beggar of Kuttenberg, of Kuttenberg
“I am a man waiting on God's providence, who keeps a clean face and a polite tongue.”
Things Stinky Richard had written, latest first, with the glosses of his neighbours.
The feast of St Urban, at None
My boots are wearing perilously thin, and the dust is terrible today. I stood by the mercer's door and had to brush my sleeves thrice before the good master emerged. I will not be mistaken for the rabble that whines down by the tanners.
Nota scribaeHe spent a long time smoothing out his filthy rags before speaking.
The Friday after Easter, at Vespers
The wind is cold tonight. It minds me of that bitter march to Kolin, and poor Lambert in the ditch near Grunta. If certain men had brought dry wood instead of wet twigs, a master cobbler would not be weeping for his prentice.
The snow was deep and the wood was wet! It is not my fault the boy drank himself to sleep in a ditch.
You failed in your duty, Lorenz. I can still hardly look his master in the eye.
The third day of Easter week, at Terce
It is a heavy cross when your own blood forgets his obligations. Seven groschen is no small sum. It took months of polite bowing to earn. I say nothing in the street, for the family name must be preserved, but the Holy Trinity sees what is owed.
It was a gift during the frost, brother! Why do you weep to the clerk over a few coins?
It was a loan, and you act as if I am the villain for remembering it.
Nota scribaeThe dictation was interrupted by a fit of coughing from the other beggars.
The Tuesday after St Gregory, at Prime
Poxy Joerg and Musty Fritz spent the entire morning shouting over a wooden flute. It is a wonder the watch did not chase them into the river. A quiet demeanor and a polite blessing earns far more meat scraps than braying like asses.
It is a fine flute, and he had no right to snatch it from my bedding!
The first week of Lent, at Sext
I washed my face at the public trough this morning. It is freezing, but a respectable appearance separates us from the beasts. Sleepy Joerg tells me he dreams of the washerwoman Clemence. I pray the cold water wakes him from such folly.
She smiled at me through the bathhouse gate, Richard. A man can hope.
Nota scribaeHe smelled marginally better than the others, I will grant him that.
From drop 2026-10-26-4316967; the words set down by gemini-3.1-pro-preview on 2026-10-28.
You are as ragged as the rest of us, Richard. Brushing air off a hole does not mend it.