Simplicissimus (11 page)

The funniest thing about this was that I had no idea where all this giddiness came from since the effect of wine and even drunkenness itself were unknown to me. It set off all kinds of fantastic ideas in my mind as I thought about it; I could see the strange expressions on their faces but did not know what had caused them. Up to that point each one had emptied his plate with a good appetite, but once their bellies were full they were hard put to it to carry on, like a waggoner who can get along fine with his fresh team on level ground but hardly moves at all going uphill. But once their heads were full as well, this physical incapacity was compensated for by other qualities they had imbibed along with the wine: in the one case boldness, in another the sincere desire to drink a toast to his friend or in a third good old-fashioned German chivalry that will not leave a toast unacknowledged. There came a point, however, when even these noble qualities failed them. Then they started challenging each other to pledge their lords, one of their friends or their mistress by pouring the wine down their throats by the quart. Many paled at the thought and broke out in a cold sweat, but the bumper had to be downed. Eventually they started making a racket with drums, fifes and lutes as each measure was emptied, and let off their pistols at the same time, doubtless because the wine had to take their bellies by storm. I could not work out where they put it all. What I did not know was that even before the wine had had a chance to warm up inside them they very painfully brought it up out of the same orifice down which they had just poured it at great danger to their health.

The pastor was also present at this banquet and, being human like all the rest, had to leave the room. I followed and asked him, ‘Pastor, why are the people behaving so strangely? What makes them reel about like that? It seems to me they have taken leave of their senses. They have eaten and drunk their fill. Devil take them, they keep on saying, if they can drink any more, and yet they still don’t stop tossing it back. Are they forced to do this or do they squander the wine of their own free will and against God’s?’

‘My dear child’, the pastor replied, ‘when the wine comes in the door, a man’s wits fly out of the window. This is nothing compared to what is still to come. They will probably not break up until shortly before dawn. Even though their bellies are crammed full they still have a long way to go before they are really merry.’

‘But’, I said, ‘won’t their bellies burst if they keep on stuffing so much in? And how can their souls, which are in the likeness of God, remain in such hoggish bodies, where they must feel as if they were imprisoned in the darkest of dungeons, the most verminous of jails, without the least spark of godliness? How can their noble souls allow themselves to be tormented in this way? Is it not as if their senses, which ought to be the instruments of their souls, were buried in the bowels of brute beasts?’

‘You just keep quiet’, said the pastor, ‘unless you want to get a good thrashing. This is not the time for preaching, and if it were, I could do it much better.’

After that I looked on in silence as they wantonly wasted food and drink which could have been used to feed the poor Lazarus languishing at our gates in the form of several hundred refugees from Wetterau, whose hunger was plain for all to see, for the cupboard was bare.

As I stood there with a plate in my hand, waiting at table, my mind was plagued with all kinds of strange thoughts and fancies, and my belly refused to leave me in peace either. It kept on rumbling and grumbling to let me know there were some jokers inside that wanted to get out into the fresh air. I thought I would take advantage of the great racket to help conceal the opening of the pass, at the same time using the trick my fellow page had taught me the previous night. Accordingly I lifted up my left thigh as high as I could and pressed with all my might. I was going to repeat the magic words ‘Je pète’ three times but when, contrary to expectation, the immense load that came ripping out of my backside did so with a resounding blast, I was so startled I did not know what I was doing. I was as terrified as if I were standing on the gallows with the hangman about to put the noose round my neck. This sudden shock was so disconcerting that my own limbs refused to obey me. At the unexpected sound my mouth also rebelled, unwilling to allow my backside the privilege of speaking for me alone. Although born to talk and shout, it was supposed to whisper the words I wanted to say, so no one would hear, but just to spite my backside it said them out loud, yelling as if someone were about to cut my throat. The more booming the blast of wind from below, the louder ‘Je pète’ rang out from above, as if the entry and exit to my belly were vying with each other to see which could speak with the most thunderous voice.

This brought me some relief in my bowels but also an angry look from my master. The unexpected explosion fairly sobered up his guests, but I was tied to a feeding trough and given such a beating that I can still remember it today, and all because, despite my efforts, I could not hold back my wind. Those were the first blows I received as punishment since I first drew breath because my foul discharge had made that difficult for others. Incense-burners and candles were brought and the guests took out their musk-balls and pomanders, even their snuff-boxes, but the most aromatic perfumes had little effect. As a result of this scene, which I played out better than the best actor in the world, my belly was at peace, but my back throbbed from the beating, the guests had a stench in their nostrils and the servants a great deal of difficulty making the room smell sweet once more.

After all this had been sorted out I had to carry on waiting at table as before. The pastor was still there and people kept urging him to drink like all the rest. He, however, refused to keep pace with all the toasts, saying he had no intention of swilling his drink like an animal. At that one of the hard drinkers there offered to prove that it was he, the pastor, who was drinking like an animal, whilst the boozer himself and all those around were drinking like human beings.

‘An animal’, he said, ‘only drinks as much as it needs, enough to quench its thirst, because it doesn’t know what is good and doesn’t like wine. We human beings, on the other hand, enjoy having a good drink and letting the noble juice of the vine slip down our throats, as our fathers did before us.’

‘That may well be’, replied the pastor, ‘but it is my duty to avoid excess. One beaker is enough for me.’

‘Let it never be said I stopped a man of honour from doing his duty’, said the other and had a huge bowl filled with wine, which he then proffered to the pastor who, however, got up and walked away, leaving the man clutching his bucket of wine.

Once he was out of the way things started to get out of hand. It began to look as if this banquet was designed as an opportunity for people to have their revenge on others by getting them drunk, bringing shame on them or playing them some trick or other. Whenever one of them, no longer able to sit, stand or walk, had to be carried out, another would shout, ‘That’s quits. You got me liquored up like this before, now you’ve had a taste of your own medicine’, and so on. The one that could hold his drink best boasted about it and thought himself no end of a hero.

Eventually they were all reeling around as if they had eaten henbane seeds; they were like the clowns in the carnival, and yet there was no one who thought it comic apart from me. One was singing, another crying; one was laughing, another groaning; one was cursing, another praying; one was shouting, ‘Don’t give up!’ another was beyond speech; one was quiet and peaceful, another wanted to drive the devil out with his bare fists; one was sleeping silently, another gabbling so that no one else could get a word in; one was telling the story of an affair of the heart, another recounting the bloody deeds he had done in battle; a few were talking about the church and spiritual matters, others of politics, reasons of state and the affairs of the Empire. There were those who could not keep still and ran to and fro, others lay on the floor, incapable of moving a muscle, never mind standing up and walking; some were still eating like ploughmen, as if they had been starving for a week, while others were spewing up everything they had eaten during the day. In a word, everything they did was so comic, foolish and strange, and at the same time sinful and godless, that compared with it the stench I had let out, for which I had been so cruelly beaten, seemed nothing more than a joke.

Eventually some serious fighting started at the bottom of the table. They threw glasses, goblets, bowls and plates at each other and used not only their fists but stools, chair-legs, daggers and anything they could lay their hands on, so that the blood was running down over their ears.

My master soon put an end to the fighting, and once peace had been restored the master-drinkers took the musicians and women with them to another building, where there was a large room which was dedicated to another kind of folly. My master was not feeling well, either from anger or overeating, and stretched out on a sofa. I let him lie there where he was so that he could rest and sleep, but hardly had I reached the door than he tried to whistle for me, but nothing came out. Then he called to me, though all he managed to say was ‘Simply’. I ran over to where he was and saw he was rolling his eyes like an animal being slaughtered. I stood there like a dunce, not knowing what needed to be done. The governor pointed to the sideboard and gabbled, ‘Br-bra-bring tha-that, you s-so-son of a bitch, fetch the ba-ba-basin, I have to-to shoo-shoo-shoot a cat.’ I rushed over and brought the wash-basin and by the time I got to him his cheeks were bulging like a trumpeter’s. He quickly grabbed me by the arm and made me stand so I had to hold the basin right in front of his mouth, which suddenly burst open with painful retching, emptying a stream of such foul slimy stuff into the said basin that I almost fainted from the unbearable stench, especially since (if you will forgive my mentioning it) a few gobbets splashed up into my face. I almost followed suit, but when I saw how pale he had gone I was so afraid his soul would depart along with the vomit that my own nausea was forgotten. He broke out into a cold sweat and his face looked like that of a dying man. But he recovered almost immediately and sent me to bring fresh water so he could rinse out his wine-skin of a belly.

After that he ordered me to take the cat away. Lying there in the silver basin, it did not strike me as disgusting; it looked rather like a bowl full of appetisers for four men. I could not bring myself simply to pour it away, especially since I knew my master had not had anything bad in his stomach but exquisite, delicious vol-au-vents and all kinds of roasts – poultry, game other meats – which were all still clearly recognisable in the basin. I hurried off with it, but did not know where to take it or what to do with it. My master was the last person I could ask, so I took this splendid feast to the steward and asked him what I should do with the cat.

‘Take it to the tanner, you fool’, he said, ‘so he can tan its hide.’

When I asked where I could find the tanner, he realised how simple I was and said, ‘No, take it to the doctor so he can examine it and see what our lord’s state of health is like.’

I would have gone on this April-fool’s errand if the steward had not been afraid of the consequences. He told me to take the stuff to the kitchen with orders that the maids should put it on one side and season it well. This I did in all earnestness and was heartily mocked by those hussies for my pains.

By the time I had managed to get rid of my basin my master was just going out. I followed him towards a building where I saw men and women, married and single, jumping about together in a large room so that the whole place was seething. There was such a stamping and caterwauling I thought they had all gone mad, for I could not imagine what the point of all this frantic frenzy was. I found the sight so frightening, so horrifying and terrifying that my hair stood on end. The only explanation I could find was that they had all taken leave of their senses. As we came closer I saw that it was the guests from our banquet, and they had certainly still been in their right minds that morning. ‘My God’, I thought, ‘what do these poor people think they are doing? They must be suffering from an attack of collective insanity.’ Then it occurred to me that it might be some fiendish spirits that had disguised themselves to mock the whole human race with their wild prancing and monkeyish behaviour. They would surely never act in a way so unbecoming of human beings if they had human souls and God’s likeness within them.

As my master went into the house and entered the room the frenzy was just ceasing, apart from a bobbing and bowing of heads and such a scratching and scraping of feet on the floor that I thought they were trying to erase the footmarks they had made during their wild stamping. From the sweat pouring down their faces and their puffing and panting I could tell that it had been hard work. Yet the happy expressions on their faces indicated they did not find the exertion unpleasant.

I dearly wanted to know the reason for all this madness, so I asked my companion and bosom friend, the one who had recently taught me the art of soothsaying, what was the meaning of this frenzy, the purpose of this furious skipping and strutting. He told me the truth of it was that all those present had come to an agreement to demolish the floor by stamping on it.

‘Why do you think’, he said, ‘they’re in such a hurry? Can’t you see they’ve already smashed the windows to amuse themselves? The floor’s for it next.’