The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus

by Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen

  Twenty-Six

  A strange new way of hailing folk and wishing them well

  Convinced that I now had cause to doubt whether I was living among Christians or not, I told the priest all I’d seen and heard. I also confided in him what I was starting to think: that folk were mere mockers of Christ and his word, not Christians at all. ‘Please, please,’ I begged. ‘Help me shake off this dream. How should I think of my fellow men?’ The priest answered, ‘As Christians, of course, and you’d be wise not to call them anything else!’ ‘But how can they be?’ I wanted to know. ‘Whenever I point out what a mistake they’re making in opposing God’s will, I’m mocked and made fun of.’ ‘That shouldn’t surprise you,’ the priest said in reply. ‘If the earliest pious Christians, men and women who lived at the time of Christ (the apostles themselves, if you like), were put back on Earth today I believe they’d ask me the same question. And eventually, like you, they’d all be called fools. What you’ve seen and heard up to now is bad enough, but it’s nothing compared to what the world secretly (as well as openly, sometimes) hurls at both God and mankind. Don’t let that worry you, though. You’ll not find many Christians like the late Mr Samuel, your hermit friend.’

  As we talked, large numbers of enemy prisoners were being led across the square. Our attention kept straying their way, which interfered with our conversation. It was then that I witnessed something so absurd I could never have dreamt it up: the latest fashion, evidently, in how to greet an old friend and wish him well. A soldier from our garrison, who’d previously served in a unit loyal to the Emperor, recognizing one of the prisoners, went up to him, took him by the hand, shook said hand with every sign of pleasure, and roared, ‘Brother, welcome back! You’ve been through a hailstorm (it was a saying at the time) and survived! Well, I’m damned! Fancy the devil bringing us together like this! Blow me down! I thought you’d bought it ages ago!’ To which the other replied, ‘As I live and breathe! Is it you, brother, or do my eyes deceive me? Hell’s bells! What brings you here? I never expected to see you again! I thought the devil would have got you by now!’ And as they parted, instead of a ‘God be with you!’, one said to the other, ‘Strength to your elbow, chum! Maybe we’ll meet again sometime. Then we’ll sink a few jugs together, eh?’

  ‘Hardly a pious way to greet an old friend, is it?’ I said to the priest. ‘Yet those were Christian wishes. You heard their hope of being reunited one day? But who’d have taken them for Christians or heard their exchange without being amazed? Why, if that’s how they greet each other in Christian affection, what will happen if they ever fall out? Oh father, if they are two of Christ’s lambs and you their appointed shepherd, surely your job is to lead them to better pastures than these?’ ‘You’re right, dear boy,’ the priest answered. ‘But they’re soldiers – they can’t help swearing, God have mercy on their souls. If I’d commented immediately, it would have been like preaching to pigeons. I’d have got nowhere. I’d only have attracted the dangerous hatred of two godless fellows.’ That made me think. I chatted with the priest a while longer before returning to wait on the governor. I had permission, you see, to go into the town at certain times and visit the priest. Having caught wind of my simple-mindedness, my master thought it might be good if I looked around a bit, heard things, and took instruction from others – or, as the saying goes, got my corners knocked off.

  Twenty-Seven

  The clerk’s office suddenly fills with a bad smell

  My master’s favour increased daily. The longer I stayed, the more I reminded him of his sister, the hermit’s wife, but also of his own younger self. Good food and lazy days soon took the kinks out of my hair. I enjoyed the same favour all round, in fact. Everyone on the governor’s staff behaved generously towards me – the clerk especially. He’d been detailed to teach me reckoning, which meant he got a lot of fun out of my simple-mindedness and lack of worldly wisdom. Recently down from college, he was still full of student mischief, which sometimes made it seem he had a screw loose. He frequently persuaded me that black was white and white was black. At first I believed everything he said, but in the end not a word. I once commented on how smeary his inkwell was. In reply he said it was the finest thing in his whole office: out of it he’d fished, one by one, the shiniest ducats, whole suits of clothing – all he ever wanted. I refused to believe that such fine things could emerge from so tiny a pot. Such was the power of the spiritus papyri, he replied (that was what he called his ink). Moreover, the reason why the small vessel was called a well, he added, was that it was bottomless and could contain large items. I asked how he got them out, given that there was barely room to get two fingers in. An arm in his head accomplished that, he replied. He hoped soon to pull out a beautiful, wealthy virgin, plus, if his luck held, some land and vassals of his own, adding that it wouldn’t be the first time that had been done. Amazed, I asked whether others could do it too. ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘All your chancellors, doctors, secretaries, procurators, lawyers, commissioners, notaries, businessmen – many such folk. And most, if they keep fishing, become rich.’ I had another question: ‘You mean peasants and other hard workers are missing a trick, earning their crust by the sweat of their brow and not learning this skill too?’ To which he replied, ‘Some don’t realize how useful the skill is so have no wish to learn it. Others would like to learn it but don’t have the means – the arm in the head, so to speak. Others again pick up the skill and do have the arm but not the skill required to make them rich. And yet others have the knowledge and skill but live on the wrong side of the hill or lack the opportunity to put the skill to good use.’

  As we stood discussing the inkwell (which by the way reminded me of the story of Fortunatus and his magic purse), I happened to pick up a volume entitled Handbook of Titles and Modes of Address, which to my way of thinking offered more imbecilities than you could ever invent. I turned to the clerk and said, ‘These are all children of Adam, right? They’re made of the same stuff, namely dust and ashes? So why the huge differences? “Blessed Holiness this”, “Most Invincible that”, “Your Serene Highness the other” – all attributes of God himself, surely? Then we’ve got “Lord so-and-so” and “Your Excellency, Lord so-and-so”. And why stress birth so much anyway? We know they were all born. They didn’t just drop from the sky, did they? Or pop up from the earth like cabbages?’ Laughing at my naivety, the clerk nonetheless took the trouble to explain some of the titles to me and tell me what the words meant in detail. I insisted: the titles given were all wrong. A person would far rather be ‘friendly’ than ‘solemn’. Similarly, ‘noble’ should be reserved for genuinely estimable qualities. Certainly, ‘well-born’ was entirely false, as any baroness would tell you if asked how her son’s birth had gone.

  I was chuckling over these matters when, much to my surprise, I let off a horrendous fart, frightening us both. And as if the noise had not been enough, it promptly announced itself to our noses as well, filling the whole room. ‘Piss off!’ the clerk told me. ‘Go back to the pigsty where you belong! You shouldn’t be standing here, chatting to honest folk.’ However, honest folk clearly had noses too, and he had to make for the door as fast as I did, leaving the premises to that dreadful pong. As for the pleasure I’d taken in the clerk’s company – well, I’d blown that, you might say.

  Twenty-Eight

  Out of jealousy, someone teaches Simplicius soothsaying, as well as another neat trick

  However, I’d quite innocently fallen into this misfortune. The change of diet and the medicines I was taking daily to relax my shrunken stomach and realign my knotted gut created a lot of heavy weather down there, causing me serious gyp when it needed to make a swift exit. You see, I didn’t think there was any harm in letting nature have its head, particularly since in the long run there’s no resisting such inner forces. Nor had my hermit given me any hints in this area (such visitations being rare in our lives), or my dad ever barred me from letting the lads (nature, heavy weather, etc.) have th
eir way. So I’d pass wind freely and let anything else go that was looking for a way out. When I did this in the clerk’s office, though, it cost me dear. I mightn’t even have minded losing his favour if I hadn’t fallen into a bigger trap subsequently, as happens to all good souls who come to court, where the snake spells trouble for Nasica, Goliath for David, the Minotaur for Theseus, Medusa for Perseus, Circe for Ulysses, Aegisthus for Menelaus, Paludes for Coraebus, Medea for Pelias, Nessus for Hercules, even Althaea for her own son Meleager.

  My master had another pageboy as well, a right rascal who’d been with him for a couple of years. The fellow was about the same age as me, and I became fond of him (Jonathan to my David, I thought). But with the great favour the governor showed me growing greater by the day, he began to resent my presence. He was afraid I might spoil things for him, perhaps actually supplant him in our master’s affections. So he’d throw me these jealous looks when no one was around and make plans how to knock my marble out of the way and gain ground for himself. I was all innocence; I also thought differently from him. I trusted him with all my secrets, which of course concerned very simple, childlike, pious matters of a kind that he could never twist to my disadvantage. We used to natter in bed together for a long time before nodding off, and once, as our talk turned to foretelling the future, he promised to teach me the art for nothing. First I had to put my head under the bedclothes; otherwise the trick wouldn’t work. I did as he said, eager for the spirit of fortune-telling to arrive, which lo and behold it did – through the nose! So powerfully, too, that I had to stick my whole head back out from under the covers. ‘What’s up?’ said my tutor. ‘You let off,’ I replied. ‘True. That’s what soothsaying means: knowing what’s going to happen. And you should have known!’ Rather than take offence (the word meant nothing to me at the time), what interested me was, how did he do it so quietly? ‘Nothing to it,’ my friend replied. ‘Easy-peasy. All you do is lift your left leg like a dog pissing at the corner, repeating Je pète, je pète, je pète at the same time and pressing as hard as you can. Then you quietly walk away – like when you’ve just nicked something.’ ‘That’s great!’ I said. ‘And if there’s a pong afterwards, people will assume some dog’s farted, especially if I lift my left leg really high.’ I remember saying to myself, ‘I wish I’d thought of that earlier – when I farted in the clerk’s office.’

  Twenty-Nine

  Simplicius helps himself to two eyeballs from a calf’s head

  Next day my master laid on a princely banquet for his officers and other close friends, having received the excellent news that his army had taken the citadel of Braunfels without the loss of a single man. My job was to help the other waiters serve the food, pour the wine, and stand there, platter in hand. On the first day I was given a calf’s head (not exactly poor man’s food, I was told) to carry in. The head was large, fat and very well cooked, so that one eye protruded some way, dripping with juice and presenting me with an adorable, distinctly tempting sight. And with the fresh aroma of the bacon broth and the ginger seasoning further stimulating my appetite, I felt so ravenous all of a sudden that I started dribbling. To cut a long story short, the eye smiled down at my eyes, nose and mouth – almost begging me to swallow it and stow it away in my very hungry stomach. Needing no second bidding, I promptly surrendered to the urge. Advancing with my burden, I took up the spoon of office I’d been presented with that very day and eased the eyeball out. So smoothly and swiftly did I deliver it to its destination that no one noticed – until, that is, the head was on the table and gave both of us away. Spotting instantly that the dish lacked one of its prime attractions, the carver hesitated with irons poised, and at that moment my master saw why. He knew (and dreaded) the scorn he would face when word spread that a member of his household staff had dared to set before his guests a calf’s head with only one eyeball. The cook was summoned and interrogated, as were the waiters. The finger of suspicion eventually came round to poor Simp, who’d been given a two-eyed calf’s head to take to the table. What had happened en route, no one knew. My master then enquired (rather darkly, I feared) what I’d done with the titbit. Whipping out my spoon again, I took another helping from the head and demonstrated all that was asked of me by gulping down the other eye, quick as a flash. ‘By God!’ said my master. ‘A performance like that is worth a dozen calves’ heads!’ The diners, taking their cue, gasped that what I’d done (in all innocence, remember) had been a brilliant stroke of invention; it heralded mettle and resolve to come. In other words, as well as dodging just punishment by repeating the act I’d first earned it for, I’d been praised by assorted jokers, toadies and prattlers for so sensibly dispatching both eyeballs to a place where they might go on doing the job nature had assigned to them, which was to help and support each other in the next world as in this. My master, however, warned me never to push him that far again.

  Thirty

  How people get tipsy gradually – and are suddenly, without noticing, blind drunk

  At that meal (at others too, presumably) the guests filed in like good Christians and stood behind their seats in seemingly reverent silence while grace was said. The reverent silence continued during the soup course and while they dealt with the first bites to eat, quite as if this were the refectory of a Capuchin monastery. However, once a few toasts had been offered, voices rose. I can’t describe how, little by little, the noise level increased. Every diner was apparently making a speech, keeping his voice down at first but bellowing like thunder by the end. So-called ‘starters’ were brought in – highly spiced concoctions to be eaten before the serious drinking began. I suppose they made people thirsty. Ditto the many ‘sides’, designed to help the boozing along rather than drown it out, so to speak. Different versions of the French potage arrived, not to mention the Spanish olla potrida, all pepped up with a thousand unlikely ‘seasonings’ and innumerable culinary subtleties. These so heightened and filled out the dishes for drinking purposes as to take them far from nature’s original intention – so far, indeed, that Gnaeus Manlius himself, fresh back from Asia with the finest cooks at his side, wouldn’t have recognized them. My own thought was, might not such food and drink (the latter carefully selected to accompany the former) undermine a man’s wits, even change him into an animal? Were these perhaps the very means by which Circe turned Ulysses’ retinue into swine? Suddenly I saw those dinner guests scoffing their food like pigs, swilling their wine like cattle, staring for a moment like asses, then puking like dogs. The fine wines of Hochheim, Bacharach and Klingenberg were poured down throats from glasses the size of buckets, while the effects ‘went to their heads’ (as the drinkers said). That, it seemed to me, was when the miracle occurred. Everything changed. Sensible folk, who’d only recently had all their wits about them, switched to acting the fool, saying the daftest things on Earth. The foolishness of their behaviour and the frequency of their toasts all increased by the minute. The two were competing, evidently: which would grow faster? I could see where this would end. Oddly, though, I’d no idea where this foolish urge came from. The effects of wine, drunkenness itself – these were still a mystery to me. Pondering these matters, I was led into all kinds of fancy. I saw the odd expressions on faces, but what put them there? Up until now folk had eaten with appetite, emptying all the dishes. But as stomachs filled the eating slowed, the way a coachman, driving a famous team, makes fine progress over the flat but has trouble going uphill. However, as heads began to spin, inability to eat more was cancelled out, in one man’s case, by drink-fuelled courage, in another man’s case by heartily clinking glasses with a friend, in the case of a third man by the fine German custom of answering each toast by another. When even this stopped working, they simply drank – to great men or dear friends or a loved one’s health. Down the wine went by the bucketload, with some men now rolling their eyes or breaking out in a cold sweat. Still, the drinking must go on. Drums, pipes and fiddles added to the din. Even shots rang out – surely because the juice now had
to be forced down. Where did it all go? I wondered, not yet understanding that, before it was properly warm inside them, they had to heave it up painfully and spew it out of the same hatch down which they’d so recently, risking their futures, poured the stuff.

  My priest was also at the banquet. And, being a human being too, he like the others needed to go out occasionally. I followed him on one such trip and asked, ‘Tell me, father, why the strange behaviour? How come folk stagger about like that? You’d think they were no longer all there. They’ve had quite enough to eat and drink, even asking the devil to take them if they could drink another drop, yet still they pour themselves a refill. Do they have to, or are they being deliberately wasteful, despite God’s teaching?’ ‘Dear child,’ the priest replied. ‘ “Wine in, wits out!” goes the saying. But you’ve seen nothing yet. Come sun-up these fellows will find it difficult to part. They’ll be full up to here, but the real fun won’t have begun.’ ‘But won’t their bellies burst,’ I protested, ‘if they go on stretching them like this? How can souls created in God’s image survive in the bodies of fatted swine – or of old lags sprawling in rat-infested dungeons without a single divine spark to guide them? How shall they tolerate such torment? Are human senses, those servants of the soul, to be buried deep in the entrails of untamed beasts?’ ‘Shut up!’ said the priest. ‘Stop sermonizing, can’t you? Don’t you think I feel the same way, even more so?’ That silenced me, certainly. But I went back to the sight of men wilfully defiling food and drink – when I knew that the pitiable figure of Lazarus (for whom this would have been a banquet) was represented by the Wetterau refugees, driven from their homes in and around Braunfels and now gathered at our door with hunger in their eyes. They’d no homes to go back to. Anyway, the cupboard would be bare.