Twenty-Four
The Huntsman bags a hare, right in the town centre
As I said, my landlord had several strings to his bow, i.e. various ways of filling the coffers. He shared his lodgers’ grub rather than they his, though with the money they brought in he could have done himself and his household proud, stuffing them to the gills, the old miser. He was mean, I have to say. He often held back most of what the students provided. I didn’t eat with them to begin with; I ate with the kids and the servants. I wasn’t carrying much cash, you see. The portions were tiny, and my stomach, by now used to Westphalian rations, started to feel quite weird. Our table never saw a proper hunk of meat – only what the students had left the week before. That was well gnawed already and as grey as Methuselah. The landlord’s wife (who had to do the cooking herself, he being too mean to pay for a maid) used to make soup with it, a murky, sour-tasting broth, vastly over-peppered. The bones were licked so clean you could have turned chess pieces from them. However, that didn’t mean they were done with, oh no, they were tossed into a special pot and later, when the old skinflint thought there were enough, we had to smash them into little pieces and boil every last bit of marrow out of them to go in soup or be used to wax boots for all I know. On fast days (and there were plenty of those, all strictly observed since in this regard the master of the house was the soul of piety) we’d get foul-smelling herrings, salt cod and other stinking fish to slurp and chew. With him, cheapness was of the essence. He took economy to the point of visiting the fish market himself and coming back with what the men were about to throw away. Our bread was usually black in colour and stale in consistency. Our drink was a thin beer so vinegary it was like a knife in the gut, yet it still went by the name of premium ale. I gathered from the German groom that in summer things were even worse: the bread was mouldy, the meat full of maggots; a couple of radishes for lunch and a handful of lettuce for supper were as good as it got. I asked him why he stayed with the old meanie. He was away most of the time, he answered, and his mind was more on the tourists’ tips than on his penny-pinching master. The man was so mean, he’d not allow his wife or kids down in the cellar. He wouldn’t even let himself lick the drips off the wine taps. He was a world-champion bean-counter, the groom told me. What I’d seen so far was nothing. When I’d been there a bit longer I’d realize: he wouldn’t hesitate to flay a donkey for coppers. He once brought six pounds of tripe home and stuck it in his larder. His children, delighted to find the window open, tied a table fork to a long stick and hoicked the whole lot out. They downed it at speed, half-cooked, and blamed the cat. Refusing to believe them, the money-grubber grabbed the moggie, put her on the scales, and found she weighed less than the tripe. He was so shamelessly mean that I asked to be allowed to eat not with the staff any more but with the student lodgers, cost what it might. There was a slight improvement, but I scarcely noticed because everything set before us was underdone. For the landlord that meant a double economy, of course: he saved on firewood, and we didn’t eat as much. Plus (as it seemed to me) he counted each mouthful as it went in and scratched himself behind the ears at the least sign of hearty eating. His wine was two parts water and certainly no aid to digestion; the cheese served up at the end of each meal was usually as hard as stone and the Dutch butter so salty that none of us could eat more than the tiniest bit; the fruit had to visit the table several times before it was ripe enough to bite into; and if anyone complained he’d give his wife such a scolding as could be heard from the kitchen (while secretly advising her to keep up the good work). One time a client gifted him a hare. I saw it hanging in the larder and thought: whoopee, we’re going to be served game. But I was advised (again by the German groom) that we wouldn’t be getting any of that. His master was in the business of flogging board and lodging, not serving slap-up nosh. I should go down to the Old Market just before closing time; things were after— well, I’d see. So what I did, I made a little nick in one of the hare’s ears, and as we were sitting at lunch and our host was nowhere to be seen, I told my fellow boarders that the old miser had a hare to sell and I’d formed a plan to swindle him out of it. If anyone cared to keep me company we’d not only have some fun; we’d get the hare as well. They all said they would, having long wanted to play a trick on the man that he wouldn’t be able to take out on them afterwards. So off we trooped to the Old Market, taking up a position near where the groom had told me our host liked to stand when something of his was being sold. If he saw what price it fetched, he could check he wasn’t being robbed – that was his thinking. We watched him chatting to some big cheeses. I’d arranged for a bloke to go up to the auctioneer and say, ‘Here, friend, that’s my hare, and it’s my good right to claim it back as stolen property. It was nabbed through my larder window only yesterday, and if you don’t hand it over willingly I’ll take you before any judge you like. You’ll run the additional risk of having costs ruled against you.’ The auctioneer replied that he’d have to see; he’d been given the hare to sell by a respectable citizen who certainly wouldn’t have stolen it. As the two debated the matter, a crowd began to gather. Our miser, sensing the way the wind was blowing and fearing for the reputation of his boarding house, signalled to the auctioneer to hand the hare over. However, the bloke I’d put up to it cunningly showed the crowd the missing piece of ear, then fitted it into the nick in a way that proved he was the rightful owner. At this point, I and my party approached as if we’d just happened along, surrounded the bloke holding the hare, and began bargaining with him. The sale once agreed, I handed the hare to my landlord with the request that he take it home and cook it for our supper. Then, turning to the bloke with whom I’d made the arrangement, instead of the sale price I gave him a tip – in the event, a couple of beers. The net result: our tight-fisted host had to give us the hare after all – plus his lips were sealed. We had a good laugh about that, I can tell you. And if I’d stayed longer in his house, I’d have played many a trick like it on the niggard.
END OF BOOK THREE
Book Four
* * *
One
How and why the Huntsman was whisked off to France
Over-grinding makes the blade jagged, and if the bow’s drawn too tight it will snap. The hare scam wasn’t enough for me. I went further, determined to inflict even harsher punishment on the old tightwad for his immeasurable greed. I showed his boarders how to wet the over-salty butter and wash the excess salt out. I taught them the knack of chopping the hard cheese (it was like Parmesan, I swear) into pieces and softening them with wine. Two additional thorns in the miser’s side. Another trick I played at table was pretending to extract water from the wine. I made up a song in which I compared the old miser to a fat pig, of which no good would come till the butcher spread his carcass on the slaughterhouse bench. It wasn’t what he’d taken me into his house for – and in the end he repaid me with the following neat ruse.
His guests included two youngsters of noble family whose parents had instructed them to move to France and learn the language of that country. Our landlord’s German groom was away at the time and the French one (so the landlord said) couldn’t be trusted with the horses in France. He didn’t know the lad well enough yet and claimed to be worried he might forget to come back, keeping the horses instead. So he asked me if I wouldn’t mind doing him the huge favour (given that my case couldn’t possibly be settled in the month I’d be away) of escorting the noble sprogs, together with the hired horses, to Paris. In the meantime, if I’d give him full power of attorney, he’d attend to my affairs as faithfully as if I was present in person. The young toffs begged me to agree, and my own desire to see France urged me in the same direction. Plus the trip wouldn’t cost me much, I reckoned, and I’d only fritter away the four weeks lightening my pockets anyway. So off I went, playing postilion to the two aristos, and nothing of note happened to me on the way. However, when we reached Paris and called on our landlord’s business contact, where the nobs could cash their bill of
exchange, next day I was held there – and the horses, too. Worse: no matter what I said (and God knows I objected), the contact, claiming my landlord owed him money, seized the nags with the compliance of the local police and sold them for cash. So there I sat, at a loss how to help myself, let alone risk what was sure to be a long and might well be a dangerous return trip. The nobles felt sorry for me (hence the nice fat tip I trousered) and wouldn’t say a definitive goodbye until I was in a solid job or had at least found a good way of getting back to Germany. They found lodgings for themselves, and I stayed with them for several days to nurse one of them – who was feeling below par, being unaccustomed to so much travelling. This position I filled so satisfactorily that he gave me his old outfit as soon as he’d kitted himself out in the latest style. The pair advised me to stay in Paris for a couple of years, learning the language; what I’d wanted to fetch in Cologne wasn’t going to run away. So I was at a loose end, still wondering what to do, when the quack who popped in daily to treat the sick patrician heard me singing a German ditty, accompanying myself on the lute. He liked what he heard so much that he offered me good wages, plus free board and lodging, if I’d move into his place and give lessons to his two sons. Understanding my situation better than I did myself, he could see I wasn’t going to refuse a good employer. So we quickly reached agreement, with the two toffs giving me a glowing reference. Even so, I committed myself to the doctor for no more than three months.
My new master spoke High German as well as I did and Italian like his mother tongue, which further endeared him in my eyes. However, as I ate a farewell meal with my aristocrat friends (the quack was there too), dark thoughts were running through my mind. I’d left behind my newly wed wife, the promise of promotion and my hoard in Cologne, all three of which I’d rather lightly let myself be talked into abandoning. Moreover, as the talk turned to our old landlord and his greed, the idea struck me (and I voiced it aloud): ‘What if the man arranged to have me whisked off to Paris because he wanted to get his hands on my property and keep it for himself?’ The doc thought that might well be, particularly if he assumed I was of humble birth. ‘No,’ one of the young aristos replied. ‘If he was sent here with a view to him staying, it was because he gave the landlord such hassle over his money-grubbing.’ The one who’d been ill spoke up: ‘I think there’s a different reason. I was lying in my room one day when I heard our host and his French groom exchanging words outside. Wondering what they were talking about, I listened in. From the Frenchman’s broken German, it sounded as if the Huntsman had been slagging him (the servant) off in front of the ladies for failing to look after the horses as he should. Not exactly a wordsmith himself, the jealous miser misunderstood this to mean that he (the boarder) was having it off with his wife. He assured the groom he’d be staying but the Huntsman would shortly be out on his ear. After that he started throwing his wife dirty looks and grousing about her more than before, as I noticed the fellow doing myself.’
‘Whatever the reason,’ the doctor said, ‘I bet things were rigged to force him to stay here. But don’t worry – I’ll see that he gets back to Germany safely. I think he’d better write, though, and tell the man to keep a close eye on the hoard or he’ll be held legally responsible.’ Turning directly to me, he added, ‘I’m beginning to suspect this was a put-up job from start to finish. The fellow who posed as the creditor is a close associate of your landlord and of his business partner here. I’d go so far as to say that the bond permitting the fraudster to seize and sell the horses was one you yourself brought with you to Paris.’
Two
Simplicius gets a better landlord than he had before
Monsigneur Canard, as my new master was called, offered to help me in any way he could to retain ownership of my hoard in Cologne. He could see I was unhappy. As soon as I was installed in his home, he asked me to give him a full account of my affairs. Then he’d know how best to advise me. I was afraid it wouldn’t do me much good to reveal my background to him, so I pretended to be an impoverished German aristocrat, one who had neither father nor mother but only a lot of minor family members in a citadel currently occupied by a Swedish garrison. However, this I had to conceal from my landlord and the two young nobs (who were of the Catholic persuasion) in case they seized what was mine as enemy property. I said I might write to the commandant of said citadel, in whose regiment I held the position of ensign, tell him the trick that had been played on me here, and ask him if he’d be so good as to get hold of my stuff and distribute it among my friends until such time as I could return and take up my commission. Canard thought this was a good idea and promised to make sure my letter reached its destination, wherever that might be – Mexico or China, even. So I sat down and composed letters to my darling, to my father-in-law and to Colonel de S. A., Commandant of L., to whom I addressed the whole package, enclosing the other two missives. The gist was, my main aim was to return as soon as I could get the money together for such a long trip. I asked both my father-in-law and the colonel to proceed to military means if necessary in order to recover my stuff while they still could. I also, while I was at it, itemized the gold, silver and jewellery involved. Plus I made copies of all the letters, giving the originals to M. Canard to send and posting the copies. That way, if one of the letters didn’t arrive, a duplicate should. So it was in a rather better mood that I set about teaching my master’s two sons – a job that was made easier by their being brought up as young princes. M. Canard was very rich, you see, which made him extremely haughty in his manner, determined to stand out. It was a disease he’d caught from high-ups, hobnobbing with princes almost daily and aping their ways. His own house was like a nobleman’s schloss. The only thing missing was that no one addressed him as ‘Your Grace’. He thought he was the bee’s knees, though, and even when a marquis called to consult him he declined to treat the man as a superior. He ministered to lesser folk, too, and rather than take less money off them he charged them nothing at all. Good for his reputation, wasn’t it? I took an interest in the whole business, and once I’d realized that he was using me to show off when I and other members of his staff came trotting in behind him on house calls, I also, back at the house, offered to help prepare remedies in his laboratory. That put me on pretty good terms with the man, and since he enjoyed speaking German anyway I once enquired why he didn’t apply for an ‘of’ after his name, now that he’d bought a noble seat outside Paris for 20,000 crowns? I also asked why he was so keen to turn his sons into doctors, making them study so hard? With his star riding so high, why not follow the example of other aristos and buy the boys titles of one kind or another, ennobling them properly? ‘No,’ he replied. ‘When I call on a prince, I’ll be told, “Won’t the doctor please take a seat?” Whereas a nobleman will be told, “Wait here!” ’ ‘But,’ I said, ‘hasn’t the doctor heard the one about medics having three faces: that of an angel, when the patient first claps eyes on him; then that of a God, when the pain eases; thirdly, that of a devil when, restored to health, the former invalid sees him and his bill off the premises? Any respect lasts only as long as the patient’s flatulence. Once the burps have gone and the rumbling stops, so does the respect. Then it’s: “You know where the door is, doc.” Surely the reverse is true: your nob earns more kudos standing than a doctor does sitting down, because he gets to wait on his prince every day. He has the honour of never leaving the prince’s side. Weren’t you recently, sir, required to pop a prince’s stool into your mouth and taste it? I’d sooner be kept waiting for ages than be asked to sink my teeth into another man’s shit, even if I was being paid well over the odds.’ ‘I didn’t have to do it,’ was his reply. ‘I did it willingly. I thought: if the prince sees how far I’m prepared to go in order to investigate his condition thoroughly, he’ll respect me even more. Anyway, who wouldn’t try one of his turds if it was going to bring in several hundred gold pistoles? When I give him something quite different to swallow I don’t have to pay him anything. No, you’re talking l
ike a German here. If you belonged to any other nation I’d say you were talking like a fool!’ At this point I shut up. He was getting angry, I could see. So to put him back in a good mood I asked him to excuse my simple-mindedness and changed the subject.
Three
How he let himself be put on the stage and was given a new name
Just as M. Canard chucked out more game than many who have their own hunting preserve get to eat, so he was gifted more butcher’s meat than he and his household could consume. As a result, every day he fed a great many freeloaders. He might have been holding open house. On one occasion the king’s master of ceremonies came to visit, along with other top courtiers. He put a princely collation in front of them, very much alive to where his friends were – namely, in constant attendance on the king or at any rate not far from where he was standing. Desperate to show egregious willingness and give them the finest possible time, he begged me to be so good as to do him and this illustrious company the honour of entertaining them with a German song, accompanying myself on the lute. I was happy to comply, feeling very much in the mood (he’s often a grumpy sod, your musician), so I went ahead and set out my best china. The listeners were delighted, and the master of ceremonies said what a pity it was that I didn’t speak French – he’d have been glad to present me to the king and queen. However, my master, fearful of having me lured away from his service, answered that I was of noble birth, didn’t plan to stay in France long, and could hardly accept a musical position. To this the master of ceremonies replied that never in his life had he come across so handsome a presence, so sonorous a voice, and such dexterity on the lute combined in a single person. If I could anyhow be persuaded, I simply must feature in a theatrical performance before the king to be staged at the Louvre Palace. M. Canard translated the man’s words, and my response was: if I was told what sort of character I was playing and what songs I had to sing, I could memorize both the tunes and the words and extemporize my own accompaniment, even if the words were in French. I was surely as smart as the schoolboys who usually filled such roles – and they had to learn them by heart anyway, didn’t they? I was keen, obviously, so the master of ceremonies made me promise to come to the Louvre next day for an audition. Arriving punctually, with the score in front of me I played off the melodies of the various songs I was required to sing virtually note-perfect. The words I learnt by rote, taking a lot of trouble over the pronunciation, and the pieces were translated into German for me, enabling me to practise the gestures. None of this presented much of a problem. In fact, I did better than expected, and hearing me sing (what with M. Canard praising my efforts), people swore I sounded like a Frenchman born and bred. When the cast assembled to rehearse the play for the first time, I managed to combine songs, melodies and acting to such good effect that everyone said I must have played Orpheus oftener than I’d said, so achingly did I miss my Eurydice. The day when that play was performed was the happiest of my entire life. M. Canard gave me something to make my voice sound even clearer, and when he tried to enhance my appearance with oleo talci and to powder my gentle black curls, which twinkled with stars, he found he couldn’t improve on nature. A laurel wreath crowned my head, and I wore a classical sea-green tunic that left my whole throat, the upper part of my chest, the arms below the elbow, and the knees from mid-thigh to halfway down the calf naked and exposed. Around it I flung a skin-toned taffeta cloak – more like a flag than a cloak, actually. In this fetching get-up I snogged my precious Eurydice, sang a pretty song invoking the aid of Venus, and finally whisked my sweetheart off the stage. I was particularly good in this scene, sighing deeply over my heart’s desire and darting a few suggestive looks in her direction. After I’d lost my Eurydice, I left the stage for a costume change, donning a totally black outfit cut in the same style. My white skin glowed like snow through the black as I mourned my lost bride. So vividly did I picture my plight that, what with my mournful numbers and their haunting melodies, something of a lump came to my throat. However, I solved that problem with a neat bit of business before coming before Pluto and Proserpina in Hades. To them I sang a gut-wrenching ditty in which I evoked the love they felt for each other and asked them to imagine the pain Eurydice and I were experiencing as a result of our separation. With irresistibly sentimental acting and some juicy lute accompaniment, I begged them to bring her back to me, and when they agreed I thanked them with a very jolly ditty. In this one I contrived to blend features, gestures and voice into so harmonious a whole that the entire audience marvelled. Then, when Eurydice was abruptly taken from me again, I tried to imagine the worst catastrophe that could befall any man. So pale did I turn, I looked as if I was about to faint. I was the only character onstage at the time and every eye was on me, so I really threw myself into the part. Afterwards I had the honour of being told that I’d been the most authentic actor of all. In the next scene, sitting on a rock, I began lamenting the loss of my loved one in pitiful words set to a really sad tune. I appealed to all living creatures for sympathy, whereupon animals of all kinds, domesticated and wild, as well as hills, trees, etc., gathered around me. It really looked as if everything had been arranged by magic – supernaturally, almost. The only mistake I made was towards the end, after I’d renounced women altogether, been throttled by the Bacchantes, and had my body flung into the water (this was mimicked by having only my head showing while the rest of me was tucked away under the stage, well out of sight). At this point the dragon was supposed to take a bite out of me, but the bloke hidden inside who should have been controlling its movements couldn’t see where my head was and made the beast graze slightly to one side. This I found so absurd that I couldn’t hide my irritation – as the ladies, with their eyes of course glued to me, couldn’t help noticing.
The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus Page 30
