The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus

by Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen

  I asked my prisoner what the Christian monarchs would do about it all? He replied, ‘The English, Swedish and Danish kings are of German descent anyway, while those of Spain, France and Portugal, which countries were once occupied and governed by the old Teutons, will all have their crowns, kingdoms and incorporated territories enfeoffed to them by the German nation entirely without strings. Then, as at the time of Augustus, everlasting peace will unite all peoples the world over.

  Five

  How he’ll bring the denominations together and pour them into the one mould

  Tearaway, who was listening, came close to alienating Jupiter completely and ruining everything by saying, ‘And then, I suppose, Germany will have turned into Cockaigne, with muscatel wine falling like rain and penny buns springing up overnight like mushrooms. I’ll be scoffing like a thresher and boozing till my eyes roll!’ ‘Oh, you will!’ Jupiter replied. ‘Especially when I strike you with Erysichthon’s torment for what seems to me a serious case of lese-majesty.’ Then, turning to me, he said, ‘I thought I was among forest spirits; now I see there is some jealous Momus or Zoilus present. Do decisions arrived at in heaven have to be disclosed to such treacherous ears? Is it vital to cast pearls before swine? Must one shit on a man’s back to avoid soiling his shirtfront?’ I too was rather taken aback: what an odd, rather nasty little idol this was, dealing with so lofty a subject in such low terms! However, having seen how he hated being laughed at, I stifled my amusement as best I could and said, ‘Most gracious Jupiter, I trust you’ll not let the presumption of a coarse wood sprite prevent you from disclosing to this very different Ganymede of yours what Germany’s future will be like?’ ‘No, certainly not,’ he replied, ‘but please tell this Theon to keep his Hipponax-like tongue buttoned before (as Mercury did to Battus) I turn him to stone. As for you – do say you’re my Ganymede, whom my jealous Juno will no doubt, taking advantage of my absence, have banished from the heavenly realm.’ I promised to tell him everything once he’d told me what I wanted to know. At that he said, ‘My dear Ganymede – come on, admit it; I can see you’re him – my dear Ganymede, Germany’s future will be so good that making gold will become as straightforward and commonplace as throwing pots. The humblest stable lad will carry the philosopher’s stone around with him!’ ‘Yes, but how,’ I wanted to know, ‘can a land like Germany, with so many varieties of religion, enjoy lasting peace? Won’t all those different holy men stir up their congregations with their various faiths and manufacture another war?’ ‘No, no,’ Jupiter answered, ‘my hero will see that coming. What he’ll do, he’ll bring all Christian denominations throughout the world together into one.’ I said, ‘Marvellous! How will that happen?’ Jupiter said, ‘I’ll explain, and it gives me great pleasure to do so. After establishing world peace, my hero will deliver a most moving sermon to the spiritual and secular leaders of all nations, opening their eyes to the damaging splits in matters of faith that have existed hitherto. By citing the soundest of reasons and wielding irrefutable arguments, he’ll bring them to the point of spontaneously desiring universal union and tasking him to guide and direct the whole shebang in line with his principles of good sense. After that, having assembled all the most spiritual, erudite and pious theologians from all corners of the Earth and every one of its religions and denominations, he’ll have special quarters prepared for them (as Ptolemy Philadelphus did for the seventy-two translators) in a nice quiet place where weighty matters can be examined without interruption. Providing food and drink and arranging for their other needs to be met, he’ll ask them to do two things: first, they must settle with all speed (albeit after full and mature reflection) the points of dispute between and among their denominations; second, they must reach unanimity on and commit to writing the real, true, sacred Christian religion as enshrined in Holy Scripture, ancient tradition and the tried and tested opinions of the Early Fathers. Meanwhile Pluto will face days and nights of head-scratching about a possible diminution of his sway. He’ll dream up all kinds of ruses to stop it happening at all or at least postpone it, if not indefinitely then at least for the time being. He’ll go to great lengths to make each theologian aware of his interests, his position, his quiet life, his wife and children, his reputation – whatever might move the man to speak his mind. In the meantime, my valiant hero won’t be idle either. For as long as the consultation lasts he’ll arrange for bells to be rung throughout Christendom, constantly reminding all Christian folk to call on Almighty God to send out his spirit of truth. If the hero becomes aware that this or that individual is listening to Pluto instead, he’ll torment the entire assembly with hunger, as during a conclave, and if they still refuse to get behind so exalted a project he’ll give them all a sermon about hanging or wave his magic sword at them – in other words, persuade them first with kindness and eventually with heavy threats to come straight to the point and stop trying to kid everyone by clinging stubbornly to incorrect opinions. Then, with unanimity achieved, he’ll put on a big feast and proclaim this refined faith to the whole wide world. And any rabble-rouser who still thinks differently will be daubed with tar and brimstone or have box twigs stuck all over him and be dispatched to Pluto as a New Year’s gift. There you are, my dear Ganymede – now you know all you asked. Now it’s your turn. What, for instance, caused you to quit heaven, where you poured me many a cup of nectar?’

  Six

  What the deputation of fleas did to Jupiter

  It struck me as possible that the fellow wasn’t such a fool as he put on; he might be pulling the wool over my eyes (as I’d done to others at Hanau), the better to avoid capture. So by way of trying his temper, which they say is the best way to spot a fool, I answered, ‘I quit heaven because I missed you, actually. That’s why I took wing like Daedalus and flew to Earth in search of you. However, when I started asking where you were I found everyone saying bad things about you. You see, Ziolus and Momus have been all over the world trashing your reputation, bad-mouthing you and the other gods as a feckless, flippant, even stinky lot that have lost all credit with humanity. You personally, they say, besides being a serial adulterer, are a verminous sleazebag (“stud of a whore”, I believe they’ve named you), as well as being a cheap hypocrite who goes around punishing men on Earth for sins he himself commits in heaven. Vulcan they call a spineless cuckold who must put up with Mars’ adultery while exacting no particular vengeance worth the name. (“Him?” they say mockingly. “Forge weapons? That limping cretin? You must be joking.”) Venus, it seems, is the least loved crone on Earth on account of her immodesty. (“What do folk see in her?” they wonder. “She’s not exactly a sex object.”) Mars they call a murderer and plunderer, Apollo a shameless skirt-chaser, Mercury a gossip and thieving pimp, Priapus a fart, Hercules a pin-brained thug – the whole shower (the gods, they mean) deserve no better accommodation than the Augean stables, that famously whiffy gaff!’ ‘You’re right!’ Jupiter sighed. ‘It wouldn’t surprise anyone, surely, if I was driven to lay aside my good nature and struck down such unholy prattlers and villainous slanderers with thunder and lightning, would it? Tell me what you think, my ever-faithful, beloved Ganymede. Should I punish the blabbermouths with perpetual thirst as I did Tantalus? Should I crucify them on the slopes of Mount Thorax alongside that mischief-maker Daphitas? Or have each one pounded to death in a mortar, as happened to Anaxarchos? Or should I perhaps send the offenders to Agrigentum to be burnt to death in Phalaris’ red-hot ox? No, Ganymede, no! Such punishments are nowhere near harsh enough. I’ll restock Pandora’s box and empty it over the rogues’ heads, then I’ll have Nemesis set her three Furies on them, and I’ll get Hercules to borrow Pluto’s Cerberus and have the hound harry the scoundrels like a pack of wolves, and finally, having run them ragged, I’ll lash them to a column in Hades beside Hesiod and Homer and let the Eumenides torment them for ever and ever without even a shred of mercy!’ While muttering these threats, Jupiter quite shamelessly pulled down his trousers in full view of myself and the whole
detachment and began rummaging for the fleas that had clearly (judging by the blotchy look of his skin) been giving him a dreadful time. I couldn’t imagine what was going on until he said, ‘Bugger off, you little pests! I swear by the Styx: you’ll never have your way, I don’t care how hard you try!’ When I asked what he meant by these words, he replied that the flea tribe, hearing of his descent to Earth, had sent a deputation to greet him. At the same time they’d informed him that, although he’d been good enough to put them up in the pelts of man’s best friend, the canine breed was also partial to women, and in the light of certain qualities of the fair sex some flea delegates had been known to stray into female fur. However, the womenfolk treated the strays appallingly, not only massacring those they caught but first tormenting them cruelly by rubbing them between their fingers in a process that would have drawn tears from a stone. ‘In fact,’ Jupiter went on, ‘they described their situation in such heart-wrenching terms that I couldn’t help feeling sorry for them and offering my help, albeit with the proviso that I hear the women’s case before I decided. The fleas raised the objection that if the women were allowed to enter a counter-plea it was obvious what would happen: with their poisonous tongues and undoubted physical charms said females would either put a spell on my pious kindness and simply shout the fleas down or deploy said charms to bewitch me into delivering the wrong verdict. The fleas further craved permission to manifest more of the humble loyalty towards me that they’d always shown by staying put in a site that gave them first-hand knowledge of what went on between me and Io, Callisto, Europa and the rest. The fact was, they’d never gossiped, never squealed to Juno (with whom some of their mates also kept constant company); instead, they’d kept mum to such good effect that so far no one, despite fleas having witnessed virtually every coupling, had heard any tittle-tattle (as Apollo once did from the raven). However, if I did ever allow women to hunt in what was the fleas’ reserve, catch them and butcher them under hunters’ rights, please could I arrange for them to die a worthy death in future (either, like oxen, from a single blow of the axe, or like game when it’s hunted down). No more of that excruciating rolling and squeezing between the fingers, which in any case means that such digits, so often employed in stroking quite other things, become instruments of torture the like of which no proper man would stand for! I put in, “You fellows must torment them dreadfully for them to subject you to such merciless tyranny!” “Oh, we do!” I was told. “They tend to be tetchy with us anyway, perhaps nervous about our seeing, hearing and feeling so much. Maybe they’re a bit scared we might tell. But what are we to do? They won’t let us occupy our own turf. Some of them insist on using brushes and combs and soaps and lyes and all kinds of stuff to groom their lap-dogs so industriously as to leave us no choice: we simply have to move out and find quarters elsewhere. Why don’t they spend the time delousing their kids? Oh, no – that’s too much trouble!” As I told the fleas, that was precisely why I’d invited them to come and take up residence with me while I considered my decision. Only they proceeded to plague me so frightfully that (well, you saw) I had to get rid of them again. They wanted special treatment – all right, they can have special treatment! From now on women can rub and squash the little buggers whenever. In fact, if I light on one myself I’ll do the same.’

  Seven

  The Huntsman goes back to pursuing honour and loot

  We couldn’t laugh properly because we were observing silence and anyway the loony didn’t like it, but clearly Tearaway was almost bursting at the seams. Just then the sentry we’d posted in a tree said he spotted movement a long way off, coming our way. I climbed up and saw through my telescope that here was indeed the convoy of carts we’d been looking out for, escorted not by infantry but by thirty or so horse. It wasn’t hard to work out that they’d not be taking the higher route through the forest (where we were waiting for them) but would stick to the open where, despite the road being bad there, we couldn’t surprise them. It was some 600 paces from our position and 300 from the edge of the forest, down where the ground levelled out. I wasn’t happy about the prospect, having waited so long for nothing (correction: only taking a single nutcase captive), so I made a swift change of plan – successfully, as things turned out.

  From our encampment a stream ran down through a gorge (easily rideable) and out into flat country. Where it emerged I stationed twenty men, myself among them. I ordered Tearaway to stay in the vantage point we’d occupied before, and I instructed my lot to pick out a particular target as the convoy approached; I also told them who should fire and who should hold his fire in reserve. Some of the older lads asked me what I had in mind. Did I really think the convoy was going to come anywhere near a place where they’d no business being and where probably no peasant had set foot in a hundred years? Others, though, believed I could work magic (I’d quite a reputation for that at the time) and would conjure the enemy into our power. However, I didn’t use devilry; I relied on Tearaway. As the numerous convoy was passing directly opposite our position, Tearaway (as instructed) let out such a fearful bellowing and neighing that the whole forest reverberated. You’d have sworn there were horses and cattle nearby. Hearing the din, the escort thought: ‘Aha, plunder! There’s stuff to be had here!’ – not that there was much plunder around; the whole region was pretty barren. They broke ranks immediately, charging in our direction as if each hoped to be first and steal the plumpest beast. So dense was the onrushing mob that our initial welcome emptied thirteen saddles, several of their former occupants being crushed under stamping hooves. Tearaway then came galloping down the gorge shouting, ‘Huntsman, over here!’ – which so added to their confusion that, unable to persuade their mounts to move in any direction, they jumped down and attempted to escape on foot. After taking all seventeen of them prisoner, including the commanding officer, I turned my attention to the carts, unyoking twenty-four horses but coming away with only a small quantity of silk and Dutch cloth. The trouble was, I couldn’t spare much time even to plunder the corpses, let alone search the carts properly. The drivers had cleared off on horseback as soon as the action started, so there was a chance I’d been reported to Dorsten and might be ambushed on the way back. As we left, having finished packing up, Jupiter came running out of the forest shouting after us: was Ganymede abandoning him? I shouted back: yes, if he wouldn’t grant those fleas the favour they were asking for. ‘I’d rather see them drown in the Cocytus!’ was his retort. I had to laugh, and since I had spare horses anyway I let him clamber up. However, when it transpired that he rode like a sausage I had to have him tied on the animal’s back, at which he said that our brush with the enemy had put him in mind of the battle that the Lapithae had launched against the Centaurs at Pirithous’ wedding feast.

  Only when all this was over and we were relocating with our prisoners as if someone was after us did the captured lieutenant think what an awful mistake he’d made, carelessly delivering so fine a troop of horse into enemy hands and leaving thirteen good men on the meat stall. He began to have doubts, questioning the mercy I’d shown him and trying to force me, almost, to shoot him dead. Not only had he seriously blotted his copybook, he thought; so irresponsible an act might also damage his career. It could even mean him having to pay for the disgrace with his life. I gave him a bit of a tongue-lashing: I’d known good soldiers hit by bad luck before, but I’d yet to see one let himself be knocked sideways by it, certainly not throw in the towel. His attitude verged on the feeble, I told him. A bolder man would be working out how blows that had been landed on himself could at some other time be inflicted on the opponent. In any case he’d never persuade me to break the relevant code of honour or by killing him commit an act that flew in the face of justice and all proper military custom and tradition. Realizing he wasn’t going to get his way, he launched into a torrent of verbal abuse calculated to make me lose my temper: rather than take him on fairly and squarely, he claimed, I’d treated him like a footpad and murderer and stolen the lives
of his men like a common thief. This put the fear of God into his lads (our prisoners) and put my own lads’ backs up so badly that they’d have filled him full of holes if I’d let them. I had a job stopping them, in fact. However, shrugging off the man’s insults, I simply asked both friend and foe to bear witness to the situation and gave orders for the lieutenant to be bound and held as insane. I also promised said lieutenant that, as soon as we returned to camp and my senior officers gave me the go-ahead, I’d equip him with my own horses and a weapon of his choosing, and show him in public, with pistols or rapiers, that in wartime practising deceit against the enemy is perfectly legal. Anyway (I demanded to know), why hadn’t he stayed with the carts he’d been told to defend? Or, if he wanted to know what was in the forest, why hadn’t he first organized some proper reconnaissance? Either course would have been more appropriate than his clowning around now in a way that no one could take seriously. Here both friend and foe backed me up, saying that among 100 raiding-party commanders you wouldn’t find one who, when insulted in that fashion, would not have shot the lieutenant dead and dispatched all the prisoners as well.