The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus

by Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen

  That afternoon three giant logs were dragged into position by twenty-four horses each (two would have done) in full view of the enemy. Meanwhile, I collected three heavy muskets and a vast barrel from a nearby castle and rigged them up the way I needed them. This was done under cover of darkness. Priming the guns with a double load of powder, I had them fired inside said barrel (from which one end had been removed) to sound as if we were making three trial shots. The noise was like thunder. Anyone would have sworn blind this was very heavy artillery indeed. The whole performance caused the general to laugh like a drain, and he promptly made the enemy another offer – this time with the proviso that, if they didn’t accept his terms by nightfall, in the morning they’d get it in the neck. Hostages were exchanged immediately, an agreement was signed, and that same evening a gate of the town was thrown open to us. I was laughing, too: not only did the count make me a gift of the life I’d forfeited by infringing his ban; he also, that very night, set me free, ordering the lieutenant colonel in my presence to give me the first stripe that became available. This he was unable to do, though, having so many cousins and brothers-in-law, all jostling to keep me out of the queue.

  Eleven

  Concerns lots of things of small importance and a large dose of self-deception

  Nothing else of note happened to me on said march. However, when I got back to Soest I found that the Lippstadt Hessians had captured the servant I’d left in our quarters to guard my luggage, plus a horse he’d left out to graze. From him the enemy learnt a lot about what I got up to – and thought more highly of me as a result. The fact was, previously they’d been inclined to share the common view that I could perform magic. He also blurted out that he’d been one of the devils who’d given the Huntsman of Werl such a fright at the sheep farm. When this came to the ears of said Huntsman (of Werl), he felt so ashamed that he once again showed a clean pair of heels, fleeing from Lippstadt to the Dutch. For me, however, my servant having been taken prisoner was the best thing that could have happened, as will become apparent at a later stage in my story.

  I began behaving rather better than previously, having high hopes of early promotion. I mixed more and more with the officers and young noblemen, who were all on the lookout for the same thing as me. In fact, they were my worst enemies, despite posing as my best friends. I wasn’t exactly in the lieutenant colonel’s good books, either, now that he was under orders to promote me before his relations. My captain was also starting to give me dirty looks. The fact was, my horses, clothes and weapons were far smarter than his, and I no longer bought the old skinflint as many drinks. He’d have been happier if I’d been topped recently rather than being offered promotion, having had his eye on my fine horse in the hope that the animal might have been his. My immediate superior, on the other hand, hated me for a single thing I’d said recently – rather carelessly, I have to admit. It happened like this. On our last outing we’d both been detailed to keep watch at a well-isolated spot. When my turn came (and the job had to be done lying down, despite this being a very dark night), the lieutenant crawled towards me on his belly like a snake and whispered, ‘Notice anything, sentry?’ ‘Yes, sir,’ I replied. ‘What is it? What is it?’ he asked. I answered, ‘I notice that sir is looking scared.’ From then on I was his least favourite soldier. Wherever the action was thickest, there I was sent. He tried everything in his determination to get the hell beaten out of me before I was made ensign and could defend myself against him. The sergeants were equally hostile, now that I’d been set above them. As for the small fry, their love and affection towards me likewise began to wobble when it seemed I had less time for them, now that I was keeping company (see above) with nobs, who incidentally didn’t appear to thank me for it. The worst thing was, no one put me wise to what people were thinking. Folk who were saying the nicest things to my face would actually rather have seen me dead! I lived a bit like a blind man, cushioned by a false sense of security. The longer it went on, the more arrogant I became. I knew it annoyed some folk, for instance, that I outdid certain aristocrats and army high-ups in splendour, but that didn’t prevent me, once I’d become a lance corporal, from sporting wide collars costing sixty reichsthaler apiece, scarlet hose and white satin sleeves covered with gold and silver embroidery. That’s what top officers wore in those days – and it marked me out as a bit of a coxcomb. But how daft, scaring the neighbours like that! If I’d behaved differently, if I’d spent the money I blew on threads greasing the right palms, I’d not only have made ensign sooner; I’d have made fewer enemies. I knew better, though, didn’t I? I went further, dolling up my best horse (one of the fine animals Tearaway had liberated from the Hessian cavalry captain) with brand-new tack and fancy weapons that made the man in the saddle look like the new St George. Nothing irked me more than knowing I was not in fact a nobleman, able to dress my servant and stable lads in my own livery. Everyone has to start somewhere, I thought. When you become an ensign you’ll need a seal, even if you’re not a nobleman. And once you have a coat of arms you’ll have your own livery. In fact, the moment the latter thought entered my head, I had a herald draw up a coat of arms for me. It had three red masks in a white field with, on the helmet, a half-length portrait of a young fool in a calfskin jerkin, with a pair of rabbit’s ears and bells down the front. I reckoned that went best with my name: ‘Simplicius’. Also, I wanted to use the fool motif to remind me in my future grandeur of what I’d been back in Hanau. I didn’t want myself getting snooty, you see; I already thought I was quite something. So it was that I became the first of my name and line to have a proper coat of arms. And I just know: if anyone had attempted to take the piss, I’d promptly have offered him the choice between rapier and pistols.

  You see, I wasn’t yet interested in females as such, though I did accompany the young toffs on their visits to nubile wenches, of whom there were many in the town at the time. I went along to show off my beautiful hair and strut around in my splendid clothes and plumes; I wanted to be noticed. And my looks, I have to say, were top-notch – although I heard some of those spoilt hussies muttering that I was like a fine piece of carving: lovely to look at but very hard, very dry. It was only my appearance that turned them on, apparently – that and my lute-playing. Otherwise, I did nothing for them; I was ignorant of the ways of love. However, when even those who knew their way around with women began teasing me about my clumsiness and wooden ways (as they did to put themselves in a good light and show the girls how elegantly they could talk), and I retorted by saying that a gleaming rapier and a sturdy musket were my sole desire just now, the ladies obviously liked it. This the mockers found so irksome that they secretly swore to do for me. Only, none of them was man enough to challenge me or give me cause to challenge him, despite the fact that a single slap in the face or a couple of sharp words would have done. I rather enjoyed putting their backs up, too. From this, the womenfolk concluded I must be a daring young buck. Some said openly that my looks and bold words alone did more for a lass than all the sweet nothings ever invented by Cupid. That annoyed those present even more.

  Twelve

  Fate unexpectedly does the Huntsman proud

  I had two splendid horses. They were my whole pride and joy at the time I’m talking about. I rode them every day at the riding school or walked them around when I had no other duties. Not that the horses needed any more training. I did it to show people: these lovely creatures belong to me! When I came swaggering down the street (correction: when the horse danced past with me on top), and onlookers said to one another, ‘Look – the Huntsman! Oh, what a beautiful horse! Just look at those lovely plumes!’ or ‘Damn it all, there goes a fine fellow!’ I pricked up my ears and sighed with pleasure, feeling as if the Queen of Sheba had compared me to wise Solomon in all his glory. But I was too much of a twit to pick up what, possibly, more sensible folk were thinking or ill-wishers saying about me. Unable to present the same fine sight, they will have hoped I’d fall off and break my neck. Others mus
t have thought: in a fair world, he’d not cut such a figure. All in all, the really smart ones will have said to themselves: there goes a proper flash Harry; his arrogance won’t last, though; it rests on flimsy foundations – namely, the occasional chance of looting other folk’s stuff. And to be honest, they’d not be wrong, although I didn’t realize it at the time. The fact of the matter was, I could have given any man (in this case, an opponent on the battlefield) a run for his money; folk would have thought I was simply a good soldier. And me little more than a child! Any ‘greatness’ came from it being possible, in this day and age, for the merest stable lad, armed with a gun, to shoot down the world’s boldest hero. Before gunpowder, I’d have had to keep a lower profile.

  I’d made a habit, on such excursions, of noting every path, ditch, bog, thicket, slope and stretch of water and committing them to memory. Then, when a chance arose for an engagement, I’d be able to turn the location to advantage, whether for attack or defence. One day, about such business not far from the town, I found myself riding past an old wall where a house had once stood. My first thought was: this would be a good place to mount an ambush or possibly to retreat to – especially for us dragoons, if we were outnumbered and chased by cavalry. The wall around the courtyard was badly broken down. I rode in to see whether, in an emergency, a troop of dragoons might take cover there and defend themselves on foot. I’d completed my inspection and was riding past the cellar, where the surrounding masonry was still standing, when my horse (normally a stranger to fear) suddenly came to a halt and wouldn’t budge. I tried my hardest to make him move on, reluctantly even giving him a touch of the spurs. Nothing worked! Dismounting, I set about leading the animal down the broken cellar stairs – much against his will, but I must be able to rely on him another time. He kept hopping back; however, with reassuring words and a lot of stroking, I did eventually get him to the bottom. Still stroking and patting his neck, I realized he was sweating with fear. His eyes stared fixedly into one corner of the cellar, which he particularly baulked at approaching. To my eyes, the corner held nothing that might have spooked the shyest nag. I stood there in puzzlement, looking at the horse as it trembled in terror. Then I too felt horror creeping over me. It was just as if I’d been pulled up by the hair and had a bucket of cold water emptied over me. I couldn’t see a thing, but judging by the horse’s unsettling behaviour I could only imagine that we’d both had a spell cast over us and were about to meet our end right there. I tried to retreat, but the horse refused to follow. That made me even more anxious and flummoxed. I hardly knew what I was doing. Eventually, tethering the horse to a stout elder bush that had sprouted from the cellar floor, I drew a pistol. My intention was to leave the cellar and look for folk nearby to help me get the horse back up the stairs. Suddenly, a thought struck me: such ancient stonework might conceal a hoard of treasure that was causing this horrid atmosphere. The thought turned to conviction, and I took a closer look at my surroundings, particularly the corner that my horse so stubbornly refused to approach. I then became aware of a section of masonry, about the size of a window aperture, that didn’t match the rest of the ancient stonework in either colour or technique. However, when I tried to approach it, the same thing happened again: my hair felt as if it was standing on end. This only strengthened my belief that treasure was hidden there; it just had to be.

  I’d ten (no, a hundred) times rather have found myself in an exchange of bullets than experience the fear that came over me then. It was agony, and I had no idea who was inflicting it on me. I couldn’t see anything or hear anything. Snatching the other pistol from its saddle holster, I tried again to get away, leaving the horse behind. But I simply couldn’t climb the stairs. A powerful wind seemed to drive me back. That really scared me, I can tell you! Finally, I decided to let off my pistols and alert the peasants working in the nearby fields to come my rescue. I fired, knowing it was my only hope of escaping from this evil, haunted place. I felt such rage, such despair (oh, I no longer know myself what I felt!), that my shot, fired at random, hit the very spot I’d fixed on as the source of my befuddlement. Two balls struck said section of masonry with such force that a gaping hole appeared – big enough for a man to have stuck both fists through. As the sound rang out, my horse whinnied and pricked up his ears in a way that for some reason delighted me. Had the monster or phantom gone or was the poor beast simply pleased to hear shooting? Whatever, I pulled myself together and with fresh heart strode over to the hole that my shot had opened up. Clearing away debris, I saw such a rich store of silver, gold and precious stones as would have kept me in luxury to this day if only I’d known how to manage it properly, invest the proceeds, stuff like that. There were dozens of antique silver tankards, a large gold cup, five salt-cellars (four silver and one gold), an old-style gold chain, various diamonds, rubies, sapphires and emeralds, some set in rings, some in other small pieces of jewellery, a whole casket full of pearls (albeit spoilt or discoloured without exception), and lastly, in a mouldy leather bag, eighty very early Joachimsthaler minted in fine silver, plus 893 gold coins stamped with the French coat of arms and an eagle – coins that no dealer could identify, by the way (they’d say the writing was illegible). The coins, rings and small jewellery items I stuffed into my trouser pockets, boots, hose and pistol holsters. I didn’t have a bag with me (I was only out for a walk, after all), so I cut off my saddlecloth and put the rest of the metalware in that (it was lined and made quite a useful bag). Wearing the gold chain around my neck, I jumped on my horse to ride back to my billet. However, as I emerged from the farm I spotted two peasants, who made off the moment they saw me. With my six legs, over flat ground, I soon caught them up and asked why they were trying to flee; what were they so afraid of? It seemed they’d taken me for the ghost that lived in the now deserted manor house and that gave folk such a dreadful time when they strayed too close. And when I persisted in my questioning, enquiring what the ghost looked like, they replied that folk were so terrified of the place, whole years passed without anyone coming anyway near – bar strangers who’d lost their way and fetched up there by accident. It was said, locally, that inside there was an iron chest full of money, guarded by a big black hound. Also watching over it was a young woman who had a curse on her. According to a legend that they themselves had heard from their grandparents, a stranger of noble birth (though the man knew neither his father nor his mother) was to come along, free the young woman from the spell, open the iron chest with a key of fire, and remove the hidden hoard. They told me many old wives’ tales in the same vein, but those rang so false that I’ll not waste time on them here. Afterwards I asked the two why they’d come running if it hadn’t been to enter the walled enclosure. Their answer was that they’d heard a shot, followed by a loud cry, and had run over to see what was going on. I told them I’d fired the shot myself in the hope of getting a response (I’d been scared witless, I confessed) but had heard no loud cry. They said, ‘Any amount of gunfire coming from inside there wouldn’t normally bring people running. The place is so spooky, we’d never have believed the young lord (they meant me) had been in there if we hadn’t actually seen him come out.’ After that the questions came thick and fast: what was it like in there? Had I seen the virgin and the dog, sitting on the iron chest? I could really have gone to town; I could have told them any tall story. I didn’t, though; I said nothing at all – not even that I’d found the priceless treasure. I simply rode back to my quarters and inspected my haul, which gave me enormous pleasure.