The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus

by Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen

  It became increasingly clear that the colonel’s clerk resented my new bond brother deeply, fearing that the tutor’s son was going to beat him to the position of regimental secretary. I noticed how grumpy he was sometimes, how waves of jealousy overcame him and plunged him into dark thoughts; I heard the way he sighed when either Herzbruder was around. Eventually, becoming sure that he was plotting something, I told young Ulrich of my suspicions, partly through loyal affection and partly because I felt I owed it to him. I wanted him to keep an eye on this Judas. However, he took the situation in his stride, confident that he was more than the clerk’s equal with both pen and sword and that in any case he enjoyed the colonel’s favour.

  Twenty-Two

  A mean trick to get a rival out of the way

  It’s customary in wartime to put old, battle-tested soldiers in charge of the military police. We had one in our regiment. The man was a rogue, in fact – well overqualified for the job, you’d have thought. A noted master of the black arts (bullets and blows just bounced off him, and he could confer the same power on others), in really tough situations on the battlefield he was able to conjure up whole squadrons of phantom horsemen in support. To look at, he was your typical Saturn as depicted by painters and poets, except that he carried neither sticks nor scythe. The poor captives who fell into his clutches dreaded his nasty character and the length of his arm, but there were folk (and our clerk Olivier was one) who enjoyed the ruffian’s company. And the more Olivier’s resentment of the younger Herzbruder intensified (Ulrich himself remained extremely good-humoured), the closer the pen-pusher and the provost marshal became. Clearly, this conjunction of Saturn and Mercury was bad news for honest Herzbruder Jr.

  Around this time the colonel’s wife was blest with a baby son, and at the princely baptismal supper young Ulrich was asked to wait at table. Being a polite man, he accepted readily, giving Olivier his long-awaited opportunity to be delivered of the vile deed he had been gestating for so long. What happened was, after the meal my colonel’s large gilt cup was nowhere to be found – much to the colonel’s own surprise, since it had still been there when all the guests had gone. A pageboy did say that he’d last seen Olivier with it, but he couldn’t swear. The provost marshal, summoned for advice, was quietly told that, if he could use his magic to make the cup reappear, he should do so in such a way that only the colonel knew who the thief had been. Officers of the regiment had been present, you see, and if one of them had perhaps been a bit careless, the colonel did not wish to see him shamed.

  Knowing that we had nothing to hide, we streamed happily back into the colonel’s big tent to watch the magician at work. We all exchanged glances, keen to see what the outcome would be and where the missing cup would come to light. The provost muttered various spells, then suddenly, now here, now there, numbers of puppies leapt from pockets, cuffs, boot tops, trouser flaps, and wherever else clothes had apertures. Soon, little furry animals were scrambling and snuffling in every corner of the tent, all very lovely but with coats of different colours and individual markings. It was a pretty sight. My tight Croatian trousers, though, teemed with so many puppies I had to take them off (my shirt too, disgustingly soiled after so long in the forest) and stand there naked. The last puppy sprang from Herzbruder’s trouser flap, wearing a golden collar. The nimblest of all, it began gobbling the others up (and by now there were so many puppies running around in the tent, you couldn’t move without stepping on one). When it had eaten the lot, it began to shrink in size itself, while the collar, by contrast, grew and grew, eventually turning into the colonel’s cup.

  Host and guests could only conclude that the villain was Herzbruder Jr. The colonel immediately addressed the young man: ‘What ingratitude! Is that how you reward my generosity? I’d never have thought you’d stoop so low. Tomorrow I was going to make you regimental secretary; today I think you should hang! And hang you would, but for my wish to spare your old father the sight. Go! Leave my camp this instant! Never let me clap eyes on you again!’ Ulrich mumbled some excuse, but no one was listening; his guilt had been so plainly exposed. As he left, his dear father fainted to the floor, and folk rushed to the old man’s aid. Among them was the colonel himself, repeating that a pious father must not be made to pay for a felony committed by his son. So it was that, with the devil’s help, Olivier obtained what he’d never have come by honestly.

  Twenty-Three

  Herzbruder Jr sells himself for a hundred ducats

  When young Herzbruder’s captain heard what had happened he stripped him of the muster-clerk job and demoted him to pikeman. From then on Ulrich was held in such universal contempt that even the dogs started pissing on him. He often wished himself dead. Meanwhile his father fretted so much that he fell seriously ill himself and prepared to meet his own death. Earlier, he’d predicted that on 26 July he would face mortal danger, and that day was fast approaching. Anxious to speak with his son about the inheritance and make his last will and testament, he persuaded the colonel to allow his son to visit him one last time. I was present at that meeting and witnessed their grief. Ulrich (I could see) felt no need to apologize to a father who, well aware of his son’s character and breeding, was confident of his innocence. As a wise, thoughtful, deeply caring man, he could tell from the circumstances that Olivier had contrived the exposure of his son by the provost marshal. But what could he do against a sorcerer? It would make matters worse if he tried to obtain vengeance of any kind. Also, knowing his own death was imminent, how could he die in peace when it meant leaving his son in a state of disgrace – a state, furthermore, in which Herzbruder Jr had even less desire to live, so keenly did he wish to croak even earlier than his father. To be frank, they were both in such a hole, I simply couldn’t hold back the tears. In the end, they decided to say nothing, trusting in God while the son thought of a way to shed his military obligations and make a living elsewhere. Still, looked at in the clear light of day, the situation was dire. Herzbruder Jr couldn’t afford to buy his release, and it was only when the two of them set about considering and bemoaning the miserable state in which poverty kept them prisoner (by removing all hope of improving their present predicament.) that I remembered the ducats I had sewn up in my donkey’s ears. I asked how much emergency funding they needed. Ulrich Jr answered, ‘If someone came along and said, “Here – have these hundred ducats,” that would solve all my problems.’ ‘Cheer up then, brother,’ I said. ‘I’ll give you a hundred ducats, if they’ll help.’ ‘Oh brother,’ he said. ‘You really are a fool and no mistake! Or are you being cruel – kidding us when you can see we’re at rock-bottom?’ ‘No, no, I’m serious!’ I said. ‘I’ve got the money here.’ And, stripping off my jerkin, I undid one of the donkey’s ears, opened the stitching, and told him to help himself to said sum. The rest I kept back, saying, ‘That’s for your sick father, in case he needs anything.’ Speechless with joy, they both threw their arms around my neck and kissed me. They were all for drawing up a document there and then making me co-heir of old man Herzbruder together with his son and promising, if God were to reunite them with their family, to pay back the entire sum (principal and interest). I didn’t care about that, I said; all I wanted was their undying friendship. Ulrich swore he’d have his revenge against Olivier or die in the process. However, his father wouldn’t allow such an oath, saying that the man who did strike Olivier dead would meet his own end at Simplicius’s (i.e. my) hands. ‘I know for certain,’ he said then, ‘that neither of you will kill the other because neither of you is going to die a violent death.’ After that he insisted that we swear solemnly to love each other until death and to stand by each other through thick and thin. Herzbruder Jr was able to buy his freedom for thirty thaler, in exchange for which his captain gave him an honourable discharge. He used the remaining money and the next opportunity he had to travel to Hamburg, where he bought two horses and joined the Swedish army as a volunteer cavalryman. His father (whom I thought of as my father as well) he left in my c
are.

  Twenty-Four

  Two prophecies come true at once

  Among my colonel’s people, none was better suited to nurse old man Herzbruder than yours truly, and since the patient himself was more than happy with the arrangement the colonel’s wife gave me the job. What with the care he was receiving now, plus not having to worry about his son any longer, his health improved daily. Even before 26 July arrived he was almost fully restored. Still, he decided to keep himself to himself and pretend to be ill until said date (which he was clearly dreading) had passed. Meanwhile, officers from both armies queued up to consult him about their own fortunes, because as well as being an excellent mathematician and horoscope-caster he’d a reputation as a physiognomist and chiromancer. His prophecies were seldom wrong. He even foretold (to the day) the imminent Battle of Wittstock, because several of his visitors discovered that they were going to meet a violent end on that date. The colonel’s wife had been informed that she’d give birth while still in the camp, since Magdeburg wouldn’t pass to our side until six weeks later. That sly dog Olivier, who also made the mistake of consulting him, was told in no uncertain terms that he’d suffer a violent death. He also learnt that I’d be the person who avenged his death and killed his killer (Olivier rather looked up to me after that). As for me personally, old Herzbruder described my entire future in such detail, it was as if my life had already taken place and he’d been at my side the whole time. I took little notice of his predictions then. Later, however, when lots of the things he’d prophesied had actually occurred or come true, I did remember. He particularly warned me against water, predicting that water would be my undoing.

  When 26 July finally arrived, he issued strict instructions (both to me and to an orderly who, at old Herzbruder’s request, the colonel had assigned to me that very day): no one was to be admitted to his tent. He lay inside it alone, praying constantly. In the afternoon, a cavalry lieutenant rode up, asking for the colonel’s head groom. He’d been directed to us – only to be turned away immediately. Refusing to leave, he offered the orderly various bribes to let him in, saying over and over again that he simply must consult the head groom before sundown. Bribery proving useless, the lieutenant began swearing, presumably on the assumption that thunder and lightning would gain him admittance. He’d called many times before, he roared, but never found the so-and-so at home; now he was in, surely the least he could do was agree to see a fellow? Climbing down from his horse, he started to open the tent flap himself. I bit his hand and got a thick ear for my pains. But then, seeing how young I was, he addressed the old man inside with the words, ‘Your forgiveness, dear sir, if I presume to crave a word?’ ‘Very well,’ came the reply. ‘What does the gentleman want?’ ‘Simply this,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Will Your Honour be so good as to cast my horoscope?’ Herzbruder Sr answered, ‘I hope the esteemed gentleman will excuse me if, pleading illness, I decline on this occasion. Casting a horoscope calls for much reckoning, which with my head in this state I fear is beyond me. If the gentleman will come back tomorrow, I hope I can give satisfaction.’ ‘In which case,’ the lieutenant returned, ‘could sir at least read my palm?’ ‘I’m afraid not,’ the head groom replied. ‘Palmistry’s quite a hit-and-miss affair, you see, and at times it can be ambiguous. If the gentleman will be so kind as to forgive me, I shall do what he asks in the morning.’ Faced with yet another rebuff, the lieutenant stepped over to my dear father’s bedside, stretched out his hands, and said, ‘But please, honoured sir, I beg you: the merest hint as to how my life ends! If it’s bad news, I promise to take the good soothsayer’s word as a warning before God to watch my step. Hold nothing back, I entreat you.’ ‘Oh, all right,’ the honest ancient replied briefly. ‘Just make sure, when the time comes, they don’t string you up by the neck.’ ‘What do you mean, you old scoundrel?’ said the lieutenant (who’d had a few). ‘How dare you address a cavalry officer like that!’ And, drawing his sword, he ran my dear old tutor through, killing him instantly. I and the orderly sounded the alarm and the guard came running, but the lieutenant, wasting no time, had already leapt on his horse. He’d have got away, too, except that the Elector of Saxony in person, accompanied by a large troop of cavalry, rode by at that moment and had the fellow apprehended. When the Elector heard what had happened he turned to von Hatzfeld, our general, and said simply, ‘Shoddy discipline, that, in an Imperial camp, when a sick man isn’t safe in his bed!’ It was a harsh verdict, and it cost the lieutenant his life. Our general promptly had him hanged by his handsome neck.

  Twenty-Five

  The lad Simp becomes a lass – and is variously wooed

  What this true story shows is that not all soothsaying should be dismissed out of hand, as it is by certain fops who refuse to believe anything. It also shows that a person can hardly escape mishap when his fate is mapped out, be it years or only seconds in advance. In fact, what’s the use of having such portents revealed and your future foretold? I say only this: old man Herzbruder told me many things that I’ve often wished and still wish he’d kept from me. The point is, the predicted disasters were either things I couldn’t have escaped anyway or (if they’re yet to come) only give me grey hairs as I worry fruitlessly whether they’ll be as bad as what’s hit me before. As for the happy predictions, my view is that they’re often a disappointment, or at least not as happy as the disasters turn out to be – well, disastrous. What good was it to me, having old Herzbruder swear blind that I was of noble birth and upbringing when the only parents I’d known were dad and mum, grubby peasants from the Spessart? Come to that, what good was it to Wallenstein, Duke of Friedland, being told he’d be crowned king to the sound of violins? We all know what happened to him at Eger. Huh! Let others bother their heads over such matters; I’ll go back to my story.

  As I was saying, having lost my two Herzbruders, father and son, I tired of that whole camp outside Magdeburg, which in any case I remember only as a ragbag of cloth and straw buildings surrounded by earth walls. I felt my whole situation had been stuffed down my throat with iron cooking spoons. Fed up with being everyone’s fool, I made a snap decision: my fool’s costume was going at any cost. So I set about getting rid of it – a tad recklessly, true, but it was the best chance I saw.

  Olivier, the new secretary, who since old man Herzbruder’s death had also been my tutor, often let me go out foraging with the stable lads. One day, as we entered a sizeable village where some of the cavalry kept their baggage, and the foragers began searching houses for stuff to pinch, I slipped away to look for some old peasant clothing. I might come across something I could swap my fool’s outfit for. Not finding what I wanted, I had to make do with a woman’s dress. There was no one watching, so I shucked off my calf’s hide and pulled on the dress. The hide I dropped in a privy (the only place I could think of to put it) with a huge sense of relief. Leaving the house in my new outfit, I prepared to cross the alley in the direction of a group of officers’ wives. I was careful to take small steps, as Achilles must have done when his mother sent him to stay with Lycomedes. However, I was scarcely out of the door before some foragers spotted me, and their shouts of ‘Stop, stop!’ made me take rather larger ones. Reaching said group before them, I sank to my knees and begged the officers’ wives, for the sake of women and virtue everywhere, to protect my virginity from my lustful pursuers. Not only was my plea acted upon, but a captain’s wife in need of a maid took me on until Magdeburg and environs (i.e. the Werberschanz, Havelberg, Perleberg, etc.) should have fallen to our troops.

  The cavalry captain’s wife, though young, was no child. She had taken instantly to my smooth features and flat chest and eventually, after much effort and many roundabout approaches that got her nowhere, made only too plain just where the shoe pinched. I was still on the priggish side, and pretended not to notice. In fact, I gave every impression of being a pious virgin. When the captain and his own servant came down with the same sickness, the former told his wife to buy me some better clothes; tha
t way she’d not be shown up by my coarse peasant smock. She did more: she decked me out like French doll, causing the fire to burn yet more brightly in all three of them. So brightly, in fact, that the men begged me for something I not only couldn’t give them; I politely withheld it from the woman as well. Finally, the captain resolved to seize the first chance he got to take me by force. However, no such opportunity presented itself because his wife, sensing his intentions and still hoping to conquer me by persuasion, stymied his every move. He thought he’d go out of his mind. Then one night, as captain and wife lay asleep in their tent, the servant took up a position outside the wagon I’d been given to sleep in. Sobbing, he declared his love and pleaded for mercy. But I, stubborn as a rock, told him I intended to remain a virgin until marriage. After making countless proposals of that very state and refusing to take ‘no’ for an answer, he despaired (or pretended to, at least), drew his rapier, placed the point against his chest and the hilt against the side of the wagon, and gave every appearance of being about to kill himself. With an unspoken ‘Damn the fellow!’ I nevertheless offered the servant some consolation when I said I’d give him my decision in the morning. Satisfied with that, he went off to bed. But I was left lying awake, brooding over the strange pickle I was in. Things couldn’t go on like this, clearly. What with the wife’s persistent importuning, the captain’s mounting demands, and the servant’s increasingly desperate protestations of undying love for me, I saw no way out of the mess. Often, in broad daylight, I was required to hunt for my lady’s fleas, the sole purpose being to give my eyes a chance to linger on her lily-white bosom and allow my hands to explore the rest of her soft body. Being of flesh and blood myself, I found the duty onerous over time. And if the wife left me alone, the husband brought other torments. Then, when they’d gone to bed and I could look forward to some peace, along came the servant to pester me. My dressing as a woman had landed me in more trouble than being made to dress as a fool. Far too late, of course, my mind turned to dear old Herzbruder’s warnings and prophecies. I was already languishing behind bars, as it were, suffering as he’d predicted. The dress was itself a prison, and the captain of horse would be certain to give me a thrashing if, one day, he recognized the person chasing insects over his lovely wife’s skin. What was I to do? That very night I resolved to tell the servant about the deception as soon as day dawned. ‘His urges will evaporate,’ I told myself, ‘and if you grease his palm with a few ducats he’ll find you some male clothing and you can put your troubles behind you.’ That’s how things would have panned out, too, with any luck. Unfortunately, none came my way.