The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus

by Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen

  When the Jew turned up with armfuls of military clothing, my friend picked out the finest items, had me put them on, and took me along to see the colonel. ‘Sir,’ he began, ‘I came across this fellow in sir’s garrison. He is someone to whom I owe such a debt of gratitude that I feel unable to leave him in so base a position, even if he deserves no better. I therefore beseech the colonel to do me the favour of either improving the man’s treatment or permitting me to take him with me in order to advance his military career in a manner that sir may be unable to do here.’ The colonel was gobsmacked. He’d never heard me spoken well of before. Crossing himself, he said, ‘I trust the esteemed gentleman will forgive me if I feel he seeks only to test my readiness to offer him fitting service. If so, may I entreat him to make a different request – one that it lies in my power to grant. He will then witness such readiness in action. As for this fellow, he belongs not to me but (so he says) to a regiment of dragoons. Also, he’s such a nuisance that he’s given my provost marshal nothing but trouble since he came here – more, indeed, than an entire company. Hanging’s too good for him, if you ask me.’ With a short laugh, he finished his speech by wishing me luck in the field.

  This still didn’t satisfy my dear Herzbruder, who went on to ask the colonel whether he’d be so kind as to invite me to join him at table, to which the colonel again gave his consent. Herzbruder’s real motive in doing this was to be able to tell the colonel in my presence what he’d heard about me in Westphalia, just from talking to Count von der Wahl and the Soest commandant. This he laid on so thick that everyone listening will have thought: what a fine soldier the fellow must be! My own attitude was so modest that the colonel and his men, having known me before, could only assume that the change of clothes had transformed me. The colonel, for instance, wanted to know how I’d acquired the title ‘Doctor’. When I recounted my entire trip from Paris to Philippsburg, including how many peasants I’d swindled to feed my face, that got a laugh all round. So in the end I gave him the unvarnished truth: I’d decided to cause so much hassle with my mischief that he’d eventually have to throw me out of the garrison if he was going to stop all the complaints and get any peace.

  Here the colonel recounted some of the wicked tricks I’d got up to while in the garrison. I’d been in the habit of boiling peas, for example, covering them with pig fat, and flogging the lot as pure lard. Likewise, I’d sold whole sacks of sand as salt; what I did was, I filled most of the sack with sand and sprinkled a layer of salt on top. Also, how I’d played practical jokes on folk and posted up lampoons on this man and that. In toto, I was the centre of attention throughout the meal, and if I hadn’t had such a respectable friend everything I’d done would have been deemed punishable by law. To me, it was like what must happen at court, when a scoundred gains the favour of the king.

  When we’d finished eating it turned out that the Jew didn’t have a horse that my Herzbruder thought would have suited me. However, Herzbruder was such a big cheese that the colonel couldn’t afford to lose his favour. So the colonel honoured his guest with a fine animal (complete with saddle and tack) from his own stable. Climbing on its back, Lord Simplicius rode delightedly out of the citadel with his Herzbruder, some of his mates calling after him, ‘Best of luck, brother, best of luck!’ Others (the more envious) muttered, ‘The bigger the rascal, the greater the luck.’

  Thirteen

  Concerns the Order of the Merode Brothers

  As we rode, Herzbruder and I agreed I should pose as his cousin. That way I’d get more respect. He also said he’d be equipping me with another horse and groom and attaching me to the Neuneck regiment, where I could serve as a volunteer until the rank he could shoehorn me into fell vacant.

  So in the twinkling of an eye I was once more a bold-looking military man. Not that I performed many bold deeds that summer – beyond helping rustle a few cows in the Black Forest occasionally and becoming borderline notorious throughout the Breisgau and Alsace. In every other respect my luck took another turn for the worse. My existing manservant complete with horse was captured by the Weimarers at Kenzingen, with the result that I had to work the other nag that much harder. Eventually, I rode the animal into the ground and had to join the Order of the Merode Brothers. My Herzbruder had gladly offered to buy me a replacement. However, since I’d got through the first two so quickly he thought better of it, deciding to let me cool my heels until I’d learnt to be more careful. That was fine by me. I took such pleasure in my new companions that I was quite happy until the time came to look for winter quarters.

  Let me tell you a bit about what sort of folk the Merode Brothers are. I’m sure many of my readers (particularly those unfamiliar with wartime conditions) will never have heard of them. Also, I’ve yet to come across any authors whose writings examine the habits, customs, rights and privileges of the brotherhood. Anyway, it’s no bad thing for today’s military commanders and country-dwellers alike to know what a close-knit community they form. Regarding the name, first of all, I sincerely hope this doesn’t reflect badly on the brave young man from whom it was borrowed. If it did, I’d hate to publicize its origin in this way. I remember seeing a type of boot once that had hooked seams instead of holes. Apparently it was for wading through shit. The boot was called a ‘Mansfeld’, but if anyone thought General von Mansfeld (whose troops invented it) was a mere cobbler, I’d have dismissed him as a nutcase. Much the same applies to the name ‘Merode Brothers’, which will survive as long as Germans continue to wage war, because it has a certain ring to it. A gentleman called Merode once raised a regiment of such decrepit specimens (like the French Bretons, for instance) that all the marching and other exertions that go with being a fighting force were beyond them. The unit was soon so small it could barely carry its own flag. So whenever one or more ailing or infirm footsloggers were found in marketplaces, leaning against house fronts, or lurking behind barriers and asked what regiment they were from, the usual reply was, ‘Merode’s’. Hence the custom of referring to all military men, sick or healthy, wounded or not, seen shambling outside dressed ranks or otherwise not in regimental encampments as ‘Merode Brothers’. Blokes like that used to be called ‘pig-stealers’. Another name for them was ‘honey-snatchers’, because they resembled drones in beehives; they’d lost their sting and could no longer work, no longer make honey – only scoff it. A horseman loses his mount or a musketeer his health, or a chap’s wife and child fall ill and can’t follow the camp any more, and there you are: three Merode Brothers, riff-raff – gypsies, almost. Yes, like the gypsy tribe, not only sloping about in front of, behind, beside or mixed up among the soldiery but also mimicking army men in both morals and manners, often (like partridges in winter) spotted in groups, sheltering behind hedges, keeping to the shade or, when they can, lying in the sun or possibly around a fire somewhere, enjoying a smoke or simply doing nothing, while somewhere else, proper soldiers, men who follow the flag, endure heat, thirst, hunger, frost and every sort of misery. A pack of them may indulge in some pilfering in the surrounding countryside, whereas many a poor regular, tired out, feels like lying down for a kip under a wagon. They plunder whatever they find ahead of, alongside or in the rear of marching columns, and what they can’t eat or drink they spoil, with the result that regimentals, on reaching their quarters or their camp, often have trouble finding a decent drop of water. And when they’re sternly instructed to stay with the baggage train, this will often be found to be almost longer than the army itself. However, if they do keep together on the march, in their quarters or in camp, out on the rampage they’ve no officers to tell them what to do, no sergeant to keep them in line, no corporal to draw up sentry rotas, no drummer to sound taps for the changing of the guard – no one, in short, to draw up battle formations as the adjutant does, no one to assign billets as the quartermaster does; instead, they live like lords. And when fresh rations are handed out to the troops, they’re always at the front of the queue, collecting their share, though truth to tell th
ey’ve done nothing to deserve it. On the other hand, they go in constant fear of the provosts and the provost marshal, who sometimes, if they overdo matters, clap them in iron bracelets hand and foot or even slip hemp necklaces over their heads and have them hanged by their precious necks.

  They do no sentry duty, never dig trenches, skive off assaults, refuse to assume battle formation – and yet how they eat! Worse: what the high command, the rural populace, and the army itself (lousy with such rabble) suffer at their hands is beyond description. The rawest cavalry recruit, fit for nothing but foraging, is of more use to his commanding officer than a thousand Merode Brothers, whose greatest skill is sitting on their arses. They usually fall into the hands of the enemy or (as sometimes happens) they’re taught a lesson by the peasantry; either way, the army is reduced and the enemy strengthened. And even if such pitiful clowns (and I’m not talking about the wounded here, but the horseless riders who’ve lost their mounts through carelessness and joined the Merode Brothers through necessity, i.e. the need to save their skins) – even if they make it through the summer, come winter all they’re good for is being re-equipped (at great expense) to give them something to blow in the next campaign. They should be harnessed together like hunting dogs or taught war-making in a garrison somewhere or even sent off to the galleys if they’re not prepared to serve as footsloggers until they can afford a new horse. That’s not even mentioning how they’ll sometimes torch whole villages (accidentally or on purpose), how they’ll ditch, plunder, secretly steal from, even rub out blokes from their own ranks, and how a spy can often shelter among them so long as he can name one regiment or company out of the entire army. I was one such estimable brother myself, or was until the day before the Battle of Wittenweier, at which time we were based in Schuttern. On that day, as I and my companions were out rustling cattle (a favourite occupation) in the Geroldseck region, we were taken prisoner by the Weimarers, who found us something much better to do. They gave us muskets and assigned us to different regiments – Colonel Hattstein’s, in my case.

  Fourteen

  A dangerous duel to the death – from which both parties escaped with their lives

  It was then I realized: I was born unlucky. About a month earlier (i.e. before said encounter) I’d overheard a number of Götz’s officers discussing the war. One said, ‘There’ll be a battle before summer’s out – no question. If we win, we’ll be spending the winter in Freiburg and the Forest towns. If we get hammered, we’ll withdraw to winter quarters anyway.’ Drawing my own conclusion from this prophecy, I said to myself, ‘You’re in luck, Simp. Come spring, you’ll be drinking good Bodensee and Neckar wine and have a share in whatever the Weimarers take.’ However, I was way off the mark. Being a Weimarer myself now, it was going to be my fate to help in the siege of Breisach, which following said Battle of Wittenweier was made truly watertight. My job then, along with my fellow musketeers, was to mount guard and dig trenches day and night. That taught me nothing but how to besiege a citadel by using the right sort of earthworks – something I’d not paid much attention to at Magdeburg. Also, conditions were awful so far as I was concerned: cramped quarters, an empty purse, wine, beer and meat all rarities, an apple and a slice of dry bread as good as the menu got.

  I found all that hard to bear when I remembered the Egyptian fleshpots (I’m talking about the Westphalian hams and sausages) I’d enjoyed back at L. I never missed my wife so much as while lying in my tent half frozen. I’d often tell myself, ‘There you are, Simp. Wouldn’t it just serve you right if someone else was putting herself about the way you did in Paris?’ I tormented myself with such thoughts like any jealous husband, although I’d no reason to doubt my wife’s purity and virtue. In the end I became so twitchy that I told my captain how matters stood with me. I also posted letters to L. and persuaded Colonel de S. A. and my father-in-law to write to the Duke of Weimar on my behalf. Eventually, my captain had to give me a pass and let me go.

  A few weeks before Christmas I marched out of the camp with a good gun over my shoulder. I proceeded down the Breisgau with the idea of picking up at the Strasbourg Christmas Fair the twenty thaler that my father-in-law had sent there for me and joining a party of businesspeople to travel down the Rhine, there being plenty of Imperial garrisons on the way. However, just past Endingen, as I was approaching a solitary building, a shot rang out and a bullet grazed my hat-brim. A burly figure emerged and came running towards me, shouting at me to drop the gun. ‘By God, fellow, not for you I won’t!’ I answered, cocking it instead. At that he drew what looked more like an executioner’s sword than a rapier and came on at me, brandishing it. I could see he was serious so I fired, hitting him on the forehead. He spun round, tottered, and eventually fell. I ran up then, wrenched the sword from his fist, and tried to run him through. It wouldn’t enter his body, though, and he unexpectedly leapt to his feet and grabbed me by the hair. Flinging the sword aside, I made a grab for his hair in return, and we began to fight. We were both in deadly earnest, spurred on by anger, but neither of us could get the better of the other. First I was on top; then he was. In a flash, we were both back on our feet. Not for long, though: this was going to be a fight to the death. As the red stuff streamed from my nose and mouth, I spat it back in my opponent’s face. He was obviously greedy for it. Actually, that was to my advantage, because some of it went in his eyes. For an hour and a half we battled it out in the snow, until it began to look as if there’d be no winner with fists alone. Without a weapon, neither of us would ever succeed in finishing the other off.

  I’d often practised wrestling back at L., and it came in very handy now. I’d undoubtedly have lost otherwise. My enemy was bulkier than me. He was also as strong as an ox. We were both close to death from exhaustion when at last he said, ‘Stop, friend! I can’t take any more!’ ‘Well, why didn’t you let me past in the first place?’ I wanted to know. ‘What use is it to you,’ he replied, ‘if I die now?’ ‘And what good would it have done you,’ I said, ‘if you’d shot me? I’m not carrying money.’ Hearing this, he asked for my pardon, and I let myself be pacified. I also let him get up once he’d sworn blind that not only would he keep the peace in future; he’d be my trusty friend and servant for all time. If I’d known what crimes he’d committed prior to this, I’d neither have believed him nor put any trust in him whatsoever.

  With the two of us back on our feet, we agreed to let bygones be bygones. We even shook hands on it, acknowledging that we’d each found our master and sharing the view that we both possessed the kind of magical hide that could never be pierced. I let him believe it, not wanting him, as soon as he got his gun back, to take another pop at me. He had a large bump where my bullet had hit him on the forehead, and I’d lost a lot of blood, but neither of us complained – except about our necks, which felt so sore we couldn’t keep our heads upright.

  It was getting late, and my opposite number told me I wouldn’t come across so much as a dog or cat (never mind a human being) this side of the Kinzig, whereas he on the other hand, in his remote cottage nearby, had good meat and some excellent drink. So I allowed myself to be persuaded and accompanied him home. The way there was punctuated with sighs on his part as he told me yet again how sorry he was to have gone for me like that.

  Fifteen

  How Olivier supposed he could excuse his wicked deeds

  A bold soldier who agrees to put his life on the line, counting it cheap, is certainly a nutcase, it has to be said! You could go through a thousand fellows without finding a single one who, when someone’s just tried to murder him, will accompany that person to a strange place as his invited guest. On the way, I enquired what side he was on. He said he hadn’t a master for the moment, he was fighting his own war; which army was I with? I said I’d been with the Weimar army but had said goodbye to them and was thinking of going home. He wanted to know what my name was, and when I answered, ‘Simplicius’ he turned around (I’d let him get ahead, you see, not trusting him entirely), looked m
e straight in the eye, and asked, ‘Isn’t your other name “Simplicissimus”?’ ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Only a scoundrel wouldn’t own up to his name. What’s yours?’ ‘I thought so,’ he said in answer, ‘I’m Olivier. We met back at Magdeburg – remember?’ And so saying he threw down his gun, sank to his knees, and implored me to forgive him. He’d not meant it personally, he said. He couldn’t imagine gaining a better friend in the world; old man Herzbruder had prophesied I’d bravely avenge his death. I for my part said how amazed I was at our meeting again in this curious way. But he said, ‘Oh, there’s nothing strange there: “mountain and valley” and all that. No, what amazes me is how much we’ve both changed. I used to be an army clerk, and now I’m a highwayman; you were a fool and are now a bold soldier! Listen, brother, with ten thousand like us we’d relieve Breisach tomorrow and not stop till we ruled the world!’

  Bandying such words (night had fallen by now), we reached a tiny, remote day-labourer’s cottage, and though boasting wasn’t really my thing I kept my end up, mainly because I was familiar with his moods. I didn’t trust him one bit, but still I followed him into the cottage, where a peasant had just lit a fire. He asked the fellow, ‘Have you cooked something?’ ‘No,’ the peasant answered, ‘but there’s some of that roast veal left – the stuff I brought from Waldkirch today.’ ‘Right,’ said Olivier. ‘Fetch what you’ve got, and bring in that cask of wine while you’re at it.’

  When the peasant had left the room, I said to Olivier, ‘Brother (that’s what I called him, you see, to keep him sweet), you’re well looked after!’ ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘devil take it! I feed the scoundrel, plus his wife and child, and he does pretty well for himself. All the clothing I pillage I let him have for his own use.’ I asked where the man kept his wife and child. He’d found them lodgings in Freiburg, Olivier said, where he visited them twice weekly and brought back food, baccy and shot. Olivier also told me that he himself had been practising the freebooter’s trade for some time. It suited him better than having a master, he told me, and he meant to carry on until he’d really got a purseful. I said, ‘Brother, you’ve chosen to live in perpetual danger. What if you’re caught in the act of stealing – what will they do with you then, do you think?’ ‘Aha!’ he retorted. ‘Still the same Simplicius, I see! I don’t need reminding that the player who knocks the skittles down has to set them up again. But don’t you forget: the courts can’t hang someone they’ve yet to nab!’ ‘True, brother, true,’ I replied, ‘but even supposing you’re not caught – suspicions will be aroused. The jug doesn’t go to the well for so long without cracking eventually. Anyway, the kind of life you’re leading could hardly be more shameful. I’m sure you wouldn’t wish to die in that state.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘– “could hardly be more shameful”, did I hear? My dear Simplicius, I’ll have you know: larceny is the world’s noblest occupation nowadays! Tell me, how many realms and principalities were not gained by theft? How many are not governed by the same means? Where in all the world is a king or prince thought less of for deriving income from territories that his ancestors are known to have stolen by force? What could be called nobler than the very craft I now pursue? You’ll remind me, I’m sure, that many of my kind have been broken on the wheel, hanged or beheaded for murder, pillage and robbery. I know. It’s what the law requires. Yet you’ll see only poor, simple thieves climb the steps of the gallows. Quite properly, too, since they’ve presumed to take up this splendid art, which is practised by and is indeed normally the preserve of bolder spirits. Where have you ever seen a person of rank punished by the judiciary for placing heavy burdens on his underlings’ shoulders? No usurer is penalized for practising this fine trade under the counter – and doing so in the guise of Christian charity, no less! So why should I be punished when I ply my trade openly in the good, old-fashioned way, making no bones about it? Dear old Simp, clearly you’ve yet to read Machiavelli. I’m a very open sort of bloke; I feel no shame. I put my life on the line like the heroes of old. I also know that occupations where the practitioner risks all are quite admissible. I take those risks voluntarily, so it follows that I’ve every right to practise this craft.’