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.