Not far on this road he came upon a little group. Two men in sober suits stood leaning lazily on each side of a horse, talking to one another. The rider, in a silk doublet and bright green jerkin and hose, both of English cloth, glossy1 as a mole2, lay flat on his stomach in the afternoon sun, and looked an enormous lizard3. His velvet4 cloak (flaming yellow) was carefully spread over the horse's loins.
“Is aught amiss?” inquired Gerard.
“Not that I wot of,” replied one of the servants.
“But your master, he lies like a corpse5. Are ye not ashamed to let him grovel6 on the ground?”
“Go to; the bare ground is the best cure for his disorder7. If you get sober in bed, it gives you a headache; but you leap up from the hard ground like a lark8 in spring. Eh, Ulric?”
“He speaks sooth, young man,” said Ulric warmly.
“What, is the gentleman drunk?”
The servants burst into a hoarse9 laugh at the simplicity10 of Gerard's question. But suddenly Ulric stopped, and eyeing him all over, said very gravely, “Who are you, and where born, that know not the Count is ever drunk at this hour?” And Gerard found himself a suspected character.
“I am a stranger,” said he, “but a true man, and one that loves knowledge; therefore ask I questions, and not for love of prying12.”
“If you be a true man,” said Ulric shrewdly, “then give us trinkgeld for the knowledge we have given you.”
Gerard looked blank, but putting a good face on it, said, “Trinkgeld you shall have, such as my lean purse can spare, an if you will tell me why ye have ta'en his cloak from the man and laid it on the beast.”
Under the inspiring influence of coming trinkgeld, two solutions were instantly offered Gerard at once: the one was, that should the Count come to himself (which, being a seasoned toper, he was apt to do all in a minute), and find his horse standing15 sweating in the cold, while a cloak lay idle at hand, he would fall to cursing, and peradventure to laying on; the other, more pretentious16, was, that a horse is a poor milksop, which, drinking nothing but water, has to be cockered up and warmed outside; but a master, being a creature ever filled with good beer, has a store of inward heat that warms him to the skin, and renders a cloak a mere17 shred18 of idle vanity.
Each of the speakers fell in love with his theory, and, to tell the truth, both had taken a hair or two of the dog that had bitten their master to the brain; so their voices presently rose so high, that the green sot began to growl19 instead of snoring. In their heat they did not notice this.
Ere long the argument took a turn that sooner or later was pretty sure to enliven a discussion in that age. Hans, holding the bridle20 with his right hand, gave Ulric a sound cuff21 with his left; Ulric returned it with interest, his right hand being free; and at it they went, ding dong, over the horse's mane, pommelling one another, and jagging the poor beast, till he ran backward, and trode with iron heel upon a promontory22 of the green lord; he, like the toad23 stung by Ithuriel's spear, started up howling, with one hand clapped to the smart and the other tugging24 at his hilt. The servants, amazed with terror, let the horse go; he galloped25 off whinnying, the men in pursuit of him crying out with fear, and the green noble after them, volleying curses, his naked sword in his hand, and his body rebounding26 from hedge to hedge in his headlong but zigzag27 career down the narrow lane.
“In which hurtling” Gerard turned his back on them all, and went calmly south, glad to have saved the four tin farthings he had got ready for trinkgeld, but far too heavy hearted even to smile at their drunken extravagance.
The sun was nearly setting, and Gerard, who had now for some time been hoping in vain to find an inn by the way, was very ill at ease. To make matters worse, black clouds gathered over the sky.
Gerard quickened his pace almost to a run.
It was in vain; down came the rain in torrents28, drenched29 the bewildered traveller, and seemed to extinguish the very sun-for his rays, already fading, could not cope with this new assailant.
Gerard trudged30 on, dark, and wet, and in an unknown region. “Fool! to leave Margaret,” said he.
Presently the darkness thickened.
He was entering a great wood. Huge branches shot across the narrow road, and the benighted31 stranger groped his way in what seemed an interminable and inky cave with a rugged32 floor, on which he stumbled and stumbled as he went.
On, and on, and on, with shivering limbs and empty stomach, and fainting heart, till the wolves rose from their lairs33 and bayed all round the wood.
His hair bristled34; but he grasped his cudgel, and prepared to sell his life dear.
There was no wind; and his excited ear heard light feet patter at times over the newly fallen leaves, and low branches rustle35 with creatures gliding36 swiftly past them.
Presently in the sea of ink there was a great fiery37 star close to the ground. He hailed it as he would his patron saint. “CANDLE! a CANDLE!” he shouted, and tried to run. But the dark and rugged way soon stopped that. The light was more distant than he had thought. But at last, in the very heart of the forest, he found a house, with lighted candles and loud voices inside it. He looked up to see if there was a signboard. There was none. “Not an inn after all!” said he sadly. “No matter; what Christian38 would turn a dog out into this wood to-night?” and with this he made for the door that led to the voices. He opened it slowly, and put his head in timidly. He drew it out abruptly40, as if slapped in the face, and recoiled41 into the rain and darkness.
He had peeped into a large but low room, the middle of which was filled by a huge round stove, or clay oven, that reached to the ceiling; round this, wet clothes were drying-some on lines, and some more compendiously42, on rustics43. These latter habiliments, impregnated with the wet of the day, but the dirt of a life, and lined with what another foot traveller in these parts call “rammish clowns,” evolved rank vapours and compound odours inexpressible, in steaming clouds.
In one corner was a travelling family, a large one: thence flowed into the common stock the peculiar45 sickly smell of neglected brats46. Garlic filled up the interstices of the air. And all this with closed window, and intense heat of the central furnace, and the breath of at least forty persons.
They had just supped.
Now Gerard, like most artists, had sensitive organs, and the potent47 effluvia struck dismay into him. But the rain lashed48 him outside, and the light and the fire tempted49 him in.
He could not force his way all at once through the palpable perfumes, but he returned to the light again and again, like the singed50 moth51. At last he discovered that the various smells did not entirely52 mix, no fiend being there to stir them round. Odour of family predominated in two corners; stewed53 rustic44 reigned54 supreme55 in the centre; and garlic in the noisy group by the window. He found, too, by hasty analysis, that of these the garlic described the smallest aerial orbit, and the scent56 of reeking57 rustic darted58 farthest—a flavour as if ancient goats, or the fathers of all foxes, had been drawn59 through a river, and were here dried by Nebuchadnezzar.
So Gerard crept into a corner close to the door. But though the solidity of the main fetors isolated60 them somewhat, the heat and reeking vapours circulated, and made the walls drip; and the home-nurtured novice61 found something like a cold snake wind about his legs, and his head turn to a great lump of lead; and next, he felt like choking, sweetly slumbering63, and dying, all in one.
He was within an ace13 of swooning, but recovered to a deep sense of disgust and discouragement; and settled to go back to Holland at peep of day. This resolution formed, he plucked up a little heart; and being faint with hunger, asked one of the men of garlic whether this was not an inn after all?
“Whence come you, who know not 'The Star of the Forest'?” was the reply.
“I am a stranger; and in my country inns have aye a sign.”
“Droll country yours! What need of a sign to a public-house—a place that every soul knows?”
Gerard was too tired and faint for the labour of argument, so he turned the conversation, and asked where he could find the landlord?
At this fresh display of ignorance, the native's contempt rose too high for words. He pointed64 to a middle-aged65 woman seated on the other side of the oven; and turning to his mates, let them know what an outlandish animal was in the room. Thereat the loud voices stopped, one by one, as the information penetrated66 the mass; and each eye turned, as on a pivot67, following Gerard, and his every movement, silently and zoologically.
The landlady69 sat on a chair an inch or two higher than the rest, between two bundles. From the first, a huge heap of feathers and wings, she was taking the downy plumes71, and pulling the others from the quills72, and so filling bundle two littering the floor ankle-deep, and contributing to the general stock a stuffy73 little malaria74, which might have played a distinguished75 part in a sweet room, but went for nothing here. Gerard asked her if he could have something to eat.
She opened her eyes with astonishment76. “Supper is over this hour and more.
“But I had none of it, good dame77.”
“Is that my fault? You were welcome to your share for me.”
“But I was benighted, and a stranger; and belated sore against my will.”
“What have I to do with that? All the world knows 'The Star of the Forest' sups from six till eight. Come before six, ye sup well; come before eight, ye sup as pleases Heaven; come after eight, ye get a clean bed, and a stirrup cup, or a horn of kine's milk, at the dawning.”
Gerard looked blank. “May I go to bed, then, dame?” said he sulkily “for it is ill sitting up wet and fasting, and the byword saith, 'He sups who sleeps.'”
“The beds are not come yet,” replied the landlady. “You will sleep when the rest do. Inns are not built for one.”
It was Gerard's turn to be astonished. “The beds were not come! what, in Heaven's name, did she mean?” But he was afraid to ask for every word he had spoken hitherto had amazed the assembly, and zoological eyes were upon him—he felt them. He leaned against the wall, and sighed audibly.
At this fresh zoological trait, a titter went round the watchful78 company.
“So this is Germany,” thought Gerard; “and Germany is a great country by Holland. Small nations for me.”
He consoled himself by reflecting it was to be his last, as well as his first, night in the land. His reverie was interrupted by an elbow driven into his ribs79. He turned sharp on his assailant, who pointed across the room. Gerard looked, and a woman in the corner was beckoning80 him. He went towards her gingerly, being surprised and irresolute81, so that to a spectator her beckoning finger seemed to be pulling him across the floor with a gut-line. When he had got up to her, “Hold the child,” said she, in a fine hearty82 voice; and in a moment she plumped the bairn into Gerard's arms.
He stood transfixed, jelly of lead in his hands, and sudden horror in his elongated83 countenance84.
At this ruefully expressive85 face, the lynx-eyed conclave86 laughed loud and long.
“Never heed87 them,” said the woman cheerfully; “they know no better; how should they, bred an' born in a wood?” She was rummaging88 among her clothes with the two penetrating89 hands, one of which Gerard had set free. Presently she fished out a small tin plate and a dried pudding; and resuming her child with one arm, held them forth90 to Gerard with the other, keeping a thumb on the pudding to prevent it from slipping off.
“Put it in the stove,” said she; “you are too young to lie down fasting.”
Gerard thanked her warmly. But on his way to the stove, his eye fell on the landlady. “May I, dame?” said he beseechingly91.
“Why not?” said she.
The question was evidently another surprise, though less startling than its predecessors92.
Coming to the stove, Gerard found the oven door obstructed94 by “the rammish clowns.” They did not budge95. He hesitated a moment. The landlady saw, calmly put down her work, and coming up, pulled a hircine man or two hither, and pushed a hircine man or two thither96, with the impassive countenance of a housewife moving her furniture. “Turn about is fair play,” she said; “ye have been dry this ten minutes and better.”
Her experienced eye was not deceived; Gorgonii had done stewing97, and begun baking. Debarred the stove, they trundled home, all but one, who stood like a table, where the landlady had moved him to, like a table. And Gerard baked his pudding; and getting to the stove, burst into steam.
The door opened, and in flew a bundle of straw.
It was hurled98 by a hind99 with a pitchfork. Another and another came flying after it, till the room was like a clean farmyard. These were then dispersed100 round the stove in layers, like the seats in an arena101, and in a moment the company was all on its back.
The beds had come.
Gerard took out his pudding, and found it delicious. While he was relishing102 it, the woman who had given it him, and who was now abed, beckoned103 him again. He went to her bundle side. “She is waiting for you,” whispered the woman. Gerard returned to the stove, and gobbled. the rest of his sausage, casting uneasy glances at the landlady, seated silent as fate amid the prostrate104 multitude. The food bolted, he went to her, and said, “Thank you kindly105, dame, for waiting for me.”
“You are welcome,” said she calmly, making neither much nor little of the favour; and with that began to gather up the feathers. But Gerard stopped her. “Nay106, that is my task;” and he went down on his knees, and collected them with ardour. She watched him demurely107.
“I wot not whence ye come,” said she, with a relic108 of distrust; adding, more cordially, “but ye have been well brought up;—y' have had a good mother, I'll go bail109.”
At the door she committed the whole company to Heaven, in a formula, and disappeared. Gerard to his straw in the very corner-for the guests lay round the sacred stove by seniority, i.e. priority of arrival.
This punishment was a boon110 to Gerard, for thus he lay on the shore of odour and stifling111 heat, instead of in mid39-ocean.
He was just dropping off, when he was awaked by a noise; and lo there was the hind remorselessly shaking and waking guest after guest, to ask him whether it was he who had picked up the mistress's feathers.
“It was I,” cried Gerard.
“Oh, it was you, was it?” said the other, and came striding rapidly over the intermediate sleepers113. “She bade me say, 'One good turn deserves another,' and so here's your nightcap,” and he thrust a great oaken mug under Gerard's nose.
“I thank her, and bless her; here goes—ugh!” and his gratitude114 ended in a wry115 face; for the beer was muddy, and had a strange, medicinal twang new to the Hollander.
“Trinke aus!” shouted the hind reproachfully.
“Enow is as good as a feast,” said the youth Jesuitically.
The hind cast a look of pity on this stranger who left liquor in his mug. “Ich brings euch,” said he, and drained it to the bottom.
And now Gerard turned his face to the wall and pulled up two handfuls of the nice clean straw, and bored in them with his finger, and so made a scabbard, and sheathed116 his nose in it. And soon they were all asleep; men, maids, wives, and children all lying higgledy-piggledy, and snoring in a dozen keys like an orchestra slowly tuning117; and Gerard's body lay on straw in Germany, and his spirit was away to Sevenbergen.
When he woke in the morning he found nearly all his fellow-passengers gone. One or two were waiting for dinner, nine o'clock; it was now six. He paid the landlady her demand, two pfenning, or about an English halfpenny, and he of the pitchfork demanded trinkgeld, and getting a trifle more than usual, and seeing Gerard eye a foaming118 milk-pail he had just brought from the cow, hoisted119 it up bodily to his lips. “Drink your fill, man,” said he, and on Gerard offering to pay for the delicious draught120, told him in broad patois121 that a man might swallow a skinful of milk, or a breakfast of air, without putting hand to pouch122. At the door Gerard found his benefactress of last night, and a huge-chested artisan, her husband.
Gerard thanked her, and in the spirit of the age offered her a creutzer for her pudding.
But she repulsed123 his hand quietly. “For what do you take me?” said she, colouring faintly; “we are travellers and strangers the same as you, and bound to feel for those in like plight124.”
Then Gerard blushed in his turn and stammered125 excuses.
The hulking husband grinned superior to them both.
“Give the vixen a kiss for her pudding, and cry quits,” said he, with an air impartial126, judge-like and Jove-like.
Gerard obeyed the lofty behest, and kissed the wife's cheek. “A blessing127 go with you both, good people,” said he.
“And God speed you, young man!” replied the honest couple; and with that they parted, and never met again in this world.
The sun had just risen: the rain-drops on the leaves glittered like diamonds. The air was fresh and bracing128, and Gerard steered130 south, and did not even remember his resolve of overnight.
Eight leagues he walked that day, and in the afternoon came upon a huge building with an enormous arched gateway131 and a postern by its side.
“A monastery132!” cried he joyfully133; “I go no further lest I fare worse.” He applied134 at the postern, and on stating whence he came and whither bound, was instantly admitted and directed to the guestchamber, a large and lofty room, where travellers were fed and lodged136 gratis137 by the charity of the monastic orders. Soon the bell tinkled138 for vespers, and Gerard entered the church of the convent, and from his place heard a service sung so exquisitely139, it seemed the choir140 of heaven. But one thing was wanting, Margaret was not there to hear it with him, and this made him sigh bitterly in mid rapture141. At supper, plain but wholesome142 and abundant food, and good beer, brewed143 in the convent, were set before him and his fellows, and at an early hour they were ushered144 into a large dormitory, and the number being moderate, had each a truckle bed, and for covering, sheepskins dressed with the fleece on; but previously145 to this a monk146, struck by his youth and beauty, questioned him, and soon drew out his projects and his heart. When he was found to be convent bred, and going alone to Rome, he became a personage, and in the morning they showed him over the convent and made him stay and dine in the refectory. They also pricked147 him a route on a slip of parchment, and the prior gave him a silver guilden to help him on the road, and advised him to join the first honest company he should fall in with, “and not face alone the manifold perils148 of the way.”
“Perils?” said Gerard to himself.
That evening he came to a small straggling town where was one inn; it had no sign; but being now better versed149 in the customs of the country, he detected it at once by the coats of arms on its walls. These belonged to the distinguished visitors who had slept in it at different epochs since its foundation, and left these customary tokens of their patronage151. At present it looked more like a mausoleum than a hotel. Nothing moved nor sounded either in it or about it. Gerard hammered on the great oak door: no answer. He hallooed: no reply. After a while he hallooed louder, and at last a little round window, or rather hole in the wall, opened, a man's head protruded152 cautiously, like a tortoise's from its shell, and eyed Gerard stolidly153, but never uttered a syllable154.
“Is this an inn?” asked Gerard, with a covert155 sneer156.
The head seemed to fall into a brown study; eventually it nodded, but lazily.
“Can I have entertainment here?”
Again the head pondered and ended by nodding, but sullenly157, and seemed a skull158 overburdened with catch-penny interrogatories.
“How am I to get within, an't please you?”
At this the head popped in, as if the last question had shot it; and a hand popped out, pointed round the corner of the building, and slammed the window.
Gerard followed the indication, and after some research discovered that the fortification had one vulnerable part, a small low door on its flank. As for the main entrance, that was used to keep out thieves and customers, except once or twice in a year, when they entered together, i.e., when some duke or count arrived in pomp with his train of gaudy159 ruffians.
Gerard, having penetrated the outer fort, soon found his way to the stove (as the public room was called from the principal article in it), and sat down near the oven, in which were only a few live embers that diffused160 a mild and grateful heat.
After waiting patiently a long time, he asked a grim old fellow with a long white beard, who stalked solemnly in, and turned the hour-glass, and then was stalking out, when supper would be. The grisly Ganymede counted the guests on his fingers—“When I see thrice as many here as now.” Gerard groaned161.
The grisly tyrant162 resented the rebellious163 sound. “Inns are not built for one,” said he; “if you can't wait for the rest, look out for another lodging164.”
Gerard sighed.
At this the greybeard frowned.
After a while company trickled165 steadily166 in, till full eighty persons of various conditions were congregated167, and to our novice the place became a chamber135 of horrors; for here the mothers got together and compared ringworms, and the men scraped the mud off their shoes with their knives, and left it on the floor, and combed their long hair out, inmates169 included, and made their toilet, consisting generally of a dry rub. Water, however, was brought in ewers171. Gerard pounced172 on one of these, but at sight of the liquid contents lost his temper and said to the waiter, “Wash you first your water, and then a man may wash his hands withal.”
“An' it likes you not, seek another inn!”
Gerard said nothing, but went quietly and courteously173 besought174 an old traveller to tell him how far it was to the next inn.
“About four leagues.”
Then Gerard appreciated the grim pleasantry of the unbending sire.
That worthy175 now returned with an armful of wood, and counting the travellers, put on a log for every six, by which act of raw justice the hotter the room the more heat he added. Poor Gerard noticed this little flaw in the ancient man's logic68, but carefully suppressed every symptom of intelligence, lest his feet should have to carry his brains four leagues farther that night.
When perspiration176 and suffocation177 were far advanced, they brought in the table-cloths; but oh, so brown, so dirty, and so coarse; they seemed like sacks that had been worn out in agriculture and come down to this, or like shreads from the mainsail of some worn-out ship. The Hollander, who had never seen such linen178 even in nightmare, uttered a faint cry.
“What is to do?” inquired a traveller. Gerard pointed ruefully to the dirty sackcloth. The other looked at it with lack lustre179 eye, and comprehended nought180.
A Burgundian soldier with his arbalest at his back came peeping over Gerard's shoulder, and seeing what was amiss, laughed so loud that the room rang again, then slapped him on the back and cried, “Courage! le diable est mort.”
Gerard stared: he doubted alike the good tidings and their relevancy; but the tones were so hearty and the arbalestrier's face, notwithstanding a formidable beard, was so gay and genial181, that he smiled, and after a pause said drily, “Il a bien faite avec l'eau et linge du pays on allait le noircir a ne se reconnaitre plus.”
“Tiens, tiens!” cried the soldier, “v'la qui parle le Francais peu s'en faut,” and he seated himself by Gerard, and in a moment was talking volubly of war, women, and pillage182, interlarding his discourse183 with curious oaths, at which Gerard drew away from him more or less.
Presently in came the grisly servant, and counted them all on his fingers superciliously184, like Abraham telling sheep; then went out again, and returned with a deal trencher and deal spoon to each.
Then there was an interval185. Then he brought them a long mug apiece made of glass, and frowned. By-and-by he stalked gloomily in with a hunch186 of bread apiece, and exit with an injured air. Expectation thus raised, the guests sat for nearly an hour balancing the wooden spoons, and with their own knives whittling187 the bread. Eventually, when hope was extinct, patience worn out, and hunger exhausted188, a huge vessel189 was brought in with pomp, the lid was removed, a cloud of steam rolled forth, and behold190 some thin broth191 with square pieces of bread floating. This, though not agreeable to the mind, served to distend192 the body. Slices of Strasbourg ham followed, and pieces of salt fish, both so highly salted that Gerard could hardly swallow a mouthful. Then came a kind of gruel193, and when the repast had lasted an hour and more, some hashed meat highly peppered and the French and Dutch being now full to the brim with the above dainties, and the draughts194 of beer the salt and spiced meats had provoked, in came roasted kids, most excellent, and carp and trout195 fresh from the stream. Gerard made an effort and looked angrily at them, but “could no more,” as the poets say. The Burgundian swore by the liver and pike-staff of the good centurion196, the natives had outwitted him. Then turning to Gerard, he said, “Courage, l'ami, le diable est mort,” as loudly as before, but not with the same tone of conviction. The canny197 natives had kept an internal corner for contingencies198, and polished the kid's very bones.
The feast ended with a dish of raw animalcula in a wicker cage. A cheese had been surrounded with little twigs199 and strings200; then a hole made in it and a little sour wine poured in. This speedily bred a small but numerous vermin. When the cheese was so rotten with them that only the twigs and string kept it from tumbling to pieces and walking off quadrivious, it came to table. By a malicious201 caprice of fate, cage and menagerie were put down right under the Dutchman's organ of self-torture. He recoiled with a loud ejaculation, and hung to the bench by the calves202 of his legs.
“What is the matter?” said a traveller disdainfully. “Does the good cheese scare ye? Then put it hither, in the name of all the saints!”
“Cheese!” cried Gerard, “I see none. These nauseous reptiles203 have made away with every bit of it.”
“Well,” replied another, “it is not gone far. By eating of the mites204 we eat the cheese to boot.”
“Nay, not so,” said Gerard. “These reptiles are made like us, and digest their food and turn it to foul205 flesh even as we do ours to sweet; as well might you think to chew grass by eating of grass-fed beeves, as to eat cheese by swallowing these uncleanly insects.”
Gerard raised his voice in uttering this, and the company received the paradox206 in dead silence, and with a distrustful air, like any other stranger, during which the Burgundian, who understood German but imperfectly, made Gerard Gallicize the discussion. He patted his interpreter on the back. “C'est bien, mon gars; plus fin14 que toi n'est pas bete,” and administered his formula of encouragement; and Gerard edged away from him; for next to ugly sights and ill odours, the poor wretch207 disliked profaneness208.
Meantime, though shaken in argument, the raw reptiles were duly eaten and relished209 by the company, and served to provoke thirst, a principal aim of all the solids in that part of Germany. So now the company drank garausses all round, and their tongues were unloosed, and oh, the Babel! But above the fierce clamour rose at intervals210, like some hero's war-cry in battle, the trumpet-like voice of the Burgundian soldier shouting lustily, “Courage, camarades, le diable est mort!”
Entered grisly Ganymede holding in his hand a wooden dish with circles and semicircles marked on it in chalk. He put it down on the table and stood silent, sad, and sombre, as Charon by Styx waiting for his boat-load of souls. Then pouches211 and purses were rummaged212, and each threw a coin into the dish. Gerard timidly observed that he had drunk next to no beer, and inquired how much less he was to pay than the others.
“What mean you?” said Ganymede roughly. “Whose fault is it you have not drunken? Are all to suffer because one chooses to be a milksop? You will pay no more than the rest, and no less.”
Gerard was abashed213.
“Courage, petit, le diable est mort,” hiccoughed the soldier and flung Ganymede a coin.
“You are bad as he is,” said the old man peevishly214; “you are paying too much;” and the tyrannical old Aristides............