The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus

by Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen

  How Olivier studied in Liège and what he got up to there

  The villain continued his narrative: ‘As father’s wealth grew by the day, he attracted more and more spongers and arse-lickers who praised to the skies my good head for book learning while overlooking or at least making light of all my vices. They sensed, do you see, that anyone failing to do so would get nowhere with father or mother. It followed that my parents took more delight in their son than the reed-warbler does in the cuckoo it raises. They engaged a private tutor for me and dispatched me, together with the tutor, to Liège – not so much to study as to learn French. They were less interested in turning me into a theologian than in making a man of business out of me. Consequently, the tutor had orders not to be too strict with me. I mustn’t become some timid, servile subordinate. He was to let me mingle with the lads, make sure I grew up feisty; he should always remember that he was educating not a monk but a man of the world, someone who needed to know his black from his white.

  ‘Not that my tutor required any such instruction. He had a taste for devilry himself. He was hardly going to forbid mine, was he, or come down sharply on my minor transgressions, his own being so much greater? He was fondest of chasing skirt and boozing, whereas my natural penchant was for theft and getting into fights. So out I would go with him and his mates, prowling the streets at night, and in no time I’d gleaned from his teaching more vices than Latin verbs. As for actual study, I relied on a quick brain and a good memory. Otherwise I didn’t worry, which left that much more time for mischief, japes and monkey business of all kinds. My conscience was by now so flexible that you could have driven a full-sized haywain through it. I simply asked no questions. Meanwhile, in church I read Berni, Burchiello, Aretino and other filthy books during the sermon, and the Ite missa est of the final dismissal could never come soon enough. For the rest, I considered myself the bee’s knees, dressed like a dandy, and looked forward to every day as if it was Christmas. And since I acted like a made man and scattered money liberally (not just the relative fortune my father sent me for essentials but also the generous spending money I received from my mother), we were drawn to the girls – my tutor, especially. It was from those sluts that I learnt all about spooning, wenching and gambling. Quarrelling, scrapping and getting into fights I was good at already, and my tutor wasn’t averse to my scoffing and boozing; in fact, he quite liked to join in. This wonderful life lasted for some eighteen months, until my father found out about it through his agent in Liège, with whom we’d originally boarded. The agent was instructed to keep a closer eye on us in future, sack the tutor, clip my wings a bit, and rein in my money supply. Pissed off by this, and despite the fact that the tutor had already been dismissed, the two of us always found one excuse or another for continuing to spend all our time together. However, not having so much money as before, we fell in with a character who attacked people in alleyways at night, filched their coats off them, and even, occasionally, drowned them in the Meuse. Not without risk as a way of getting hold of the wherewithal that we subsequently blew on our whoring – to the almost complete neglect of my studies.

  ‘One night when we were roaming the streets as was our habit, depriving students of their outer garments, an intended victim refused to take his punishment. My tutor was stabbed and I and the other five (real scoundrels, the lot of them) were nabbed and taken to the nick. Next day we were interrogated, and when I gave the name of my father’s agent (a man of some standing) he was sent for, quizzed about me, and I was released into his custody – on condition that I remain in his house, under arrest, until further notice. Meanwhile my tutor was buried, the other five sentenced as villains, thieves and murderers, and my father informed of the situation. He came to Liège in person just as soon as he could, settled the matter with money, gave me a piece of his mind, and left me in no doubt about what a cross I was for him to bear and how I’d nearly driven my poor mother to distraction with my evil-doing. He also threatened to disinherit me and throw me out of the house (I could “go to the devil”, he said) if I didn’t mend my ways. I promised I’d do just that, and we rode home together. So now you know how my student days came to an end.’

  Twenty

  Homecoming and fresh departure of the hon. student, and how he looked to the war for advancement

  ‘After bringing me home, father discovered that I was rotten to the core. I’d gone away a promising student and come back an arsy know-all who simply wouldn’t be told. Hardly were my feet warm at the fire before he was slagging me off with stuff like, “Look here, Olivier, your ass’s ears grow longer by the day. You’re a waste of space, you know that? You’re a total good-for-nothing, no earthly use to man or beast. You’re too old to learn a trade, too coarse to go into valeting, and a hopeless prospect as regards ever learning and running my business. I’ve spent oodles of money on you, and I’ve got damn all to show for it. I’d hoped to take pride in making a man of you; instead, I find myself buying your freedom from the hangman’s noose. I’m ashamed of you, curse you – ashamed! The best thing would be if I chucked you in an ore mill and smelted you down. Perhaps that would make the wheel of fortune turn, atoning for your vile behaviour!”

  ‘Day after day the lectures kept coming. I lost patience myself in the end, telling father it wasn’t all my fault. He had to take some of the blame. So did my tutor, who’d led me astray. I quite understood about him taking no pride in me – that was only natural; his own parents had taken none in him when he abandoned them in a state of virtual beggary. At this point he grabbed a big stick to pay me back for telling him the truth, swearing blind that he’d have me condemned to hard labour in Amsterdam gaol. That took the camel’s biscuit. I lost no time in making myself scarce, spending the night in a tenant farm he’d bought up recently and, when the stable was unattended, riding off on the tenant’s best stallion, heading for Cologne.

  ‘I sold the stallion for cash and went back to mixing with ruffians and thieves like the ones I’d known in Liège. They recognized me as one of their own from the way I played cards – as I did them: we were all so good at it. I joined their gang on the spot and helped out with burglaries at night, doing whatever I could. However, it wasn’t long before one of us was caught. He’d been trying to make off with a fine lady’s bulging purse in the Old Market, and I was treated to the sight of him stuck in the pillory for half a day with an iron collar around his neck, then having an ear severed and being thrashed with rods. That rather put me off, so I volunteered for the army. The man who’d been our colonel in the camp outside Magdeburg happened to be enlisting fellows to strengthen his regiment at the time. Meanwhile my father, on learning where I was, had written to his Cologne agent and asked him to look me up. I’d already signed up with the Emperor, though, and when the agent reported this to my father he was instructed to buy my freedom, cost what it might. Hearing this (and dreading that Amsterdam gaol), I didn’t particularly want to be free. Anyway, when the colonel found out that I was a wealthy merchant’s son, he set the bar rather too high, with the result that father let things be, taking the view that a spell in uniform might do me good.

  ‘Before long, the colonel’s clerk passed away and the colonel appointed me in his place, as you know. At the time I was beginning to think great thoughts, hoping to climb the ladder rung by rung until eventually (wait for it!) I reached the rank of general. Our regimental secretary taught me how best to go about it, and my determination to rise higher and higher meant that from then on I presented myself in a respectable manner likely to enhance my standing. No more following my natural bent to hobnob with losers. Things dragged on a bit: our secretary was clearly in no hurry to die. He did fall off the perch eventually, though, and when his time came I told myself: you’re going to get that job. I bought rounds every opportunity I had because mother, when she heard I was doing well at last, continued to send me money. Now, Herzbruder Jr was not only well in with the colonel; he had seniority. That gave me the idea of bumping the fellow off.
Also, I felt in my gut that the colonel was minded to give the post to him. As the very tempting prospect of promotion receded ever further, I grew so impatient that I had our provost marshal make me as hard as iron with a view to challenging Herzbruder to a duel and sinking my rapier in his guts. I never found a suitable opportunity, though. Also, the provost himself disapproved of the plan. “If you rub him out in the circumstances, it’ll do you more harm than good. Everyone will know that you’ve murdered the colonel’s favourite candidate for the job.” Instead, he advised me to steal something in Herzbruder’s presence and put it in his own hands. He’d then see to it that the young man fell out of the colonel’s good graces. This I did, stealing the gilt cup at the feast the colonel threw for his child’s baptism and handing it over to the provost marshal. The latter then used it to get rid of Herzbruder Jr – as you’ll no doubt remember, because that was when he magicked your trousers full of puppies in the colonel’s marquee.’

  Twenty-One

  How Simplicius made Herzbruder Sr’s prophecy about Olivier come true – when neither recognized the other

  It made me hopping-mad, hearing from Olivier’s own lips what he’d done to my best friend and being quite unable to exact vengeance. In fact, I had to hide my feelings in case he noticed anything. So I begged him to tell me all that had happened to him since Wittstock.

  ‘That was a battle,’ Olivier said, ‘in which I acquitted myself not like a pen-pusher who spends the whole time crouched over an inkwell, but like a proper soldier. I had an excellent horse, I felt as hard as iron, and I also (not being attached to any particular squadron) paraded my valour like one who intends either to meet glory or suffer death by the sword. I dashed to and fro around our brigade, partly to hone my battlefield skills and partly to show my superiors that, in my case, the sword was mightier than the pen. Yet my efforts were wasted. Overwhelmed by the luck of the Swedes, I shared the defeat of our forces. I had to accept quarter where earlier I’d have given none.

  ‘Together with other prisoners, I was demoted to a regiment of foot. This was then pulled back to Pomerania to recover its strength. Having shown particular courage among the many new recruits, I was bumped up to corporal. However, quickly tiring of that shit, I resolved to rejoin the Imperial side as soon as possible. My inclinations certainly lay more in that direction, although I’d have had a better chance of promotion with the Swedes – of that I’m sure. Anyway, here’s how I arranged my escape. I was detailed to take seven musketeers to extort overdue contributions from some of our more remote clients. When I’d collected over eight hundred florins I showed my haul to the lads, whose eyes swivelled in their sockets at the sight of so much money. We talked about splitting it among ourselves and making off with the lot. Agreement reached, I got three of them to help me shoot the other four dead and split their share too. That gave us two hundred florins each, with which we marched off in the direction of Westphalia. On the way, I persuaded one man to help me murder the other three, and as we divided up the loot once again I throttled the last bloke as well and safely reached Werl, where I kicked up my heels and had a pretty good time with all that cash.

  ‘However, it looked like running out while I still felt like partying in one way or another – particularly since there was a lot of talk of a young fellow in Soest who was making a name for himself, plundering huge amounts of booty. I was inspired to imitate him. Because of his green clothes he’d acquired the name of “Huntsman”, so I had a similar outfit made and began poaching on his patch as well as in the area that had been assigned to us. I went in for all kinds of excesses – to the point where we were both barred from heading raiding parties. He stayed at home, but I went out hunting in his name whenever I could. Eventually, the Huntsman challenged me to a duel, but the devil himself could have picked up the gauntlet if he liked; I certainly wasn’t fighting him. In fact, I was told he had the devil on his side, so that would have been that so far as my invulnerability was concerned.

  ‘I couldn’t elude his cunning, though. With the help of his servant he lured me and my friend into a sheepfold and tried to force me to duel with him there and then, by moonlight, in the presence of two actual devils he’d brought along to act as seconds. When I refused, they forced me to commit the most despicable act there is – which my own comrade told everyone about. This made me feel so ashamed that I ran off to Lippstadt and signed up with the Hessians. Not that I stayed with them long. They didn’t trust me. I made my escape and joined the Dutch, who paid better but whose war was too tame for my liking; we were locked up like monks and made to live the chaste life of nuns.

  ‘I now had to steer clear not only of Imperial but also of Swedish and Hessian forces, having deliberately deserted them all, and I couldn’t linger with the Dutch now that I’d raped a girl – and the results were beginning to show. So I considered taking refuge with the Spanish. They might drop me off at home, I thought, and I could see how my parents were getting on. However, as I was putting this plan into action my compass went totally crazy and I found myself among the Bavarians. I duly joined their chapter of the Merode Brothers and marched with them from Westphalia down to the Breisgau, supporting myself by a mixture of gambling and thieving. If I had the wherewithal, I’d blow it at the gaming tables by day, and by night with the sutlers. If I was skint, I’d steal what I could. Often, for example, I rustled horses – either from among ours when they’d been put out to graze or from our tribute area. I then sold them and gambled away the proceeds. Or I sneaked into tents at night and pilfered people’s valuables from under their pillows. When we were on the march, in the narrow bits I kept a close eye on the knapsacks that the women carried on their backs. I cut through the straps and survived that way until the Battle of Wittenweier, when I was again taken prisoner and stuck in an infantry regiment, becoming a Weimar footslogger. However, I couldn’t get used to life in the camp outside Breisach, so I quit in short order and went off to fight my own war, as you’ve seen. And believe me, brother – I’ve done for a few proud fellows since then and collected a tidy sum, and I’ve no intention of packing up until I see there’s no future in continuing. Now it’s your turn to tell me your life story.’

  Twenty-Two

  Olivier, in letting the cat out of the bag, makes rather a dog’s breakfast of his face

  When Olivier had finished his disquisition, I couldn’t get over my amazement at how God works things out. It was clear to me already how the dear Lord had not only defended me from this monster earlier, back in Westphalia, as a father would have stuck up for his child, but had also arranged for him to be shit-scared of me. I now realized for the first time what a trick I’d played on Olivier – a trick that Herzbruder Sr had foretold but that Olivier, to my very great advantage, had interpreted somewhat differently, as I showed in Chapter 16 above. The fact is, if the brute had known I was the Huntsman of Soest he’d no doubt have repaid what I’d done to him in the sheepfold that time. I thought how wise old man Herzbruder had been to make his forecasts so obscure. Moreover, it struck me that, while most of his predictions turned out exactly as he’d said, it would defy belief that I should avenge a death worthy of the gallows or the wheel. Another thing I found was how hugely my health had benefited from my not being first to tell the other all. If I had, he’d have heard from my own lips what I’d done on that occasion to insult him. As these thoughts were crossing my mind, I became aware of the scars on Olivier’s face, scars he’d not had back at Magdeburg. It occurred to me that said scars were signs of where my friend Tearaway, disguised as a devil, had scratched him so badly. So I asked how he’d got them. He’d agreed to tell me his entire life story, I reminded him, but it looked very much as if he’d left out the best bit: he hadn’t yet told me who’d marked him so distinctively. ‘Oh, brother,’ he replied, ‘if I recounted all my knaveries and rascalities to you, it would take an age and bore us both to tears. Still, I don’t want you thinking I’m holding anything back, so I’ll tell you the truth, even where i
t shows me in a bad light.

  ‘I seem to have been fated to bear scars on my face. As a schoolboy I used to take a terrible scratching in fights with other lads. Then one of the devils escorting the Huntsman of Soest handed out some particularly harsh treatment. The marks his talons left on my face lasted a good six weeks. However, all those wounds healed up nicely. The weals you still see today came from something else entirely. Back when I was with the Swedes in Pomerania, I had a lovely girlfriend, and the householder where I was billeted had to vacate his own bed and let us use it. The householder’s cat, who’d been in the habit of sleeping on the bed, turned up every night and caused us massive inconvenience. The puss clearly had no intention of giving up its regular sleeping place as obligingly as its master and mistress had. My girlfriend couldn’t stand cats anyway, and this really irritated her. She told me she’d be withholding her favours until I got rid of the little beast. Eager to go on enjoying those favours, I thought I’d not only do as she asked but also get back at the moggie in a way that promised further enjoyment. So I thrust the animal into a sack and slung the sack over my shoulder. Taking my landlord’s two fierce guard dogs with me (they didn’t like cats much either, but they were used to me), I strode out to a large, open field to have my fun. I’d thought: with no trees in the vicinity where the cat might take refuge, the dogs would chase it around on the flat for a while, much as they would a hare, providing huge entertainment. Well, devil take it – I couldn’t have been more wrong! When I opened the sack, what the cat saw before it was a bare field containing two of its worst enemies and no trees to take it out of their reach. Rather than just crouch there and let itself be torn to pieces, it scrambled up my leg and onto my head (the highest spot available), knocking my hat off in the process. The more I tried to pull the cat off, the deeper it sank its claws into me in its efforts to hold on. Seeing us engaged in a struggle, the dogs joined in. They leapt up with open jaws, now in front of me, now from the sides, trying to dislodge the cat – which of course, in a desperate attempt to maintain its footing, drove its claws ever deeper into my face and at other points on my head. And if a swipe of a spiny forepaw occasionally missed one or the other dog, it never missed me. When it did catch one of the dogs on the muzzle, the owner of the muzzle, striking back with sharp claws of its own in a bid to pull the cat off its perch, inflicted further nasty wounds on my face. And when I reached up with both hands to feel for the cat and wrench it from my head, it bit and scratched something awful. Under attack from all three animals simultaneously, I was gnawed, lacerated and generally duffed up so dreadfully, I scarcely resembled a human being any more. Worst of all, with the dogs leaping up and snapping at the cat, I risked losing nose or ears to their scissoring jaws. My collar and jerkin were as drenched with my blood as the blacksmith’s vice used to restrain the horses they bleed on St Stephen’s Day. I’d no idea how to free myself from this nightmare. In the end, I had to give in, sink to my knees voluntarily, and let the mongrels get hold of the moggie; it was that or let them go on using my nut as a battleground. True, the dogs got their cat, but I had absolutely none of the fun I’d hoped for. I got only teasing – and the face that you see before you. I was so pissed off I subsequently shot both dogs and gave my girlfriend (whose fault the whole silly business had been in the first place) such a terrible beating that she dumped me. Anyway, she could hardly have gone on making love with a bloke who’d as ugly a mug as mine.’