Part 2
And so the commandant made over to me my dragoon’s old trousers, in which my master had sewed a goodly number of ducats. Out of their vitals I provided myself with a good horse and the best fire-arms I could get; I thereupon polished up my belongings to their utmost possibility of brightness. I got me a new suit of green, for I delighted in the name of “huntsman,” and gave my old garments to my boy, as they had grown too short and too tight for me. I sat on my horse like a young nobleman, and did not think small beer of myself. I took special delight in decorating my hat with a smart bunch of feathers like an officer. There were enough to envy me, and soon words and blows were the order of the day. But no sooner had I given proof to two of my enemies as to the nature of the thrusts I was skilled in, than I was left in peace, and my friendship was much sought for. In our raids upon the enemy I threw myself forward like bubbles in a boiling kettle, to be always the first in the fight. Whenever it was my good fortune to lay hands upon a desirable bit of pillage I shared it freely with the officers. The consequence was that I was allowed to plunder even in forbidden places, and could be secure of protection under all circumstances. So I was soon looked up to by friend and foe, and my purse grew as great as my name; even the peasants I managed to keep upon my side by fear and love, for I took vengeance upon those that tried to hinder me, and gave rich rewards to all who were helpful. I did not confine myself to large schemes, and never despised small ones if there was praise and admiration to be won thereby.
At one time we had been vainly hoping for some waggons with provisions to come into our way at the Castle of Recklinkhausen, and the pangs of hunger were upon us. And when I and my comrade, a student just run away from school, were leaning out of one of the windows, and hungrily gazing out into the country, my companion sighed after the barley-soup of his dear mother, and said: “Ah, brother, isn’t it a shame to think that after having studied all the arts, I should not be able to supply food for myself? Brother, I know for certain, if I were only allowed to visit the parson in yonder village--you can see the church steeple just beyond the poplars--I should find a most excellent feast.”
After a short parley the captain gave us permission; I exchanged my clothes with those of another, and the student and I betook ourselves to the village on a very roundabout way. The reverend gentleman received us civilly. When my companion had greeted him in Latin, accompanying his words with a profound bow, and briskly conjuring up a fine array of lies how the soldiers had robbed him, a poor student, of all his provisions, the parson gave him bread and butter and a drink of beer. I passed myself off as a painter’s apprentice, and acting as if my companion and I had never met before, I told them both I should go down the village street to the inn for refreshment, and would then call for him, as we seemed to be going the same way. So I went away in search of anything that might be worth the trouble of coming for the following night, and I was so fortunate as to meet a peasant who was plastering up an earthen oven in which large loaves of brown bread were to lie and bake for twenty-four hours. I thought, “Go ahead; plaster away! I’ll find you a customer for these delicious viands.” I made but a short stay at the inn, knowing this cheaper way of getting bread, and returned to my companion, who had eaten his fill, and had told the parson that I was on my way to Holland to perfect myself in my art. The parson asked me to go and see the church with him, as he would like to show me some paintings that were in need of restoration. As it would not do to spoil the game, I consented. He conducted us through the kitchen, and when he opened the night-lock on the strong oaken door which led to the churchyard, I saw a wonderful sight. From the black heavens of this kitchen violins, flutes, and cymbals were pendent--in reality they were hams, sausages, and slices of bacon. I looked at them with happy forebodings, and they seemed to smile irritatingly upon me. I wished them in the castle to my comrades, but in vain; they were obstinate, and remained hanging where they were. I mused on ways and means of bringing them under my plan regarding the peasant’s loaves of bread, but there were serious difficulties in the way, as the yard of the parsonage was surrounded by a stone wall, and all the windows were well protected with iron bars. Moreover, there were two large dogs in the yard that certainly would object to having that stolen the remnants of which was, in the course of time, to be the reward due to their watchfulness.
Once in church, it appeared that the parson generously intended to entrust me with the restoration of his old pictures. As I was exerting myself to find some plausible subterfuge, the sexton turned to me and said: “Fellow, you look more like a disreputable soldier-lad than like a painter.” I was no longer accustomed to such speeches, and yet there was nothing for it but to swallow the taunt. I shook my head softly and replied, “Oh, you knave! give me a brush and colours, and I will paint a fool in a twinkling who shall resemble you throughout.”
The parson made a joke of the matter, and reminded both of us that it is not meet to tell each other unsavoury truths in so holy a spot. Then he gave us another drink, and we departed. But I left my heart with the sausages.
Returning to our people, I picked out six reliable fellows to help me carry home the bread. About midnight we entered the village and quietly took the bread out of the oven, and as we were about to pass the parsonage I could not bring myself to go on without the bacon. I stood still and looked up and down to discover some way into the parson’s kitchen, but there was no opening except the chimney. We stored our guns and our treasured booty of bread in the charnel-house of the churchyard, managed to get a ladder and rope out of the barn, and I and my crony Springinsfeld climbed up on the tiled roof. I twisted my long hair into a top-knot, and let myself down by the rope to the objects of my desire. Once there, I did not delay, and tied ham after ham, and sausage after sausage to the rope. Springinsfeld fished everything out skilfully from his post on the roof and handed it down to the others. But, alack-a-day! as I was just going to give myself a holiday and come out, the pole that I was standing on gave way, and poor Simplicisimus was suddenly precipitated, and found himself in as bad a fix as need be--in fact, it was like a regular man-trap. Springinsfeld tried to help me by letting down the rope, but that also broke. I said to myself, “Now, huntsman, you are in for a chase in which there will be small mercy for your hide.”
Sure enough, my fall had waked up the parson, and he called his cook and bade her strike a light. She appeared in night-attire, her petticoat around her shoulders, and stood close beside me. She seized a coal from the hearth, held her candle up close to it, and began to blow. At the same time I blew much stronger than she, which frightened the poor body so that she dropped both candle and coal, and retreated near her master. Now the parson himself struck a light, while the woman was telling him there was a horrible two-headed ghost crouching in the kitchen; she had probably mistaken my top-knot for a second head. When I heard this I quickly rubbed my face and hands with ashes and soot, until I doubtless bore small resemblance to the angel I had figured for at the nunnery. And if the sexton could have seen me thus occupied, he would certainly have given me credit for being a rapid painter. Thereupon I began to make as much noise as I possibly could, throwing pans and kettles about. I hung the ring of the large kettle about my neck, and took the poker in my hand, to have a weapon in case of need. All this did not put out the pious parson, who approached as if he were heading a procession, his cook behind him, carrying two wax tapers and a stoup. He was attired in his surplice, and had a book in one hand and his holy-water sprinkle in the other. He read some ritual of exorcism aloud before me, and then asked me who I was, and what was my business here. Seeing that he was labouring under the impression that I was the Evil One, I thought it but fair that I should act in accordance with my new _rôle_, and I answered him as I had once answered the robbers in the woods, “I am the devil, and I have come to turn your neck, and your servant’s as well.” He thereupon tried his most potent charm, “All good spirits praise the Lord! I conjure thee, return from whither thou comest!” I replied that this was impossible, happy though I should be to comply with his request.
Meanwhile my boon-companion Springinsfeld was indulging in spectral revelries upon the roof. When he heard what was going on in the kitchen below, and how I was passing myself off for the devil, he began to hoot like an owl, then barking like a dog, neighing like a horse, bleating like a sheep, crying like a donkey, cackling down the chimney like a hen about to lay an egg, and then again giving forth unearthly music like a hundred serenading cats; for this fellow was clever in imitating the voices of animals, and could howl as naturally as if a pack of wolves were standing about the house.
During the consternation of the parson and his charming feminine choir-boy I had time to look about me, and, to my joy, I made the discovery that the night-lock had not been put on the back door. Quick as a flash I pushed back the bolt, slipped out into the churchyard, where my companions were standing with triggers drawn, and left the parson to conjure devils as long as he pleased. And when Springinsfeld came down from the roof, bringing my hat along, and we had packed our spoils upon our shoulders, we returned to our party, not having anything more to do in the village, though I admit that we might have returned the borrowed ladder and rope.
_Christoffel von Grimmelshausen_ (1620-1676).
_THE REVOLT IN THE THEATRE._
(FROM ACT I. OF “A TOPSY-TURVY WORLD.”)
SCARAMUCCIO.[1] POET.
SCARAMUCCIO.
No, Sir Poet, say what you please, talk as you wish, make as many objections as you can possibly make, it shall in no wise alter my purpose, to listen to nothing, to consider nothing, to insist upon having my own way,--so there!
POET.
Dear Scaramuccio!
SCARAMUCCIO.
I listen to nothing. Look, Sir Poet, how I am stopping up my ears.
POET.
But the piece----
SCARAMUCCIO.
Nonsense! the piece! I am a piece too, and I have a perfect right to say my say. Or do you suppose I have no will of my own? Do you poets labour under the delusion that a gentleman actor is called upon to do just as you say? My dear sir, know you not that the times are changing?
POET.
But the spectators----
SCARAMUCCIO.
And because there are spectators in the world, would you make me unhappy? Nice principles those!
POET.
Friend, you must listen to me.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Very well then, if I must. Here I sit; now talk like a sensible man, if it is in your nature so to do. (_Sits down on the ground._)
POET.
Most esteemed Sir Scaramuccio! Your Grace has been engaged at this theatre for a special _rôle_--in a word, to express myself briefly, you are the _Scaramuccio_. It is not to be denied that you have reached a degree of excellence in this your speciality, and there is no man in the world more willing than myself to do justice to your talents; but, my dear sir, for all that you are not possessed of the qualities fitting you for a tragedian; for all that you will never be able to play a lofty character.
SCARAMUCCIO.
The impudence of it! By my soul, I’ll play you a loftier character than you will be able to write. I take your remark as a personal insult, and I challenge the whole world to out-do me in the high and lofty.
SCAEVOLA (_one of the spectators_).
Oh, Sir Scaramuccio, we’ll all take up your challenge.
SCARAMUCCIO.
How so? What now? I confess I am struck dumb by this insolence.
SCAEVOLA.
My dear sir, there is no cause for that. I am here for my money, Sir Scaramuccio, and I can think what I please.
SCARAMUCCIO.
You are free to think as you see best, but you are not allowed to speak here.
SCAEVOLA.
So long as you may speak, I don’t see why I shouldn’t.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Well, then, what have you done that was so noble?
SCAEVOLA.
The day before yesterday I helped my spendthrift of a nephew out of his debts.
SCARAMUCCIO.
And yesterday I saved the prompter from talking himself hoarse by leaving out a whole scene.
SCAEVOLA.
I was in a merry humour at table one day last week, and gave a whole shilling in charity.
SCARAMUCCIO.
The day before yesterday I quarrelled with my tailor, who came to dun me, and I had the last word.
SCAEVOLA.
A week ago I helped get a tipsy man home.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Sir, I was this tipsy man; but I had been drinking my sovereign’s health.
SCAEVOLA.
I confess myself vanquished.
(_Enter Pierrot in a state of excitement._)
POET.
What’s the matter, Pierrot?
PIERROT.
What’s the matter? I will not play to-day. On no account will I play.
POET.
Why not?
PIERROT.
Why not? Because it’s high time for me to become a spectator. I’ve been a _mime_ long enough.
(_Enter Wagemann, the manager._)
POET.
You are just in time, Herr Wagemann. There is confusion abroad.
WAGEMANN.
How so?
POET.
Pierrot will not play to-day. He wants to be a spectator, and Scaramuccio insists upon taking the _rôle_ of Apollo in my drama.
SCARAMUCCIO.
And am I not right, Herr Wagemann? I have played the fool long enough, and I should like to try my hand at the wise.
WAGEMANN.
You are too severe, Sir Poet. You must give the poor fellows a little more liberty. Let them have it their own way.
POET.
But the requirements of the drama, of art----
WAGEMANN.
Oh, all that will come right enough. Look you, my way of thinking is this--the spectators have paid their money, and with that the most important thing is regulated.
PIERROT.
Adieu, Sir Poet. I go to join the illustrious assembly of spectators. I will venture the bold leap over the footlights, to see if I can be cured of being a fool, and graduate to a spectator. (_Sings._) Fare-thee-well, thou old love; a new life is dawning for me, and most sensible impulses are moving my heart. No footlight shall affright me, no prompter can hold me. Ah, I would taste the peaceful bliss of being an auditor. Receive me, wild waves; stage, fare-thee-well, my spirit yearns to be drawn beyond thy precincts. (_Jumps into the parterre._) Where am I? Oh heavens! do I still breathe? Ah! is it possible I stand here below? The rays of the footlights shine over yonder. Ye gods, ye behold me surrounded by people. Who gave me this life, this better life?
THE AUDIENCE.
Monsieur Pierrot is one of us. A hearty welcome to thee, Spectator Pierrot. We greet thee, thou great man!
PIERROT.
Can it be, ye noble ones, that you will count me as your brother? Ah, my gratitude will last as long as there is breath within this bosom.
GRÜNHELM (_one of the spectators_).
Glorious, glorious! By my soul he speaks well! But as for me, I should like to take a part on the stage for a change; it would do my heart good. To be sure I tremble and stammer, and my wit is not of the quickest, but I am never so happy as when I am making a little joke. (_He scrambles up on the stage._) And so, Sir Scaramuccio, leave your funny _rôle_ to me, and then, for all I care, you may play the Apollo.
POET.
And what then is to become of my excellent drama?
AUDIENCE.
Scaramuccio shall play the Apollo. It is a unanimous decision.
POET.
’Tis well. I wash my hands of it. The audience may bear the responsibility. I am deeply miserable. Ah, yes, it is the fate of Art to be misunderstood and travestied, and it is only then that it finds its public. In vengeance for the judgment passed upon Marsyas, Poetry herself is flayed alive to-day. My sorrow is greater than I can endure. Herr Grünhelm, so you undertake to do the joking?
GRÜNHELM.
I do, Sir Poet, and I will hold my own against any rival.
POET.
How will you do it?
GRÜNHELM.
Sir, I have been one of those whose chief business it is to be amused long enough to know what will please. The people down there want to be entertained. At bottom that is the only reason they stand there so quietly and patiently. The good-will of the public is the principal thing, I know that as well as you do. True art is to keep this good-will on the surface.
POET.
Yes, of course, but by what means do you propose----?
GRÜNHELM.
Let that be my care, Sir Poet. (_Sings_:)
“A fowler’s trade is mine, heigh-ho,” etc.
AUDIENCE.
Bravo! bravo!
GRÜNHELM.
Are you pretty well amused, gentlemen?
AUDIENCE.
Excellently, most excellently!
GRÜNHELM.
Do you feel a longing for anything reasonable?
AUDIENCE.
No, no; but by-and-by we should like to have our feelings worked upon.
GRÜNHELM.
Patience, you can’t have all good things in a lump. Do you miss the genuine Apollo?
AUDIENCE.
Not in the least.
GRÜNHELM.
Well, Sir Poet, do you still object to granting the excellent Scaramuccio’s request?
POET.
Not in the least. I withdraw all my objections.
AUDIENCE.
But we don’t want him to give us nothing but nonsense.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Mercy on us! We would not be guilty of such a sinful thing. What kind of an Apollo were I if I should admit of that? No, gentlemen, there shall be an abundance of serious things--things to think about, things to train one’s intellectual faculties.
SCAEVOLA.
Is it to be a tragedy?
PIERROT.
No, gentlemen, we actors have all sworn that we will not die, so it won’t be a tragedy, whatever the poet may have in his mind.
SCAEVOLA.
I am relieved to hear it, for I am possessed of a very soft heart.
PIERROT.
Hang it, sir, neither are we made of stone and iron. I have the honour of assuring you that my susceptibilities are uncommonly delicate. The devil take all inelegancies.
SCAEVOLA.
That is what I say. There is nothing above being a spectator. It is the highest thing one can be.
PIERROT.
Ay, that it is. Are we not more than all the emperors and princes that are but acted?
SCARAMUCCIO.
Thunder and lightning! Where, in the hangman’s name, is my Parnassus?
GRÜNHELM.
I will go and get it. (_Exit._)
WAGEMANN.
Now all is in order. Adieu, Sir Scaramuccio.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Your humble servant. Beg you to express my respects to Madam, your wife. (_The manager exit. Three attendants enter, carrying the Parnassus._) Put it down here,--a trifle further to this side, so that I can hear the prompter. (_He climbs up and takes a seat._) A pleasant mount this. What revenues does it yield? Can any one tell me? Send for the treasurer.
(_Enter the Treasurer._)
SCARAMUCCIO.
What does the mount bring me annually?
TREASURER.
Under your predecessor, the only profits derived were those from the Castalian Spring.
SCARAMUCCIO.
What sort of a spring? Was it a mineral spring; a sulphur spring, perhaps? Was there much demand for the waters? What was the price per bottle?
TREASURER.
What little there was wanted was given away. Few people liked the water. Your predecessor, the other Apollo, was fond of it.
SCARAMUCCIO.
I hope there are no mortgages on the mount?
TREASURER.
No, your majesty.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Is it insured?
TREASURER.
Oh, yes.
SCARAMUCCIO.
There is some security in that. I shall have a brewery and a bakery put up at the foot. The common pastures must be otherwise disposed of; Pegasus and the other beasts that belong to me must henceforth be fed in the stable.
TREASURER.
It shall be as you say.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Have the spectators paid for the play?
TREASURER.
Yes, your excellency.
SCARAMUCCIO.
I hereby decree that there shall be no complimentary tickets in future.
TREASURER.
These are innovations not at all in accordance with the institutions of Greece.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Hang Greece! Thank goodness we live in better times. This is an age of enlightenment, and I reign supreme. Send for the Muses. (_Exit the Treasurer._)
(_Enter the nine Muses, bowing profoundly._)
SCARAMUCCIO (_lightly nodding to them_).
Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselles. Hope we shall get on finely together. Henceforth you shall be my tenants on the Parnassus. Should you ever desire to change your residence, quarterly notice is required. What is your name, fair child?
MELPOMENE.
I am Melpomene.
SCARAMUCCIO.
You look so woe-begone.
MELPOMENE.
Oh, Herr Apollo! I am of a very good family. My father had a high position at court, and the thane gave me a matchless education. Ah, how happy I was in my parents’ house, and what a dutiful daughter did I strive to be! I also had a lover, but he jilted me, and my parents died of grief. Our family physician, a worthy man, took an interest in me; but he was too poor to marry me, so there was nothing for it but to join the Muses. Have I no right to be sad?
SCARAMUCCIO.
Yes indeed, my child; but I will be as a father to you.
SCAEVOLA (_to another spectator_).
Now see, for heaven’s sake, how the tears are flowing from my eyes.
THE OTHER.
Why, neighbour, save them for the fifth act.
SCARAMUCCIO.
And who are you, pretty maid?
THALIA.
Thank you kindly, sir, for asking; I was christened Thalia. I was a servant in the family of this excellent lady, and I could not bring myself to leave her in her distress, and followed her among the Muses.
SCARAMUCCIO.
When the last act comes your faithfulness will surely be rewarded. Where is my groom?
(_Enter the Groom._)
SCARAMUCCIO.
Saddle my Pegasus. I wish to go riding.
(_Exit the Groom, coming back immediately with a bridled donkey._)
Help me. (_He gets in the saddle._)
GROOM.
By what rules of quantity does your Honour choose to take his pleasure to-day?
SCARAMUCCIO.
Oh, fool! I will ride in plain, sensible prose. Do you suppose I wish to be jolted in Alcaic measures, or break my neck in Proceleusmatics? No, I am for sense and order.
GROOM.
Your predecessor was always flying in the air.
SCARAMUCCIO.
Don’t talk to me about the fellow. He must have been a very clown, a most eccentric ass. To fly into the air! No, the air has no pillars, I am all for the earth. Adieu, my friends! I am only going to ride a short essay on the value of family portraits. I shall be back presently. (_He rides slowly away._)
(_The curtain drops._)
SCAEVOLA.
That was only the introduction.
PIERROT.
The first act is always of great importance for the lucidity of the whole.
THE OTHER TO SCAEVOLA.
There is much morality in the piece.
SCAEVOLA.
Indeed there is; I feel myself growing better already.
PIERROT.
Music!
_Ludwig Tieck_ (1773-1853).
_THE UNACCOUNTABLE STRANGER._
(FROM SCENE IV. OF “A TOPSY-TURVY WORLD.”)
(_The room of an Inn._)
INNKEEPER.