Anarchistbanjo's World

The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

“Silentium!” he shouted.
All was silent.
“As a mule you came from your mother’s apron, and as
foxes and the future night terrors of the Philistines, you have
entered the sacred halls of the Amicist Order, immature and
foul-smelling, but partaking of our grace. We do not want to
leave you to the pathetic institutions of the compatriot societies,
which will be in the next hostel lurking on chaises and mail
coaches, and we do you the honor of not even asking you about
your obscure origin. Do you want to be alone and without a
distinguished comitat, as a mockery of all right lads, or shall
the high Order solemnly escort you in as members?”
Finch and I looked at each other. Already on the trip we
had decided to join one of the student unions because we knew
very well that the lonely and defenseless could not be happy
because of being stepped on, being pushed off the sidewalk and
otherwise jostled. After all, it did not matter to us which
brotherhood took us in, and since it happened that way, the
Amicist order was all right for us.
So we nodded and said that we would like to be counted
among the high Order.
A violent trampling with the feet took place. This is how
the applause for our decision was expressed.
“Omnes ad loca!” cried the tall one. “And you Foxes, just
stand still!”
All sat down and one of them, about our age, ran to the
door and roared with all his lung power:
“Cerevisiam!”
Immediately a bumping and rumbling started. Two
bartenders rolled in a stately barrel, placed it on the collar and
tapped it. The girl with the messy hair carried such a number of
mugs in each hand, that one would have thought she had
twenty…fingers. They were filled and overflowing with foam,
and placed in front of everyone.
“Out, profane pack!” shouted the tall one again and hit
the tabletop with his club.
The servants and the maid hurriedly trudged away from
there.
“Come to me, foxes!” he commanded.
They grabbed us, roughly enough, and brought us in
front of him at the other end of the table.
“Put your hands on this death’s head and the crossed
blades and swear!”
We obeyed and willingly recited an oath to him, in which
we pledged our allegiance to the enlightened and high Amicist
Order until death and unbreakable loyalty to its members,
brotherly love and help of all kinds, and to other people the
deepest secrecy. If we broke our oath, our chest would be
pierced by sharp steel and our faces would become like that of
the skull on whose boney dome our fingers lay for the oath.
“I am the Bavarian Haymon,” said the tall one. Profanely,
I am called the Baron Johann Treidlsperg from Landshut. But
what are your names?”
We gave our names, and one wrote them in a booklet,
which was bound in crimson, yellow and blue.
“Bend your heads,” Hans ordered.
We did so.
In the next moment, each of us had beer running down
our faces, necks and shoulders from overturned jugs. When we
looked up coughing and spitting, under the thunderous laughter
of about fifteen lads who were in the room, we were given our
Order names. They called me “Mahomet” and Finch
“Nebuchadnezzar”. Then we had to sit astride the chairs. The
others lined up in a long row behind us, and in front of us rode
the Bavarian Haymon around the table, helping us with his
spurred legs, while everyone sang a song:
“The fox wants to go out of the hole,
There stands a green hunter outside of it.
Where from, where to, you young fox.
Today you do the last jump.
And I’ll do my last dance,
Kiss me, hunter, under the tail.
The hunter did not do it
And had to let the little fox run.
Yee-haw, yee-haw, yee-haw!
Optima est cerevisia!”
Then it was on to hugging and kissing.
On our hats, which were too new for the Amicists
were therefore bent and pierced many times,
Then they put the tricolored hats on us.
Again, the one they called “Portugieser” had to go to the
door and shout, “Coenam!”
And with great speed came a large wooden platter with
roasted chicken, rice with raisins and hot wine sauce, baked
fish with green salad and ducat noodles with sugared brandy.
Then the scrawny thing was allowed to stay in the room and
had enough to do with dodging ankles and pouring beer mugs.
“This epicurean feast is provided to Mahomet and
Nebuchadnezzar by the illustrious Order”, announced Haymon
and ordered us, moreover, to drink a full measure for the good
of the entire brotherhood, without stopping.
“And lest I forget,” he shouted in the commotion. “to the
brave postman who brought you here so beautifully to the
‘Beer sack’ with his coach, each will dedicate a hard thaler!”
Over the daily life of the carouser and wild parties I
forgot everything in a few months. Our favorite place was the
“Kind Prince”, where they served heavy brown beer and good
Mosel. The Bavarian Haymon had already returned from the
first intoxication to sobriety and had spread his spurred boots
on the table where the stars of the spurs tore holes in the dirty
tablecloth. The shirt stood open over his hairy chest, and his
sleeves were rolled up, but he did not take off his hat with the
feather trim from his head.
The Portuguese lay with his head on the tabletop and
snored. Finch or Nebukadnezar sat bent over on a chair in the
corner and puked back the wine he had drunk so that it stank
sourly and foully in the whole room. Hercules, a weak little
man from Meissen, had caught a louse, let it crawl around on a
plate and laughed beyond all measure.
Montanus knuckled with me. He had the terrible pig.
Again he knocked the leather mug on the table and gaped with
watery eyes at the throw: Five-three-one.
“Pregnant fleece – tripod – polyphemus”, he bellowed
with joy. “Gimme that mammon!”
I had only thrown five in the whole. With his hand, he
raked in my last ten silver pennies and clapped his hands on the
sweaty shirt of his fat belly with joy.
“Venus! Where is the old sow?” he then shouted toward
the door.
The old waitress came. She wore a wooden nose on her
face by two ribbons that ran across her forehead, and was
grizzled all over. We called her Venus. What she was called by
her real name, she probably no longer knew herself.
“Bring the boot, the big one, with Mosel wine, Dearest of
hearts!” ordered Montanus.
Finch came to the table. He was white in the face from
puking so much and smelled from the throat.
“You have to eat sometimes, Nebuchadnezzar. -” puffed
Montanus. “You only drink all the time and eat nothing. That
makes ulcers in your stomach, brother, like happened to
Gideon of blessed memory. All his blood jumped out of his
mouth and that was the end of him.”
Finch burped and pointed to the table.
“Ei, brother, say, why are you so tenderly concerned and
yet you have stolen from poor Mahomet his aunt’s money?
Spend some of it!”
Venus came and placed the large glass-boot before the fat
man. It held three full measures of wine. Montanus caressed
the vessel, let a sound that came from under the table, and
laughed muffledly:
“What I buy – I will also drink! Alone, most estimable!”
“Drink alone?” Finch’s eyes grew round. “That’s what the
stupid devil from the cathedral at Cologne believes.”
“If you bet your sword with the gold-inlaid Toledo blade,
then I’ll swallow the boot in one go!” bellowed the fat man.
Finch wiggled toward the sleeping Portugieser and gave
Hercules a rib-bump. The Bavarian Haymon came closer and
helped to wake up the snoring Portuguese.
“Wake up, open your little eyes, brother pants- full – you
shall be a booze judge!”
The Portuguese raised his head, grunted, and ran all ten
fingers into his frizzy hair.
“I got lice – damn!” he yawned.
Hercules burst into a silent laugh.
He knew where the vermin that had crawled into the
sleeping man’s hair came from.
The Bavarian Haymon was appointed judge.
“Here we go!” he slurred.
“Huh – brr!” Finch waved his hands between them. “The
mastiff has bet nothing against his boozing. What are you
putting on the table, your belly?”
Then Montanus pulled a thick silver watch out of his
pocket; a short chain hung from it, and on the chain hung a
polished ball of carnelian stone.
“This here!” he said.
“Go, go!” everyone now shouted. “Drink up!.”
Montanus stood up instantly in spite of his heaviness.
The soft, monstrous belly hung over the waistband of his
bulging pants.
“Until the nail test!” resisted Finch, who was in fear for
his beautiful blade.
“Will suck yellow ox milk to my end, if a drop remains
in the glass,” the fat man boasted, raising the boot glass with
both hands.