one they stoned, the other first had an eye put out and was then condemned to life banishment as a murderer. So you can keep your command and all you hope to gain. I want none of it. In the best possible case you’ll come away with nothing but a bad conscience. But if you listen to your conscience you’ll be relieved of your command as being incompetent – just as if, like me, you’d been turned into a stupid calf.’
Twelve
Tells how some stupid animals are very well aware
Throughout, everyone stared at me in amazement. Here was a calf, speechifying in a way that (as they thought) only a human being equipped with reason could have done spontaneously. So I cut to the peroration, ending simply, ‘That, dear master, is why I’d rather not swap places with you. Actually, I’ve no desire to at all. Springs offer healthy drinking; I’m better off without your fine wines. And he whose pleasure it is that I become a calf will also find it in him to bless the grass of the field, causing it both to feed me well and give me somewhere nice to lie down, as it once did Nebuchadnezzar. Also, nature has covered me with a good hide. Whereas you will often spew up the costliest nourishment, wine rips your wits apart, and illness of one kind or another promptly lays you low.’
My master replied, ‘What is it with you? For a calf, you seem far too bright. I shouldn’t be surprised if under that hide you were wearing a jester’s outfit.’ I made myself sound cross: ‘Are you really so sure, you humans, that we animals are dumb? I shouldn’t bet on it, if I were you. If animals older than me could talk, they’d soon put you straight. If you think we’re so stupid, tell me this: who taught wood pigeons, jays, blackbirds and partridges how to purge themselves with bay leaves, and who instructed stock doves, turtle doves and hens to use dandelion instead? Or take dogs and cats: who told them to eat grass with the dew still on it to settle a full belly? Or the tortoise to heal bites with hemlock? Or the stag, when shot, to look for some dictamnus or pennyroyal? Who advised weasels to eat rue before going after any sort of bat or snake? Who taught wild boar to recognize ivy or woolly bears mandrake, persuading them that these plants might sometimes do them good? Who first urged female eagles to find aetites to help them lay eggs? Who tips off the mother swallow about treating her chicks’ weak eyes with
celandine? And who teaches snakes to eat fennel when they’re shedding their skins and must enhance their eyesight? Who teaches the stork to purge himself, the pelican to bleed himself, and the bear again – who shows him the secret of drawing bees to his own veins? Why, I might even say: you humans have learnt all you know from us beasts! You gorge and guzzle yourselves till you’re ill, even to death; we animals don’t. A lion or wolf that feels he’s putting on weight will fast till he’s back to his lean, spry, ideally healthy self. Which is the wiser – man or beast? You tell me. Or take the birds of the air. Look at the different ways they build their subtle nests; no one can copy that. Admit it: they’re not only cleverer, they’re also more skilled than you men. Who teaches the summer visitors that as spring approaches they need to come here and breed? And that, come autumn, off they must fly again to spend the winter in warmer lands? Who tells them to agree a place to gather? Who organizes them, or do you humans perhaps lend them a compass to show the route? Hardly. They know the way without you, plus the distance they have to travel – and that’s despite having to break the journey occasionally. They don’t need your compass; they manage without your calendar. Or take the hard-working spider, whose web is little short of miraculous. See if you can find a single mistake in all that weave! What hunter or fisherman has taught the spider how to set his net most effectively, or where to lie in wait for his prey – whether to lurk in the farthest corner or place himself at the web’s very centre? You men profess amazement at Plutarch’s crow, who’ll use his beak to drop enough pebbles into a half-full vessel to bring the water surface up to comfortable drinking height. What would you say, I wonder, if you actually lived among animals, studying their everyday actions, what they do and what they leave undone? You’d have to accept something extraordinary: animals, it seems, have their own natural gifts. They manifest wisdom in every sphere, be it caution, strength, gentleness, timidity, roughness, need to teach, or willingness to learn. They know one another as individuals, imitate what they can use, flee harm, avoid danger, assemble what they need to eat; they can even outwit humans. Many early philosophers seriously considered and were not ashamed to ask and argue whether so-called dumb animals are also capable of reasoning. But let’s not waste time discussing such matters; take a look at bees, watch them make wax and honey, and tell me what you think.’
The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus Page 14
