by Paul Busson
“Die, you fool,” I cried, and I let my hand fall to my side.
Phöbus and Thilo, who had incited me, drew away.
“Your father’s best trained setter!” said Sassen in shocked tones, and Phöbus remarked contemptuously that such behaviour towards the noble beast was unworthy of a gentleman.
The dog struggled to get up. But she collapsed again before she was able to creep up to me, and writhing and whining she tried to reach my hand with her red tongue and lick it.
“Let’s go,” said Phöbus to Thilo.
They walked away without looking at me, and their attitude was one of frank disgust. I sat down between the vines and took the dog’s head in my lap. Blood trickled out of her delicate nostrils. Her eyes were fixed on me, complaining of her pain, beseeching my help. Her body trembled, her sides were convulsed by spasms. I remembered then that Aglaia’s hand had often rested on the silken black hair of the dog’s handsome head...
“Diana,” I called, “Diana.”
She drew her lips from her white teeth; this was her way of laughing. Once again she tried to lick my hand. Her eyes grew glazed, her body stretched convulsively. I stroked her in mortal anguish, I called and caressed her. She moved no more. She breathed no more.
“This poor animal will bring her grievance before God on the day of judgement and God will accord her justice, as He will to every creature,” said a deep, stern voice.
I looked vaguely round, with dim eyes. The old woodcutter was standing beside me, and the sun wove an awful halo of gold around his snow-white head.
Chapter Eleven
My father had come home from a day’s hunting, and his spurs clanked as he walked up and down the room. The floor creaked under his heavy riding boots. I stared at his green silver-braided riding coat. When he turned away, I saw his tightly-plaited, long pigtail. It seemed merciless, did that pigtail, merciless, black, stiff and without feeling the very picture of himself.
“You clown! Bete!” he thundered. “You clown, daring to strike Phöbus Merentheim on the face in front of all that street crowd! That mob of riff-raff and scum were delighted, were they not? Hey?”
I looked him in the eye and said, “He said that my mother had been the bedfellow of the Duke of Stoll-Wessenburg before her marriage.”
“Such things are left unheard, or you pretend you don’t understand them,” my father hissed, growing purple with anger. “And mark you this: princely blood brings no shame! You shall beg young Count Merentheim’s pardon, young man!”
I did not understand. Could he be in earnest?
“Answer!” he cried.
“Never,” I said resolutely, “never as long as I live.”
“You damned dog! Cochon! If you don’t, someone else will be appointed to be the Duke’s master of the hounds and I can wipe my mouth! I need old Merentheim’s support for the favour, you wretched fellow. Do you understand me now? Will you do it, or won’t you?”
“I will not.”
My father raised his hand threateningly.
Then he let it fall again, and walked heavily out of the room. I heard no more of him all the afternoon, when he sent for me. He was sitting in the same chair that my grandfather had died in and on the table beside him there was a half-emptied bottle of wine. The room was blue with tobacco-smoke.
“Stand there,” he said. “Tomorrow I am sending you to the University, that I may get rid of the sight of you. And now you can hear the truth. Whether your mother was the mistress of his late Highness I do not know; all I know is that she brought with her this estate when I married her. Whether I am your father or his Highness, or whether it was that windbag of a court-poet who used to come to the duke’s Venetian parties in the parkthat scribbler, that Heist killed later on God alone knows. I am almost inclined to think it was the poet, for there’s nothing in you of the old sort of true nobleman, as far as I can see.
“Now you know what Merentheim wanted to run into your face. You can chew it over. As for the sentiment of it, I have nothing to say. Everything is as it is, and can’t be changed.
“Stotzer will give you every month enough money for you to keep up your rank. If through foolishness and drink you go to the dogs, like many a noble student, then neither I nor his Highness, or the court-poet will have had a son. You can spare yourself the trouble of letter-scribbling, as I do not read letters, or any other written or printed stuff, although I learnt it once. If at the end you come home a real cavalier, I’ll be ready to believe that you are of my breed... And now get yourself out of here!”
I wanted to say something, but the words died on my lips. Slowly I turned away. A glass flew after me, and broke against the wall. Startled, I turned to look what my father was doing. He had aimed badly, and now he was shaking his fist at me in rage. His eyes were bloodshot. At the foot of the stairs I met old Stephen. He had overheard my father’s terrible speech. He said:
“Do not believe a single word of it, young Master! Your lady mother was a saint, and she is enthroned in the presence of God.”
I fell weeping in the faithful servant’s arms, calling passionately for my mother as though I could bring her back from the grave.
Chapter Twelve
It was a wearisome journey to the University. Every little while the driver ordered my fellow-traveller and me out of the coach, and we had to help him to push it out of the mire and clear the mud off the wheels with a muck knife. The horses shivered and snorted, and their flanks were covered with foam. Once we overturned and we had to lift our boxes and portmanteaux to the top of the coach again and make them more secure. I found that my companion’s name was Mathias Fink, and that he was an Austrian.
He seemed a jolly fellow with good manners. Judging by his dress he seemed to be of superior family, although he did not belong to the nobility. When we reached the town our coach stopped at an inn that bore the sign of “The Beer Sack.” The street in front of the inn was obstructed by chairs, benches and a long table, and some students sat there drinking. In their shiny boots, heavily spurred, their feathered hats and with rapiers, they looked aggressive and insolent. With legs stretched out deliberately, they calmly puffed at long porcelain pipes; it did not seem as if they were going to let the coach pass.
An untidy, stunted serving-woman with pendulous breasts ran backwards and forwards between the table and the dirty inn, exchanging empty tankards for full ones, and squealing at the rough handling of the fellows she had to pass. The coachman turned to us with a grin.
“Will the gentlemen please get out,” he said, “and allow themselves to be welcomed?”
“Drive on!” said my fellow-traveller, “the road is free.”
“What is the dirty fox yelping about?” growled a low bass voice from the table.
The speaker was as stout and shapeless as a fifty-gallon cask, and his stubbly chin lay in three folds on his very dirty vest.
“Let them alone, Montanus,” cried out a fair-haired, lanky fellow with a sharp and crooked nose. “They’ll crawl out of their ark soon enough.”
Fortunately we were quick to realise that defiance and blows, its probable consequence, would not help us, the fellows at the inn plainly being adepts in such things; therefore we came forth, though we were not so disturbed that we forgot to tell the coachman to take our luggage on to Gerber Nunneman’s, the house in the little town where we had ordered lodgings in advance.
No sooner had we crawled out of the yellow box of the coach than the table was quickly pushed to one side, and the coachman ordered to make his horses trot, an order he did not wait to hear repeated. As for us two travellers, we were taken by the arms roughly but good-humouredly, and led into the house. Then they pushed us up the steps into a long, low room. On the table, which was covered with marks of wet glasses, a clay-patched yellowish skull, which looked as if it had just been stolen from the charnel-house, rested on two crossed daggers.
The students lighted two tallow candles in china candlesticks, and placed us at the narro
w end of the table. They took off their hats, stood round the table, linked hands with each other across the skull and sang in rude voices:
“Solemnly was our union sealed
By the pledge of the noble men;
Our hearts are unclosed;
They beat with pure friendship only.
This sword will transfix
Him who leaves a brother in distress;
And by this skull
He will be a thousand times threatened.”
When the song was ended, Mathias Fink, who had been looking at me in amazement, raised his voice and said:
“Excuse me, gentlemen, but we would like very much to know what is this illustrious company we have joined so unexpectedly?”
“Insolent stinking fox,” growled the deep voice of the fat fellow who had been addressed as Montanus.
Meanwhile they had put on their hats, and I saw that the feathers in them were crimson, yellow and blue, and that the fair-haired student with the crooked nose wore in addition a fox’s brush in his hat, all of which gave him a rather wild appearance. When Fink had spoken this student drew his sword from its sheath and struck the table with such force that it rang again, startling us not a little.
“Silentium!” he cried.
All was still as he proceeded to address us.
“As mules you have come to us from your mothers’ lap,” he began, “and as foxes and the future night-terror of the Philistine you have entered the sacred halls of the Order of Amicists; callow and evil-smelling, it is true, but nevertheless participants of our grace. We do not want to leave you to the mercies of those who are lying in ambush at the next inn for chaises and coaches bringing their countrymen, and we do you the honour of not beginning by asking you about your obscure extraction. Do you wish to enter the University alone, without noble sponsors, to become the laughing-stock of all good students, or shall this high Order solemnly usher you in as its members?”
Fink and I exchanged glances. We had decided during our journey to join one of the student corps, for we well knew that the defenceless, unattached student would lead but a sorry life between stepping on toes, bullying and general ill-treatment. We were indifferent as to which corporation we joined and as we had happened to fall in first with what seemed to be the Order of Amicists, we thought this was as good as any other. So we nodded consent, and informed the gathering that we would be glad to be received into the high Order. The general approval was given to our decision by a lively stamping of feet.
“Ad loca!” cried the long student, “and you, foxes, you remain standing!”
They all sat down, while one of them about our age ran to the door and shouted for all he was worth:
“Cerevisiam!”
At once a rapping and rumbling began just outside. Two servants rolled in a goodly cask, put it on a trestle and tapped it. The serving-woman with the untidy hair brought in such a number of tankards in each hand that one almost believed she had twenty fingers. The tankards were filled and placed before each student, frothing and foaming.
“Be gone, profane pack!” cried the lanky one, striking the table smartly with his sword.
The servants and the woman disappeared in a hurry.
“Come forward, foxes,” he commanded.
We were seized and hustled before him at the other end of the table.
“Place your hands on the skull and these crossed swords, and swear!”
Fink and I at once obeyed, and willingly we repeated the oath in which we swore unbreakable fealty until death to the serene and high Order of Amicists, brotherly love and all help to our fellow-members and secrecy before all other men. If we broke our oath we agreed to be transfixed with sharp steel, our faces to become like that of the skull on whose crown we had placed our fingers.
“I am Bavarian Haymon,” said the lanky student. “By the profane I am called Baron Johann Treidlsperg, of Landshut. And what are your names?”
We gave them. One of the students wrote them down in a little book bound in crimson, yellow and blue.
“Bow your heads!” ordered Hans.
We obeyed. And the next moment beer was running down our faces, necks and shoulders. When we straightened ourselves, coughing and spitting, to the thundering laughter of some fifteen students that were in the room, we were given new names. I was called Mahomet and Fink was called Nebuchadnezzar. Then we were made to sit a-stride on chairs, the others ranged behind us in a long row, while in front of us Bavarian Haymon rode round the table, helping himself forward with his spurred feet, and everybody joined in the song:
“The fox wants to get out of his hole;
A green huntsman is standing outside.
Whither, whither young little fox?
To-day you make your last jump.
And I am to make my last dance,
Kiss me, huntsman, beneath my brush.
The huntsman has not done it
And has to let the fox run.
Juchhai, juchhai, juchhairassa!
Optima est cerevisia.”
Then they all began embracing and kissing. Our hats looked too brand-new for the Amicists, so they were crumpled and twisted into proper shape, and the three-coloured badges stuck into them. Again the student they called the “Portuguee” ran to the door; and this time he called “Coenam!”
A large wooden dish of roast fowl, rice with raisins and hot wine sauce, baked fish, green salad, and noodle pudding with sugared brandy sauce was brought in with great rapidity. The dishevelled serving-wench was allowed to stay in the room, and indeed she had work enough, gathering the bones and pouring out beer.
“This Lucullan feast is offered to the illustrious Order by Mahomet and Nebuchadnezzar,” announced Haymon.
Then he commanded us to drink, without taking breath, a whole quart of beer each to the health of the corporation.
“And,” he cried above the noise, “you are not to forget the honest postboy, who drove you up so stylishly to ‘The Beer Sack.’ Each of you had better give him a solid thaler.”
Chapter Thirteen
At the end of a few months at the University, that were spent in continuous idleness and drinking, I had forgotten everything I ever knew. Our favourite haunt was The Gracious Elector, an inn where strong dark beer and good Moselle were served.
Bavarian Haymon had just recovered from a bout of drinking. His booted legs were lying stretched across the table, and his spurs had torn holes in the dirty tablecloth. His hairy chest was uncovered, and his sleeves were rolled high; but he had not parted with his hat with the feather in it.
The Portuguee was leaning with his head on the table, snoring. Mathias Fink, or Nebuchadnezzar, was sitting on a chair in the corner, bending forward to free himself from the wine he had taken. The room was full of a sour and nasty smell. Hercules, an insignificant little fellow from Meissen, had caught a louse, and was making it crawl about on a plate. He was laughing uproariously.
Montanus and I were playing at dice. Montanus had astonishing luck. Again he lifted the leather cup, and stared with watering eyes at the score: Five, three, one.
He bellowed with delight.
“Lousy Lizzie! Three legs! Polyphemus! Out with your mammon!” he said.
I had only five altogether. And with his big hand he grabbed my last silver groschen. He slapped himself on his dirty, sweat-stained shirt belly.
“Venus! Where is the old sow?” he shouted through the door.
The old waitress came in. She had a wooden nose, which was fastened on by a strap that crossed her forehead, and she was covered with scabs. We called her Venus. What her real name was, she had herself forgotten.
“Darling of my heart,” ordered Montanus, “bring the boot, the large one, full of Moselle, full of Moselle!”
Fink came up to the table, looking very pale from vomiting.
“You must have some grub, Nebuchadnezzar,” snorted Montanus. “You booze all the time and don’t feed. You’ll get a stomach ulcer like our old pal Gideon.
When the blood started pouring out of his mouth, he was done for.”
“Say, brother, why are you so anxious about me,” said Fink, belching and pointing at the table. “After you’ve taken the last pennies from poor Mahomet! Never mind; stand us something.”
Venus came in and placed a large glass boot before the fat man. It held three quarts of wine. Montanus stroked the vessel, producing a tone, and laughed gaspingly.
“What I have ordered I will also drink! All by myself, my love.”
“You will drink this by yourself?”
Fink opened his eyes wide.
“Tell that to the silly devil of Cologne Cathedral.”
“If you stake your sword with the gold-inlaid Toledo blade, I’ll drink the whole boot at a pull,” growled Montanus.
Fink reeled up to the snoring Portuguee and gave Hercules a blow in the side. Bavarian Haymon came nearer and helped to waken the snoring Portuguee.
“Wake up, open your eyes, Brother-pants-full, you can be the umpire.”
The Portuguee raised his head, grunted, and thrust all his fingers into his curly hair.
“I’ve got lice, damn you!” he yawned.
Hercules broke into silent laugh. He knew where they came from. Bavarian Haymon was made umpire.
“Ready!” he yelled.
“Wait a minute,” shouted Fink, flourishing his hands.
“The greasy pig has not staked anything against me except his boozing. What do you bet, Belly?”
Montanus pulled out from his pocket a thick, silver watch with a short, finely-wrought chain attached to it and a polished ball of cornelian.
“This!” he said.
Montanus, despite his bulk, was up in a flash. His gigantic, soft paunch hung over his belt and his coloured hose.
“Begin, begin,” they all cried; “booze on!”
“I’ll drink cow piss to the end of my days if I leave a “drop in the glass,” boasted Montanus, lifting the boot-glass with both hands.