There had been an unusual amount of talk this year about the parade on
Shrove Tuesday. On the afternoon of that day the whole city was on its
feet.
Daniel was on his way home; he had reached the corner of Theresa Street
when he ran into the crowd. He stopped out of idle curiosity. The first
division of the parade came up: it consisted of three heralds in gaudy
mediaeval costumes, and back of them were three councillors on horseback.
Next in the procession was a condemned witch on a wheelbarrow. Her face
had been hideously painted, and in her hand she swung a huge whiskey
bottle. She was followed by a group of Chinese, each with a long
pigtail, and they by a troupe of dancing Kameruns.
The procession moved on in the following order: a giant carrying
twenty-seven quart beer mugs; a woman's orchestra consisting exclusively
of old women; a wagon from one of the peasant districts bearing the
inscription, "Adorers of Taxes"; a smoking club with the Swedish match
merchant; a wagon with a replica of the Spittler Gate made of beer kegs;
the so-called guard against sparks; a nurse with a grown child in
diapers and Hussar boots; the seven Swabians on velocipedes; a cabriolet
with a gaily dressed English family; a conveyance carrying authors.
There were two inscriptions on it: "The And So Forths" and "The Et
Ceterists."
At the end of the procession was a wagon with a skilful imitation of the
Goose Man. It had been made out of old boards, hoops, clay, old rags,
and iron. The Goose Man himself wore an open velvet doublet and short
velvet trousers, from the pockets of which protruded rolls of banknotes.
Instead of a cap he had a rusty pan on his head, and on his feet was a
pair of worn patent leather shoes. Under each arm he carried a goose.
The geese had been made of dough. Their heads were not the heads of
geese but of women artificially painted and with so-called taws, or
marbles, for their eyes. The face at the Goose Man's left looked
melancholy, the one at his right was cheerful.
This was the centre of attraction; it was surrounded by the largest
crowds. Every time it came within sight of a fresh group of on-lookers
there was a tremendous shouting and waving of flags. This was true even
where it was plain that the people did not appreciate the significance
of it. Pulchinellos brandished their wooden swords, Indian chieftains
danced around it screaming their mighty war-whoops, a Mephistopheles
turned somersaults, knights mounted on stilts saluted, and children with
wax masks shrieked until it was impossible to hear one's own voice.
Daniel had watched the performance with relative indifference. He had
regarded it merely as a display of commonplace ability to amuse the
people. Then came the wagon with the imitation of the Goose Man. On it
stood Schwalbe the sculptor, gloriously drunk. Beside him stood
Kropotkin the painter in his shirt sleeves, apparently oblivious to the
fact that it was cold. A fearfully fat youth--a future school officer,
so far as could be determined from his looks--had hit upon the happy
idea of pasting the title of the _Fraenkischer Herold_ to the Goose Man's
hat. This took the initiated by storm.
Kropotkin recognised Daniel. He called to him, threw him kisses, had one
of the wooden swords given him, and went through the motion of directing
an orchestra. The fat boy hurled a handful of pretzels at the spot on
the sidewalk where Daniel was standing; a trombone began to bray; the
Englishman first stuck his head out of his cabriolet, and then got out
and hopped over to Daniel, carrying a pole draped with women's clothes,
including a feather hat and a veil. A new keg of beer was tapped on the
Gambrinus wagon, while the people in the houses rushed to the windows
and roared.
"You have forgotten the railing," cried Daniel in a loud voice to the
people on the Goose Man wagon.
"What did he say?" they asked, and looked at each other in astonishment.
The on-lookers were filled with curious silence: many of them gazed at
Daniel, bewildered.
"You forgot the railing," he repeated, with glistening eyes, "you have
forgotten the iron railing. Without his protection the poor Goose Man is
to be sure your buffoon, your zany, your clown."
He laughed quietly, and, with opened mouth and shining teeth, quickly
withdrew from the innumerable gapers. Having reached a deserted alley,
he began to sing with a frenzied expression on his face: "Whom thou dost
not desert, oh Genius, him wilt thou raise up with wings of fire. He
will wander on as if with feet of flowers across Deucalion's seas of
slime, killing Python, light-footed, famed Pythius Apollo."