Not only was the play very successful, bringing me wide praise. It also brought me a new name, with the French, from then on, referring to me simply as ‘Beau Alman’ – their version of ‘the Handsome German’. Other, similar plays and ballets were performed (this was carnival time) with parts for me. However, with other players growing jealous because I was drawing big audiences (women, especially), I began to find some of the attention unwelcome. Once, playing Hercules, virtually naked in my lion skin, during my bout with Achelous over the lovely Deianira, I took punches more bruising than those your fellow actors usually fake.
Four
Beau Alman, against his will, looks like getting his leg over again
The theatre put me in touch with some top people, and it started to look as if my luck had turned. I was even offered a way into the king’s service, which doesn’t happen to every rising star. One day a lackey arrived, had a word with M. Canard, and handed him a letter about me. I happened to be sitting in the laboratory at the time, busy reverberating (I’d already, out of interest, learnt perlutation, resolution, sublimation, coagulation, digeration, calcination, filtration, and many of the near-innumerable range of alchemical processes that my doctor master used in preparing his medicines). The doc turned to me. ‘Mister Beau Alman,’ he said, ‘this letter concerns yourself. An important gentleman writes to enquire whether you will kindly call on him at your earliest convenience. He wishes to speak to you personally about whether you might be so good as to give his son lute lessons. In asking me to sound you out beforehand with a view to lubricating this approach, he courteously assures me that he will reward your efforts with the most cordial gratitude.’ I replied that if for his sake (M. Canard’s, I meant) I could be of service to anyone, I should do so in spades. In return, he said I should get changed immediately and go with the lackey. While I was changing he’d make something for me to eat, he said, because I had quite a way to go; in fact, I’d be pushed to get there before dark. So I tarted myself up, hurriedly swallowed as much of the meal as I could (I particularly remember a couple of little sausages that smelt rather strongly of chemicals), and departed with said lackey. We travelled for an hour, taking curious detours, and as dusk was falling came to a garden gate that stood ajar. The lackey pushed it fully open himself, and when I’d followed him through slammed it shut behind us. He then led me to the summer-house in a corner of the garden. We entered, and at the end of a longish corridor he knocked on a door. This was opened immediately by an elderly noblewoman who, speaking German, greeted me very politely and stood back to admit me. The lackey, however, who didn’t speak German, bowed deeply and left. The old lady took me by the hand and led me all the way into the room. The walls were lined with luxurious hangings and the rest of the décor was equally splendid. She asked me to be seated so that I could take a breather while she explained why I’d been brought there. Gratefully, I sank into an easy chair beside the fire that burned in what was a rather chilly room. She sat down beside me and said, ‘If the gentleman knows anything of the power of love and of how it can take hold of and overwhelm the boldest, mightiest and wisest of men, he’ll hardly be surprised to learn that the same can happen to a frail woman. It was not for his lute-playing that he’d been summoned, as he and M. Canard thought, and it was not by a man. The summons came from a woman – and the reason was his exceptional male beauty. Moreover, that woman is herself the most exquisitely beautiful in all Paris, and she feels she will die if she does not, very soon, have the great good fortune of drawing fresh life from the gentleman’s heavenly form. She has therefore commanded me to indicate same to the gentleman (who happens to be a fellow countryman of mine) and beg him more earnestly than Venus did her Adonis to visit her this very evening and permit her to feast her eyes on his loveliness – an invitation she has every hope, being a woman of standing, that he will not turn down.’ ‘Madame,’ I replied, ‘I scarcely know what to think, let alone what to say. I’m a mere worm – certainly not the sort of person a lady of such quality would wish to receive. Anyway, it strikes me that if the skirt who’s asked to see me is as fancy as my Esteemed Compatriot paints her, she’d probably have sent for me earlier in the day and not had me brought here to this lonely spot at nightfall. Why didn’t she summon me into her presence straight away? What am I doing in this garden? I hope my Est. Compat. will forgive me if, as a stranger in a strange land, I panic slightly. I was told I was being brought to see a man. The story seems to have changed. I ought perhaps to point out that, if the idea is to get rid of me, my rapier will exact revenge first.’ ‘No, no, Est. Compat.!’ she replied (except that, like me, she used the full version). ‘The gentleman’s fears are groundless; I ask him to wipe them from his mind! Women are strange creatures. They take care how they approach people. And they don’t like to be seen through from the start. If the lady who’s so helplessly smitten with the gentleman had wished to reveal herself to him from the outset, she’d not have arranged to see him here – of course she wouldn’t. She’d have had him come straight to her. By the way, there’s a blindfold over there,’ she went on, pointing towards the table. ‘The gentleman absolutely must put it on if he wishes to be taken into her presence. She’s equally keen that he shan’t identify the place, let alone their unwitting host. And please, can I beg the gentleman most emphatically to show the lady the generosity that her rank and the urgency of her passion so richly deserve. Otherwise, he’ll soon find out: she has the power to punish his arrogance and scorn on the instant. However, if he presents himself as requested he may rest assured that every step he takes to do her bidding will bring its reward.’
It was getting quite dark. Various worries and fears began to fill my head. I just sat there – as still as if I had been carved in wood. I could see that, if I didn’t do just what the lady wanted, I’d not get off lightly. So I informed the old woman, ‘Right, if that’s how things are, I submit. I’ll trust to your native German honesty that you won’t allow (much less arrange for) a squeaky-clean fellow countryman to come to harm. Do with me what you’ve been asked to do. Let’s just hope that the bird you’ve been telling me about doesn’t have basilisk eyes and simply stare me to death.’ ‘Heaven forbid!’ she said. ‘What a loss it would be if such a figure (someone our whole nation can be proud of) were to die! The gentleman won’t die – he’ll know greater delight than he could ever have dreamt of!’ Anyway, she had my consent, so she called for Jean and Pierre, who promptly emerged from behind a hanging, each in shining armour and very ready to deal death, bearing a halberd in one hand and a pistol in the other. They gave me a fright, I can tell you. I went as white as a sheet. The crone, noting this, said, ‘You’re on your way to see a woman – we can’t have you looking so scared.’ And she told the two to remove their armour, take up lanterns and carry only pistols with them. Then she pulled the hood (black velvet, it was made of; I couldn’t see a thing through the material) over my head, tucked my hat under one arm, and led me out by the hand, taking an intricate route – though I did sense that we passed through a large number of doors and along a paved walkway. Then, perhaps fifteen minutes later, we ascended a short flight of stone steps and entered a small door. At the end of a busy corridor we climbed a winding staircase, took several steps down again, and after another half-dozen paces another door opened. Finally, when we’d passed through this one, the old lady stopped and removed the hood. I found myself in an elaborately decorated room, with fine paintings on the walls, silverware on the chest, and a bed, all hung about with gold curtains. The centre of the room was occupied by a splendidly laid table, and by the fire stood a bathtub. OK, the tub was fine enough in itself, but to my mind it spoilt the whole look of the room. The old woman spoke up: ‘Sir, I bid you welcome. Does my Est. Comp. still feel he’s walked into a trap? I beg him to shed his suspicions and show himself as he did recently in the theatre, receiving his Eurydice back from Pluto. I promise him: the one he’ll meet here will be lovelier than the one he lost there.’
; Five
What happened then, and how he got away
I sensed from her words that I wouldn’t be performing onstage here but performing in an entirely different sense. So I told my elderly Est. Comp. that it wouldn’t do a thirsty man much good, sitting beside a fountain and not being allowed to drink. She assured me that French folk weren’t so mean as to ban a man from drinking water, particularly with so much available. I said, ‘Yes, well, it’s good of madame to say that, but I’m already wed.’ ‘Fiddlesticks!’ the godless old bat replied. ‘No one’s going to swallow that tonight. You won’t find many young bloods that are spoken for here in France. And even if you did, I can’t imagine the gentleman being so daft as to die of thirst rather than drink from a foreign spring, especially when there’s a chance it’ll be more fun and the water’s better than at home.’ During our exchanges, a serving girl who’d been tending the fire came over and pulled off my shoes and stockings, which the walk in the dark had splashed with dirt. Paris is a notoriously grubby place. Orders were promptly issued for me to be given a bath before dinner. Said young lady hurried back and began assembling toiletries, which all smelt of musk and scented soap. The towels were of the finest linen, trimmed with costly Dutch lace. I tried to plead modesty: I was reluctant to have the crone see me naked, I squeaked. But it was no good. She was the one who rubbed me down; the girl was asked to withdraw for a few minutes. When I’d had my bath I was handed a fancy shift and an expensive fur dressing gown lined with violet taffeta. These came with a pair of silk stockings in the same shade, and the nightcap and slippers were embroidered with gold and pearls. Consequently, after my ablutions I sat up rather straighter, showing myself off. I felt like the King of Hearts. The old woman dried and combed my hair (she looked after me like a prince, I must say, or like a little child) while the maid (whom I’ve mentioned a few times, I know) served the food. As I tucked in, three statuesque young women entered the room, their alabaster bosoms pretty much uncovered but their faces invisible behind masks. All three were beauties, I’m sure, but one seemed lovelier than the others. I bowed, saying nothing, and they acknowledged my greeting with equal ceremony, which of course gave us the appearance of a gathering of mutes acting like folk who could speak. They sat down, all three at once, so again it was impossible to tell who ranked highest, much less which of them I was there to serve. The first words spoken were, did I not know French? My compatriot answered, ‘No.’ At which a second voice requested, would she please ask me to sit down. When I did, a third told my interpreter to be seated too. The net result was that I still couldn’t work out who was boss. We occupied seats right opposite the three ladies, so my handsomeness will no doubt have contrasted favourably with the old bat beside me. All three gazed raptly in my direction, and I could have sworn I heard them breathe a thousand sighs. But I couldn’t appreciate how their eyes sparkled – the masks obscured their faces. My Est. Comp. (no one else could address me, you see) asked, which of the three did I find the loveliest? I told her there was no choosing between them. This made her grin, baring all four of the teeth she had left in her cakehole. ‘Why’s that?’ she asked. To which my reply was, I couldn’t see them properly, but so far as I could tell none was a dog. The ladies wanted to know what the question had been and how I’d answered, so the old bag interpreted, adding mendaciously that what I’d said was: each pair of lips was worth 100,000 kisses. I could make out the mouths beneath the masks, you see, particularly the one belonging to the doll sitting directly across the table. By means of this ruse the crone made me pick her as the ringleader, and from then on it was her I gazed at most intently. That was all that was said at table, for I pretended not to know a word of French. Silence having fallen, we decided to call it a day. The ladies said goodnight and left, with me being allowed to escort them no farther than the door, which the hag bolted smartly behind them. I turned and asked where I was to sleep. She answered that I’d have to make do with her in that bed over there. The bed would be fine, I said, if it just had one of those beauties curled up in it! ‘I dare say,’ she replied, ‘but the fact is, you’re not getting any of them right now.’ During this teasing exchange, a vision of loveliness drew the bed-curtain back a little and told the crone to stop nattering and make herself scarce. I made a grab for the candle, wishing to see who’d been lying so quietly in the bed all this time. However, my Est. Comp. blew it out smartly, whispering, ‘If the gentleman wants to keep a head on his shoulders, he’d better not even think about catching a glimpse. Let him simply get in. I can promise him, if he’s serious about clapping eyes on the lady against her will he’ll not live to see another day!’ With that she went off, closing the door behind her. The maid who’d been tending the fire put it out completely and also left the room through a door behind one of the hangings. The woman in the bed said, ‘Oh, Beau Alman, sir! Gee schlaff mein Herz! Gom, rick su mir! Relax, darling! Come, snuggle up beside me!’ That was all the German the crone had taught her. I approached the bed and climbed in, not at all sure what to do then. I needn’t have worried. She flung her arms around my neck and welcomed me with kiss after kiss, nearly biting my underlip off in the heat of her desire. In a frenzy she attacked the buttons of my nightgown. She practically tore off my undershirt. And all the while panting Gom, rick su mir! – clearly the only words of my language she knew. For the rest, she relied entirely on dumbshow. My mind flew to my bride back at home, but what was the use? I was a mere man, in bed with an amorous, wonderfully proportioned creature. Only a stone would not have responded.
The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus Page 31