The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus

by Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen

  But before I tell the reader what happened to me next I should describe the kind of sight I presented at the time. My dress and appearance were very odd indeed – simultaneously fascinating and repulsive. In fact, the governor of the town later had me sit for a portrait. To start with, after three and a half years’ neglect, my hair followed neither the Grecian nor the German nor the French style in regard to cut, combing, crimping or curling. Instead, with the sole addition of a lot of dust in place of the powder and gunge that idiots of both sexes sprinkle and squirt on their hair, this still tumbled elegantly in all its natural confusion over my scalp and shoulders. Peering out from beneath the confusion was my scrawny face, looking like a barn owl eyeing or about to pounce on a mouse. And since I was in the habit of going bareheaded, my naturally wavy locks looked like a turban of some kind. The rest of my outfit matched my crowning glory, for I was wearing what was left of my hermit’s tunic. Most of the garment it had originally been cut from had gone. Only the shape was still suggested by over a thousand scraps of motley that had been stitched together and mended many times. Over this threadbare but much-repaired tunic I wore the hair shirt as a cape – except that I’d cut off the sleeves and was using them as stockings. By contrast, my upper body was smartly barded with chains, crossed in the back and over the chest the way St William is usually portrayed. The general effect was not unlike one of those prisoners taken by the Turks whose mates send them out as proxy beggars. My shoes were carved from wood and the fastenings plaited from lime bark, but my actual feet and ankles looked like boiled lobsters, as if I was wearing a pair of Spanish red stockings or had dyed my skin with fernambuck. If some travelling entertainer or fairground barker had employed me at the time and passed me off as a Samoyed or Greenlander, he’d probably have found suckers daft enough to pay money to see me. Anyone in their right mind, seeing my drawn and famished features and general scruffiness, would have known immediately that I was no escapee from some cook-shop or hussy’s boudoir, or scullery boy, possibly, from the kitchen of some great lord. I was stared at in that guardroom, I can tell you. And while the soldiers gawped, I for my part couldn’t take my eyes off their superior as he interrogated me. Was this a he or was it a she? I couldn’t tell. The creature wore its hair in the French style, with long tresses like horse’s tails hanging down both sides, and the whiskers so thin and straggly that between mouth and nose only a few hairs protruded, cut so short you could scarcely see them. Equally, the baggy pants cast some doubt on the creature’s sex, suggesting skirts more than a pair of man’s trousers. ‘Call that a bloke?’ I thought to myself. ‘He should have a proper beard. Anyway, the fop’s not as young as he pretends to be. And if he’s in fact a woman, why does the bitch have that stubble around her gob? Must be a woman, though; a proper man would never have his beard messed about like that – any more than a billy goat would have the nerve to join a new herd with his whiskers so ponced up.’ I had my doubts, you see, and being unaware of current fashions I assumed I was looking at a mixture.

  This masculine female (or effeminate male) had me thoroughly searched but found only a little birch-bark diary in which I’d written my daily prayers. It was also where I kept the note I told you about, which my pious hermit had left me by way of saying ‘goodbye’. The officer took the diary off me. Worried about losing such a treasure, I sank down before him, embraced both his knees, and implored, ‘Dear, dear hermaphrodite, please let me keep my little prayer book!’ ‘Twerp!’ he replied. ‘Who told you my name was Hermann, anyway? Take him to the governor!’ And he handed said diary to his underlings. The fop, as I grasped instantly, couldn’t read or write himself.

  As I was led into the city, folk crowded around as if a sea monster was being put on display. Jostling for a glimpse of me, each one stated firmly what he thought he or she was looking at. Some reckoned I was a spy, some a nutcase, some a wild man, some even that I was a spirit or phantom or other magical being – an omen, possibly. A few took me for a fool. They’d have been nearest the mark, except that I acknowledged God.

  Twenty

  How he was saved from imprisonment and torture

  The governor, when I was brought before him, asked me where I was from. I answered that I didn’t know. His next question was, ‘Where are you bound?’ Again I replied, ‘Don’t know.’ ‘Well, what the devil do you know?’ he continued. ‘Where do you spend most of your time?’ My answer was as before: I didn’t know. He asked, ‘Well, where’s your home?’ And when I gave the same reply, his face changed – whether from anger or amazement, I didn’t know. But since folk always suspect the worst, especially with the enemy in the vicinity (I mentioned before that enemy troops had taken Gelnhausen only that night, even thrashing a regiment of dragoons in the process), he accepted the verdict of those who took me for a traitor or informer. I must be searched, he ordered. I already had been, the guards told him. Nothing had been found on me but this diary (they said, handing it over). He read a few lines and wanted to know who’d given it to me. I said it had been mine all along; I’d made it myself and also done the writing. He asked, ‘But why use birch bark?’ I answered, ‘Because it’s the only bark you can write on.’ ‘Fool!’ he said. ‘I meant why not write on paper?’ ‘Oh,’ I replied, ‘that’s all we had in the forest.’ ‘Where? Which forest?’ At which I fell back on my stock answer: ‘Dunno.’

  The governor then turned to some of his officers and said, ‘Either this brat’s an arch-villain or a numbskull – no, he can’t be a numbskull, he can write.’ And to show them my fine handwriting, he riffled through the pages so violently that the hermit’s note fell out. ‘Pick that up!’ he ordered. I’d turned pale. This was my most treasured possession. To me, it was a relic. The governor noticed, obviously, for a major suspicion occurred to him. He opened the note and read it. Here was clear evidence of treason. ‘I recognize this writing,’ he said then. ‘It belongs to an officer I know well, I’m sure. But who?’ Even the contents he found curious and incomprehensible, saying, ‘A coded message, it must be – something only the recipient will understand.’ But when he asked me what my name was and I answered, ‘Simplicius,’ he said, ‘Ha! We’ve got a right one here! Take him away and clap him in irons!’ So the brace of sentries who’d brought me in marched me off to my new quarters (the clink) and handed me over to the big cheese there, who as instructed adorned my wrists and ankles with iron bands and chains – even more chains, as if I wasn’t wearing enough already.

  Here were the beginnings of a welcome to me, but the world wanted more. So along came the executioner and his assistant carrying a hideous assortment of instruments for inflicting pain. I took some comfort from my innocence, but even so this turn of events made my awful plight even worse. ‘Oh my God, oh my God!’ I moaned. ‘Well – serves you right, Simp. You quit God’s service, step into the world, and look what happens: this excuse for a Christian gets the comeuppance his frivolity deserves. Bad luck, Simp! See where your ingratitude has landed you! God grants you the privilege of knowing him, gathers you in, and off you toddle, turning your back on him altogether! Couldn’t you have gone on for ever, eating acorns and beans and devoting yourself to your Creator’s service? Didn’t you realize your faithful hermit and teacher had withdrawn to the wilderness on purpose, fleeing the world? Idiot! You fled the wilderness to satisfy a filthy yen to see the world. But look at you now! You’d meant to see all sorts of lovely sights. Instead (we were approaching the gaol), you’re entering this ghastly maze where you’re going to die and rot. Chump! Couldn’t you have got it into your brain sooner: would your sainted predecessor have swapped the delights of the world for the hard life he led in his forest hermitage if he’d believed that out there, in the world, he might find peace, true rest and everlasting bliss? Poor old Simp! Go on, take your few pence, the wages of your stupid, mindless presumption. Don’t complain of unfairness. Don’t feign innocence when it was your own choice to go running into the arms of torture and death.’ You see, I pointed the f
inger of blame firmly at myself while asking God’s forgiveness and commending my soul to his keeping. In the meantime, we’d nearly arrived. And just when my need was greatest, lo and behold: God’s help was closest at hand. Because as I stood at the gates of the prison, flanked by thugs and with a mob around me, waiting for the gates to be opened and me swallowed up, my priest friend, whose village had recently been plundered and burnt to the ground (he’d been taken too, evidently, and was being held under house arrest nearby), looked out of his window to see out what was going on. ‘Hey, Simp, is that you?’ he shouted. I looked up. Lifting both hands in the air, I couldn’t help shouting back, ‘Oh, father, father, father!’ But when he asked what I’d done I said I didn’t know, probably I was here because I’d come out of the forest. Learning that I was a suspected nark, he asked that nothing be done to me until he’d spoken to the governor. That would help us both out and prevent the governor from taking matters further. He knew me better than anyone, the priest insisted.

  Twenty-One

  Fickle Fortune throws Simplicius a friendly glance

  He was allowed to see the governor, and half an hour later I too was fetched and shown into the servants’ hall. Two tailors, a cobbler with several pairs of shoes, a tradesman with hats and stockings, and another with garments of all kinds were already there. Apparently I was to be clothed as quickly as possible. They took off only my tunic at first, together with the chains and the hair shirt, to enable the tailors to take measurements properly. Then a barber appeared, with his stinging lyes and sweet-smelling soaps. Just as he was about to exercise his arts on me, though, another order was issued: I was to don my tunic once more. This gave me a dreadful fright. However, things looked less ominous when a portrait painter turned up, laden with gear: minium and cinnabar for my eyelids, varnish, indigo and azure for my coral lips, orpiment, king’s yellow and massicot for my white teeth (currently bared with hunger), lamp-black, coal-black and burnt umber to highlight my blond locks, white lead for my baggy eyes, and masses of other pigments for my weather-stained tunic. Plus a fistful of brushes. He began work, peering narrowly at me, trying to catch a likeness, filling in the background, and cocking his head to one side to compare his work with the figure he was working on. He might change the eyes, or possibly the hair, swiftly alter a nostril – in short, add all the touches he hadn’t got right first time. Eventually he had a natural rendition of the way Simplicius had once looked. Only then was the barber allowed near me to wash my hair and spend perhaps an hour and a half cutting it in the latest style. There was plenty to come off. Afterwards he sat me in a tub and removed more than three years’ worth of grime from my starved and skinny frame. As soon as he’d finished, they brought me a white shirt (plus collar) together with trousers and a feathered hat. The trousers were of a particularly fine cut and heavily adorned with braid. My new outfit lacked only the jerkin, which the tailors were still working on. Meanwhile the cook brought a nourishing broth and the cellarer something to drink. So there sat Lord Simplicius like a young viscount at table, all dressed up and scoffing away, despite not knowing what the future held. There’d been no talk of a prisoner’s ‘final meal’, though, so I tucked into that excellent first one, finding it tastier and more welcome than I could ever describe. In fact, I can scarcely recall having ever, in my entire life, felt happier. The jerkin was now finished, so I put it on, and in my new outfit cut so awkward a figure that I might have been some sort of decorated maypole. This was because the tailors had deliberately made my clothes too big, expecting me soon to put on weight, which with grub like that seemed more than likely. My forest get-up, complete with chains and other accessories, was put on display in the arts and crafts cabinet with other rarities and antiques, the full-length portrait beside it.

  After supper Lord Simplicius was put to bed – in an actual bed, something I’d never slept in before, either in dad’s house or at the hermitage. However, my belly rumbled and grumbled so loudly all night that I didn’t get a wink of sleep. Either it had yet to learn what was good for it, or it couldn’t get over its amazement at the fabulous new foods it had been served. I lay in one position after another until the welcome sun came up again (the room was cold), mulling over the curious events of the past few days and how the good Lord had so reliably helped me through and brought me to this excellent place.

  Twenty-Two

  Reveals the identity of the hermit who’d been so good to Simplicius

  That same morning the governor’s steward sent me to call on said priest, giving me a bodyguard to accompany me. My orders were to find out what his (the steward’s) master had discussed with him (the priest) about me. Showing me into his study, the priest sat himself down, told me to sit too, and said, ‘Simp, the hermit you stayed with in the forest was not only the governor’s brother-in-law but had also, in the current war, been his sponsor and best friend. As the governor never tires of telling me, from their youth up the future hermit lacked neither the heroic bravery of the warrior nor the piety and reverence of the monk – virtues seldom found together. Eventually his spiritual nature, coupled with certain unpleasant circumstances, so inhibited his enjoyment of the lay life that he came to scorn and eventually renounce both his title and his substantial wealth in Scotland, the land of his birth. All worldly commerce became vain and despicable in his eyes. In short, he desired to exchange his present rank for a greater future glory. His lofty spirit felt only abhorrence of temporal splendour. His highest ambition was the lowly life you found him leading in the forest – and shared until his death. If you ask me, it was reading all those popish books on the lives of the early anchorites that led him up the garden path.

  ‘Still, I’ll make no secret of what brought him to the Spessart and how his desire for the wretched life of the hermit found fulfilment. I want you to be able to tell others about it in future. It was in the small hours of the second night after the bloody defeat at Höchst that he came alone to my door. I and my wife and children had only just dozed off, having been kept awake all the previous night and much of that one by the usual din raised far and wide by men trying to escape and others chasing them. He knocked quite politely at first, then frenziedly, until I and my exhausted family lay wide awake. In response to his insistence and after a cautious exchange of words, I opened the door to see a cavalry officer climbing down from his brave mount. The man’s sumptuous uniform was as copiously flecked with enemy blood as it was trimmed with gold and silver, and the rapier in his hand struck fear in my heart. However, once he’d sheathed the rapier and shown only courtesy, I wondered what this fine gentleman was up to, appealing to a mere village priest for lodging. In fact, so gracious was his manner and so lordly his appearance that I took him for Count von Mansfeld himself. According to him, at that moment he was not only on a par with that commander but for once outranked him – purely in misfortune, he meant. He had three regrets: the loss of his heavily pregnant wife, his recent defeat on the battlefield, and the fact that he’d not, like other honest soldiers, had the good fortune to leave his life on the same for the gospel’s sake. My attempts to console him soon showed me that his high-mindedness required no consolation. So, offering what my poor dwelling could provide, I had a palliasse (all he would accept, though he badly needed rest) filled with fresh straw and brought for him to sleep on. His first act next morning was to make me a gift of his horse and distribute his cash (he’d no small amount of gold with him) and some costly rings among my wife, kids and other members of my household. I couldn’t think what he was up to; soldiers are more prone to take than to give. So I had misgivings about accepting such bounty. It was quite undeserved, I objected, and more than either I or the other recipients could ever hope to earn. I also pointed out that, when folk saw such wealth (not to mention the expensive horse, for there was no keeping that out of sight), many would think I’d had a hand in robbing or even murdering him. He told me not to worry: he’d give me written confirmation that such was not the case. He was loath to take e
ven his shirt, let alone his outer clothing, off the premises. It was at this point that he revealed his intention of becoming a hermit. I did all I could to dissuade him, particularly since to my mind any such enterprise smacked of popery. I reminded him that he could best serve the gospel with his rapier. But it was no use; he urged me and urged me until I agreed to everything. I supplied the books, images and household equipment you found him using, although all he had asked for in return for the many things he had honoured me with was the woolly blanket he had slept under that night. He had it made into a tunic. Also, because he was keen to keep neither money nor precious metal about his person, I had to exchange my wagon chain (the one he wore constantly) for a gold one of his, from which a miniature of his sweetheart hung. My servant took him to the loneliest part of the forest and helped him build a hut. How he spent his life there, and how I gave him the occasional helping hand – these are things you know well, some of them better than me.

  ‘After the recent Battle of Nördlingen had been fought and lost and I (as you know) had been driven from house and home and badly knocked about in the process, I took refuge here, where in any case I’d already brought my best stuff. When money started to run short, I took three of the rings your hermit had given me (his signet ring among them), as well as the gold chain I mentioned (with the portrait still dangling from it) to a Jew and turned them into cash. Because of their value and fine workmanship the Jew sold them on to the governor, who recognized the coat of arms and the portrait immediately and sent for me to ask how I’d come by such treasures. I told him the truth, drew attention to the hermit’s handwriting on the handover note, and gave the whole story, including how the man had spent the rest of his life in the forest. Refusing to believe it, the governor placed me under arrest until he could get to the bottom of the matter. He was about to dispatch a party to take a look at where the hermit had lived and find you and bring you in when I saw you with my own eyes, being led to the tower. I realized the governor had no further reason to doubt my account. I can call on other living witnesses (most notably my own verger, who had often let you and the hermit into the church before dawn). Finally, the note that the governor found in your little book of prayers not only confirms the truth but testifies eloquently to the blessed hermit’s piety. For all these reasons the governor now wants to do the right thing by the pair of us in his sainted brother-in-law’s memory. You need only say how you want him to help you. If it’s to study, he’ll pay. If it’s to learn a trade, he’ll have you taught one. But if it’s to stay at his side, he’ll treat you like his own child. He told me: if even a stinking mutt that had once been his sainted brother-in-law’s came to him, he’d take that mutt in.’