The priest kept me in his rooms until ten o’clock before escorting me to the governor to tell him what I’d decided. He knew the governor held open table, you see, so with any luck he’d be asked to stay for lunch. The fortified town of Hanau was under blockade at the time. A lot of folk had taken refuge there, and things were tight for the common man. Even people who’d once had pretensions stooped to pick up the now frozen turnip peelings that the wealthy might have tossed out in the street. So well did the priest’s plan succeed, in fact, that he got to sit at the head of the table, beside the governor himself. Meanwhile I, with a serving dish in my hand, waited on the company as instructed by the steward – a job I performed with all the skill of a donkey playing chess. However, the priest made up with his tongue for what my limbs lacked in dexterity. As he pointed out, I’d grown up in the forest, had never been among people, and could be excused on the grounds that I didn’t yet know how to behave. The admirable loyalty I’d shown towards the hermit, together with the harsh life I’d survived while with him, merited not only that my ineptitude be overlooked but also that I be ranked higher than a child of noble birth. The priest went on to relate how the hermit had taken such delight in me because (and this he said repeatedly) I bore a close facial resemblance to his beloved. Also, he’d often been amazed by the fidelity I’d evinced in staying at the man’s side – as well as by the many other virtues he found to praise in me. In brief, the priest couldn’t adequately express how, on a visit shortly before his death, the hermit had commended me to him with burning sincerity, saying he loved me as much as if I’d been his own child.
This gave me a warm tingle in the ears. I felt well compensated for all I’d put up with at the hermit’s. The governor asked if his late brother-in-law had known he was currently in command in Hanau. ‘Of course,’ the priest replied. ‘I told him so myself. However, he reacted as coolly as if he’d never heard the name “Ramsay” before in his life. Such strength of will! He’d not only renounced the world; he’d also, on hearing that his best friend was so close, shown that he’d dismissed the man entirely from his thoughts!’ The governor, not given to soft-hearted, womanish emotions but a tough, even heroic soldier, had tears in his eyes. ‘Had I known,’ he said, ‘that he was still alive and where he was to be found, I’d have had him brought to me (by force, if necessary) so that I might reciprocate his good deeds. However, since fate has denied me that pleasure, I’ll take care of his Simplicius instead. Oh dear!’ he went on, ‘the brave soul was right to mourn his pregnant wife, for during the chase, before even leaving the Spessart, a troop of Imperial horse took her prisoner. When I heard, thinking my brother had died in the fighting near Höchst, I sent a herald to the enemy camp to ask after my sister and offer a ransom for her return. I learnt only that the aforementioned troop of horse, routed by a bunch of peasants (still in the Spessart, this was), had lost her again. I’ve no idea where she is now.’
That was the gist of the governor’s and the priest’s table talk: my hermit, his beloved and how their separation and disappearance were all the more regrettable for their having enjoyed only a year of marriage. Anyway, I became page to the governor and quite a lad – one whom folk, notably the locals I had to announce to the governor, were soon addressing as ‘Young Master’. Come to think of it, you rarely find a youngster who is also a master, whereas all masters were once young men.