The Adventures of Simplicius Simplicissimus

by Hans Jakob Christoffel von Grimmelshausen

  When he’d finished, I replied, ‘OK, let’s say you’re entitled to plunder and steal; the fact is, I know in my heart that it goes against nature to ask a man not to do unto others things he doesn’t want done to himself. But such injustice is also forbidden under secular law, which calls for thieves to be hanged, robbers topped, and murderers broken on the wheel. Lastly (but more importantly), it’s also contrary to the will of God, who leaves no sin unpunished.’ ‘Like I said,’ Olivier answered, ‘still the old Simplicius! Read Machiavelli; really study what he writes. If I could establish a monarchy in that way, I’d like to see anyone take exception to it.’ We’d still be arguing, but just then the peasant came in with the food and drink, so we sat down at table and got outside it – as I for one badly needed to do.

  Sixteen

  How, by interpreting Herzbruder’s prophecy to his advantage, he comes to love his own worst enemy

  Our meal was white bread and cold roast leg of veal, washed down with a good glug of wine and enjoyed in a cosy room. ‘How about that, Simplicius?’ Olivier said. ‘Beats squatting in a trench outside Breisach, eh?’ ‘Well, yes,’ I said, ‘but surely it’s not a patch on enjoying such treats in greater security and with rather more honour?’ Bellowing with laughter, he replied, ‘Reckon the poor sods feel secure in their trenches, do you – dreading a raid at any moment? My dear fellow, you may have taken off your fool’s cap, but only to expose yourself as a numbskull. Can’t you tell what’s good from what’s bad? If you were anyone but the Simplicius old Herzbruder prophesied would avenge my death, I’d soon make you see: I’m the one living the high life here.’ To myself I said, ‘Watch out, Simp! Where might this end? You’re going to have to change your tone; otherwise, with this peasant around to do his bidding, the brute might decide to eliminate you.’ So aloud I said to Olivier, ‘Hark at me: the apprentice lecturing the master. Take no notice. But brother, since you have this magnificent, carefree existence, do please let me share it. I could use some luck.’ To which Olivier responded, ‘Say no more, brother. It’s a fact: I love you as much as I would a brother. Also, the barbarous reception I gave you hurts me more than your bullet did when it hit me on the forehead, showing me what a bold fellow you are! What’s mine is yours. Stay here, if that’s what you want. I’ll look after you as I would myself. And if you don’t care to stay, I’ll give you all the money you need and put you on the road to wherever you wish to go. I’m speaking from the heart here; I really want you to believe that. So let me tell you why I think so highly of you. You’ll not have forgotten how accurate old man Herzbruder was with his predictions. Well, in that camp outside Magdeburg he made this prediction about me, which I’ve never forgotten: “Olivier, think what you will of our fool, one day his courage will alarm you when, at your own provocation and at a time when neither of you recognizes the other, he gives you the most almighty thrashing. But he’ll do more than just spare your life, having had it in his hands; he’ll also, some time afterwards, come to the place where you’ll be struck down and he, with great gladness, will avenge your death.” Dearest Simplicius, because of that prophecy I’d willingly share with you the heart in my body. Part of the prophecy has already come true, of course; when you’d shot me in the head like the bold soldier you are and robbed me of my sword (no one had done that before, though I say it myself), I gave you the opportunity of sparing my life. I was underneath, remember, drowning in a pool of blood. So the rest of the story is bound to play out as foretold. Which means, beloved brother, that your action proves that you’re my trusted buddy. Otherwise, why would you burden yourself with avenging my death? It’s as simple as that. Now, tell me what you plan to do next.’ I thought, ‘Yeah, yeah, say no more. You place your faith in the devil if you like; just don’t expect me to! If I take your money and continue on my way, you’ll ambush me. If I stay with you, I risk sharing your ghastly punishment.’ So I decided to trick him: I’d make him think I was staying – but inwardly mean: ‘until such time as I can give you the slip’. My reply, then, was: if it was all the same to him, I’d hang around for a few days to see if I could get used to the life. If I did, he’d not only have a trusted buddy at his side; he’d also have the services of a bold soldier. If I didn’t, we’d part. And we proceeded to drink to that. However, I took care to pretend I was getting drunker than I was. I was keen to find out whether he’d have a go at me when I was no longer in a fit state to defend myself.

  Meanwhile my fleas (of which I’d imported quite a quantity from Breisach) were giving me gyp. In the warmth of the cottage, not content with huddling in my clothes, they ventured out on jolly strolls. Noticing this, Olivier asked if I had lice. ‘I do, yes,’ I said, ‘– more than I expect to have ducats in my lifetime.’ ‘Don’t say that,’ Olivier countered. ‘Stay with me and you’ll trouser more ducats than you have lice as we speak.’ I answered, ‘That’s about as likely as my being able to get rid of the beasts.’ ‘Oh, but you’re wrong!’ he said. ‘You can do both!’ And he immediately ordered the peasant to fetch me an outfit he’d stashed in a hollow tree nearby. This consisted of a grey hat, an elkskin waistcoat, a pair of scarlet leggings and a grey jacket. Shoes and socks he’d get me in the morning, he said. As good deeds go, it certainly made me trust him more than before, and I went off to bed happy.

  Seventeen

  Simplicius’s thoughts are more pious as he embarks on crime than Olivier’s are in church

  Next morning, towards sunrise, Olivier roused me, saying, ‘Stir your stumps, Simplicius! Time we were out there, for God’s sake, seeing if there’s stuff to be had.’ ‘Oh, God,’ I reflected, ‘is it in your name that I’m to go out pillaging? I remember a time, just after I’d buried my hermit, when I was shocked to hear a man tell his friend, “How about it, brother, let’s hit the bottle together, for God’s sake!” To me, it meant sinning doubly: (a) getting sloshed, and (b) doing it in your name. Heavenly father, how I’ve changed! Dear God, what’s to become of me if I don’t change back? Bind, I beg of you, these steps that carry me straight to hell. Take away this need to do penance.’ With such pleas in my heart I followed Olivier into a village in which no living creature yet stirred. We climbed the church tower to spy out the lie of the land. It was up there that he’d hidden the shoes and socks he’d promised me the evening before as well as two loaves of bread, some lumps of boiled dried meat, and a half-full cask of wine – enough to keep him going for a week. As I pulled on my new footwear, he told me how he liked to use this place as a lookout on days when he thought there was a chance of making a good haul. Hence the larder he kept here. He added that he had several such places, all similarly stocked up, in case his prey approached from a different quarter. I had to admire his thinking, while at the same time leaving him in no doubt that to defile so holy a place (one consecrated to the Lord) didn’t look good. ‘What do you mean – “defile”?’ he scoffed. ‘If churches could talk, they’d admit soon enough that the things I get up to on their premises are scarcely worth mentioning in the same breath as the wrongs these walls will have witnessed. Tell me, since this church went up, how many menfolk and how many females do you suppose have entered it on pretence of serving God but in fact to flaunt their new clothes, their fine figures, their great eminence – whatever? One man will attend church looking like a peacock and stand before the altar as if trying to pray the very feet off the saints. Another will stand in a corner sighing like a tax collector in a temple, except all his sighs will be for the sweetheart whose face holds his gaze, she being the reason why he’s there. A third (someone collecting fire-insurance premiums, say) will stand outside or, if the coast is clear, step inside the building. He’ll have come more to show his face to those who owe him interest on arrears than to say his prayers. If he hadn’t known his debtors would be in church, he could have stayed at home, happily poring over his ledgers. Sometimes, when a local authority has an announcement to make, the crier must tour village churches on a Sunday for the purpose, which is why some peas
ants now dread churchgoing more than a poor sinner attending court. Surely you’ll admit: at least some of the folk buried in church actually deserved to die under the sword, on the gallows, at the stake, or by being broken on the wheel? Some would get nowhere with their “bit on the side” without the help of some churchgoing. If a thing needs peddling or hiring out, there are places where a notice will be nailed to the church door. Usurers who lack time during the week to dwell on their evil trade will attend church on Sunday to dream up new ways of swindling folk. You’ll see groups of them in the congregation at Mass or during the sermon, discussing how to put the boot in. Church might have been invented for the purpose. Suggestions will be made there that in private would be unthinkable. Some people sit and snooze, almost as if they’d rented the space. Others, not up to mischief themselves, simply buttonhole neighbours: “Notice how neatly reverend weaves so-and-so or such-and-such into his sermon!” they’ll whisper. Others again will note the priest’s words – not with a view to improving their own conduct but to be in a position to haul their spiritual adviser over the coals if (as they see it) he fails to practise what he preaches. That’s not to mention the tales I’ve read of how adulterous affairs have begun and reached consummation as a result of pimping in churches. But this much you’ll know anyway: not just in their lifetimes do folk defile churches; in their vanity and stupidity they do so even after death. The moment you enter a church you’ll see from the tombstones and epitaphs how folk go on bragging – long after the worms have scoffed their remains. Look up, and you’ll see more shields, helmets, guns, flags, boots, spurs and the like than some armouries contain. Small wonder, then, that in this present war folk in some areas have used churches as fortresses to defend themselves and their possessions. I’m a soldier, right, so tell me this: why should I be forbidden to practise my trade in church? Once, purely over a matter of precedence, two holy fathers caused such a massacre in a church that the place looked more like a slaughterhouse than a house of God. As a non-believer myself, I’d of course stay away – particularly if there was a service on. But these were ecclesiastical dignitaries, and even they had no respect for the majesty of the Emperor of Rome. So I repeat: why shouldn’t I enlist the Church’s help in storing my bit of food, when so many others live in clover at the Church’s expense? If it’s all right for rich folk to be buried on church premises in return for a wad of cash (incidentally, demonstrating the arrogance of their kin), why is your poor man (also a Christian, quite possibly a more pious one, but with empty pockets) – why does he get shovelled into the earth in a corner of the graveyard outside? It all depends on your point of view, doesn’t it? If I’d known you felt queasy about using a church as a lookout post, I’d have been careful to answer you differently. As it is, think about what I’ve said. That’ll give me time to think of other arguments to convince you.’

  I nearly told Olivier that all such wretched folk were treating churches with disrespect. Not unlike him, in fact. They’d have their comeuppance in the end. However, I didn’t trust him anyway, and I certainly didn’t want to pick another fight with him. So I went along with what he said. He then asked me to tell him what I’d been up to before Wittstock, which was when we’d lost touch. Why had I been wearing a fool’s costume, for instance, when I entered that camp outside Magdeburg? I had a bit of a sore throat and didn’t feel in the mood, so I begged to be excused. Would he mind going first, I said, and telling his own life story, which promised to contain some amusing episodes? He agreed and began to recount some of the things he’d done in his rascally existence. This is what he said.

  Eighteen

  Olivier’s story: his background, where he grew up, but mainly his conduct in school

  ‘My father,’ Olivier began, ‘was born near the city of Aachen. He came of humble folk, so was placed in service when young with a wealthy merchant who dealt in copper. There he made himself so useful that the merchant had him taught the three Rs and put him in charge of his business affairs, as Potiphar did Joseph. This benefited both in that the merchant, as a result of my father’s zeal and prudence, became ever wealthier while my father, as time went on, grew prouder and prouder – to the point where he felt ashamed of his parents and looked down on them, of which they often complained, though it got them nowhere. With my father now in his twenty-sixth year the merchant died, leaving behind an elderly widow and their only daughter. She had recently stepped out of line, allowing a young buck to father a child on her. The child soon followed its grandfather to the grave, whereupon my father, seeing the daughter now fatherless and childless but by no means penniless, showed himself not averse to accepting damaged goods. Taking one look at the daughter’s money, he promptly came cap in hand. The mother was in favour, not just because this would restore her daughter’s reputation but because my father, as well as knowing all about the business, was particularly handy with the “Jew-skewer” (drove a hard bargain, in other words). The marriage catapulted my father into the position of being a wealthy merchant himself, and I, as his eldest son, grew up in clover. I dressed like a gentleman, ate like a lord, and lived like a king, owing all of it more to copper and zinc ore than to silver and gold.

  ‘By the time I was eight it was clear how I’d turn out. You know what they say: tomorrow’s nettle stings today. No prank was beneath me. If there was mischief to be made, I made it. And neither my father nor my mother ever disciplined me. I had the run of the streets with young scoundrels just like me, and I wasn’t afraid to take on lads that were stronger. If I was thrashed, my parents said, “What – a great lout like that, mixing it with a kid?” If I won (by scratching, perhaps, or biting or throwing stones), they’d say, “Our little Olivier will be a bold’n when he’s bigger!” That pumped me up. I was too young to say my prayers, but if I swore like a carter, it was: “He’s too young to know what he’s saying.” I grew worse and worse until I was sent off to school. There, what other rascals dreamt up in their wickedness but weren’t allowed to carry out, I actually did. If I soiled or ripped my books, my mother bought me new ones in case my (rather tight-fisted) father got cross. I teased the teacher no end, but he didn’t dare treat me harshly. The fact was, my parents quite unreasonably adored me and showered the beak with gifts. In summer I caught field crickets and smuggled them into the classroom, where they delighted us boys with song. In winter I stole hellebore and scattered the powder in the place where felons were usually thrashed. When a particularly stubborn offender put up resistance, my powder went all over the place and gave great entertainment by making everyone sneeze. Later on, I felt a cut above such common tricks and set my sights higher, often nicking things and hiding them in someone else’s schoolbag – someone I wanted to get into trouble. I got so good at this, operated so carefully, that I was hardly ever caught. Of the wars we waged at that time (in which I was usually the commanding officer) and of the blows I took (my face was always scratched and my skull permanently bruised) I’d rather not speak. We all know what boys get up to. But from what I’ve just said, you can imagine how I spent my youth.’

  Nineteen