At this, my master’s table companions passed a variety of judgements regarding me. The secretary was minded to deem me a fool on the grounds that I saw and presented myself as a rational creature, the way those who consider themselves clever while definitely having a screw loose make the best jesters, aiming the most accurate barbs. Others thought that, if I could be relieved of the delusion that I was a calf and convinced that I’d returned to the human state, I could be pronounced rational or at least be said to have possession of my wits. My master himself said, ‘What I think is, he’s a fool because he’s not afraid to tell people the truth. On the other hand, his words are so pertinent they can’t be the words of an idiot.’ This was all said in Latin, by the way, in case I understood. My master asked me if I’d studied when I was still a human. ‘I wouldn’t know, master,’ I replied. ‘What are these studs that people study? Anything like bowls – the things people bowl?’ At which the crazy ensign, spluttering, said, ‘Here, what’s up with the fellow? He’s possessed, I reckon. That’s the devil talking!’ Which prompted my master to ask whether, since being turned into a calf, I’d stuck to the habit of saying my prayers like other folk. Did I still believe I’d go to heaven? ‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘I still have my immortal soul, don’t I? And that won’t want to go to hell, will it? I’ve been there once, and that was enough. I’ve been changed, that’s all, the way Nebuchadnezzar was, and eventually, one day, I’ll be changed back into a human being.’ ‘I hope you will,’ said my master – sighing in a way that suggested to me how deeply he regretted turning me into a fool in the first place. ‘But tell us,’ he went on, ‘how do you say your prayers as a rule?’ I knelt down, raised my eyes and hands to heaven as I’d seen the hermit do, and (my master’s remorse having really touched me) with tears running down my cheeks, I prayed with every appearance of the deepest reverence. Starting with the ‘Our Father’, I went on to intercede for the whole of Christendom, friend and foe, and to ask God to grant me, in this temporal age, the strength to live my life in a way that made me worthy to sing his praises in a state of everlasting bliss. Such a prayer, couched in just such pious words, my hermit had once taught me. It brought the more soft-hearted onlookers to the verge of tears. Even my master was welling up, I could tell.
After the meal, my master sent for the priest I mentioned earlier. He told the man what I’d said and done, clearly worried that all was not well with me. The devil might be involved, he suggested, because I’d previously behaved like a noodle but was now saying things that made one wonder! The priest, who knew me better than anyone, answered: that was something one should have considered before venturing to turn me into a fool. Folk were created in God’s image and should not be toyed with like wild beasts – certainly not a callow youth. Still, he refused to believe that the Evil One had in fact been invoked since I regularly placed myself in God’s hands by means of fervent prayer. However, if the devil had indeed been given a way in (heaven forbid!), someone had shouldered a huge burden of responsibility towards God. The fact was, there could be no greater sin than for one man to rob another of his reason, thus disqualifying him from praising and serving God – ‘which is the chief reason for man’s existence,’ the priest went on. ‘I’d satisfied myself he had sense enough, assuming that his inability to accept the way of the world was due to his having been raised in all simplicity by his dad, an uneducated farmer, and by your brother-in-law in the forest. If folk had been a little more patient with him from the start, I thought, in time he’d make a better fist of things. After all, here was a pious, simple-minded child with no knowledge of the wicked world as yet. However,’ the priest added confidently, ‘he’ll recover his wits once his imagination has been tamed and he stops believing he’s a calf. There’s a story about a man who believed so firmly he’d become a clay jug that he told his family to place him on a high shelf to keep him from being knocked over. Another even thought he’d turned into a cock and in his fevered state crowed day and night. Yet another was convinced he was dead already. He wandered about like a ghost, refusing to take any medicine and even his usual meals. Eventually, a clever medic got two fellows to pretend they were ghosts too but ones that tucked into their grub; they took the man aside and persuaded him that ghosts nowadays also ate and drank, which returned him to normality. I myself once had a sick farmer in my parish who, when I visited him, complained he had a quite massive amount of water in his body; if that could be got rid of, he’d recover. He asked me either to arrange for him to be cut open and let the water out or have him hung in the smoker and dried out. Addressing the man in authoritative tones, I said I’d thought of another way of extracting the water. I took a tap of the sort used in wine or beer barrels, attached a length of gut to it, and bound the other end to the outflow of a large tub – which I’d arranged to be filled with water. Next, I pretended to thrust the tap into his stomach, which he’d wound round and round with rags to stop it exploding. I then allowed the water to drain from the tub and out through the tap, so delighting the twit that, after the treatment, he stripped off the rags and in a couple of days was as right as rain. In a similar way, relief was bestowed on another deluded sufferer who imagined he had all sorts of horse tack inside him – bits and bridles and so on. His doctor gave him an enema and sprinkled such items among the motions, making the poor bloke think he’d passed them himself. There’s another story about a fantasist who thought his nose was so long it touched the ground. First hanging a sausage from it, they removed the sausage slice by slice until they reached the nose itself. When the man felt the knife touch his flesh he screamed out that the problem was solved. It’s possible that, like these folk, our good Simplicius can be cured too.’
‘Yes, yes,’ my master answered, ‘I believe all you say. I worry only that, having once been so simple, he’s now able to speak with such elegance, such eloquence – well, one would be hard put to it to find his like among men far older, more experienced, much better read than him. He’s taught me a lot about the properties of animals, for instance, and described my own character with such skill and sensitivity as if he’d lived his whole life among us. He’s amazing, he really is. I feel almost obliged to take his words as an oracle or forewarning from God.’
‘Sir,’ the priest replied, ‘there may well be a natural explanation. I know for a fact he is well read since both he and his hermit got through most of my library – quite a large library, too. Moreover, since the lad has a good memory, although his reasoning powers are currently dormant and he’s even a stranger to himself, he’ll be able instantly to recall what his brain once took on board. I’m sure he’ll come good, given time.’ With these words the priest left the governor hovering between fear and hope. He’d also done full justice to myself and my affairs, secured a pleasant respite for me, and at the same gained greater access to our common master. Eventually, the two agreed to sit tight and see what became of me. Plus in doing all this the priest was acting as much in his own interests as in mine. Through his regular coming and going and his obvious concern for me, he got into the governor’s good books and was made garrison chaplain – not a bad job in those difficult times. Bully for him! was my reaction.