My Life and My Efforts
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Title: My Life and My Efforts
Author: Karl May
Translator: Gunther Olesch
Release date: August 1, 2001 [eBook #2780]
Most recently updated: October 13, 2024
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/2780
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MY LIFE AND MY EFFORTS ***
My Life and My Efforts, Volume I
[Mein Leben und Streben, Band I]
Autobiography by Karl May (1842-1912)
Translated by Gunther Olesch in 2000 from the 1st edition of 1910
------------------------------------------------------------------
Translator's Introduction
Karl May, born in 1842 under the name Carl Friedrich May,
published the first volume of his autobiography in November of
1910. He never found the time to write the planned second volume
or any of the other future works he is referring to in this book
before he died in 1912.
Rudolf Lebius felt insulted by what Karl May had to say about him
in his autobiography, and, less than one month after the sale of
this book had started, Lebius succeeded in obtaining an injunction
against it, so that it had to be taken out of the shops, and all
remaining copies had to be destroyed. Rudolf Lebius is portrayed
by Karl May as a villain of the worst kind, a man who changes his
political loyalties for money and specialises in blackmailing
people, after digging up dirt from their past, in order to control
and use them and, most of all, in order to extort money. It is a
fact that Lebius had been asking Karl May to "loan" him money, and
when Karl May refused to pay, Lebius started publishing ever more
aggressive articles against May in a newspaper he owned, full of
exaggerated and partially false accusations. Lebius had been
working for several newspapers with different political
backgrounds before joining the social democratic party and writing
for their newspapers. After founding his own newspaper, he left
the party and changed his political views into the very opposite.
Lebius then focused on anti-Semitic propaganda, and, after the
first world war, he even led an anti-Semitic party for a few
years. He died in 1946.
Thus, the first edition of Karl May's autobiography could only
reach a few hundred people, probably mostly among German speaking
readers outside of Germany, e.g. in Austria, where the injunction
of the German court did not apply. About three month prior to
his death, Karl May wrote to his publisher: "Concerning `My Life
and My Efforts' I am willing to do your bidding. I will tackle
it." Whether Karl May rewrote some parts of his autobiography, is
uncertain, but very soon after his death, his publisher announced
that an abridged version would soon be available. Four month
after Karl May's death, this abridged version was published. It
did not just omit the passages about Rudolf Lebius, but much more,
and it even added texts taken from other autobiographical writings
by Karl May. This adaptation is credited to Karl May's widow and
E.A. Schmid (1884-1951). Little more than a month had passed
before someone else, the lawyer Oskar Gerlach, felt insulted by
this version and obtained an injunction against its publication.
The publisher reacted by printing new, mostly blank, versions of
those two pages Gerlach had objected against, instructing
booksellers to rip out the offending pages and to glue the new
ones in. In December of 1912, the lawsuit was settled, and the
remaining copies of the adaptation could be sold with all of its
pages, but a new edition would have to be changed. This third,
further abridged edition was published in 1914 by E.A. Schmid. In
early 1917, a 34th volume was added to the series of Karl May's
collected works, of which 33 volumes had been published in the
author's lifetime. This 34th volume is titled "Ich" <I>. It
contains another abridged version of the autobiography as well as
a few other texts, mostly about, but not by, Karl May. By 1995,
this book had gone through 39 editions, in which the text of the
autobiography had again been revised several times, though the
later revisions aimed at a partial restoration of the original
text. The compilation of other texts contained in this volume
also differs in the various editions. Even the edition of 1995
still omits a large passage (at least 36 pages in the first
edition) about Rudolf Lebius. It also moves two passages which
had been omitted from the seventh chapter in previous editions to
an appendix. In the first one of these passages, Karl May writes
about his views on plagiarism.
Though, Karl May insists on being truthful in this book, one
should not approach it without scepticism. It is particularly
hard to believe that all of his repeated deceptions, assuring his
readers that his fictional adventure stories were based on fact,
were all just designed to set the scene for some great work, he
was all the time planning to write at some later point in his
life. Probably, his mind just sought a way to escape his
unpleasant past and his present problems with his failing marriage
to his first wife by retreating into the fictional persona of the
protagonist of his novels.
Furthermore, there are many details where May's memory might have
proven slightly unreliable or which he might intentionally or
subconsciously try to conceal. For instance, his description of
the events due to which he was thrown out of the boarding school
completely contradicts the version found in the school's files.
He writes that before Christmas he had to clean the candlesticks
and kept the tallow he scratched off of them, to make small
candles from it, to be used as Christmas decorations. He was
watched by a fellow student, who reported this theft of what Karl
May regarded as garbage to the principal. According to the
school's files, it happened like this: In November, Karl May had
to clean the candlesticks and to replace the burnt down candles.
Two weeks later, two older students found six complete candles in
his unlocked suitcase. They turned them over to the student who
was in charge of the candles for that week, but agreed not to tell
the teachers. Shortly before Christmas, accusations are made
that, at two occasions, money had been stolen. The students who
had found the candles came forward and were reprimanded by the
teachers for having covered the matter up before. The question of
the stolen money was never resolved.
Also, everything Karl May tells us about the life of his father's
mother before he was even born is very questionable. It would
seem that this grandmother was not just a gifted stroy-teller, but
might also have invented a more romantic past for herself, which
she then passed off as the truth to her family, just as Karl May
later also pretended that his fictional novels were true. Karl
May writes that this grandmother lost her mother at an early age.
She fell in love with his grandfather, but felt obliged to devote
all of her energy to taking care of her ailing father. Thus, she
kept her faithful lover waiting until her father had died. After
giving birth to two children, she lost her husband in a tragic and
rather dramatic accident at Christmas. After some hard times, she
found a job as a housekeeper, had a near-death experience, lost
her job, and married a poor weaver by the name of Vogel, who also
died shorty afterwards. Some aspects of this story plainly
contradict the few facts from her life which could be pieced
together from old church documents. These facts are: On May the
1st, 1803, she married C.F. May, while both of her parents were
still alive. Five months later, their daughter was born. In
1810, her son Heinrich, Karl May's father, was born. The records
of his baptism state that Heinrich's father was not his mother's
husband. He was baptised under his mother's maiden name. On
February the 4th, 1818, C.F. May died due to a "disorderly way of
life" (whatever this is supposed to mean). In 1820, the mother of
Karl May's grandmother died. In 1822, she married C.T. Vogel. In
1825, her father died. In 1826, C.T. Vogel died. Later in the
same year, a church document lists her son Heinrich with the
surname May.
There are indications that Karl May was not just aware of the fact
that some things he wrote about his grandmother were not literally
true, but that he had also invented some of it himself. The most
striking indication of this is an old book of oriental myths,
entitled "Der Hakawati", which May claims had belonged to his
grandmother. He claims that the fable of Sitara, which he tells
us in the beginning of his autobiography, had been contained in
this book. It seems that neither such a book nor the author
Christianus Kretzschmann ever existed. The author's name is
strangely similar to May's grandmother's maiden name J. Christiane
Kretzschmar. The fable of Sitara seems to be Karl May's own
creation. In the end of the fifth chapter, he mentions another
book, which he claims he had received from a man who had a great
impact on his life while he was in prison. This book also never
really existed. Apparently, these books are only meant to serve
as symbols for abstract concepts and ideas which he got to know
through the persons concerned. Thus, not just Karl May's novels,
but also his autobiography, would have to be interpreted in a
somewhat allegorical way, not necessarily representing literally
true facts, but rather symbolising a spiritual truth.
Karl May's grandmother is of particular interest, because he
writes that she had inspired the character of the princess Marah
Durimeh, whom May regarded as the female counterpart in the Orient
to the Indian chief Winnetou in America. Winnetou is the title
character of Karl May's most famous novel and also appears in
several others of his books. But Karl May never wrote the planned
novel about Marah Durimeh, which he had intended to cover three or
four volumes, just like "Winnetou". Thus, Marah Durimeh only
plays a comparatively smaller role in his existing novels and we
can only guess how he planned to develop this character into the
central character of his later, unwritten works.
Though the fifth chapter, relating the darkest part of Karl May's
life, is the longest in the book, it still skips many things,
which the author obviously does not want to remember. Thus, the
question which crimes he had actually committed remains largely
unanswered. He also does not tell us anything about the journeys
he claims to have taken in those days, promising to disclose this
in the second volume, which he never wrote. The rumours he
fostered that he had already in this early part of his life
travelled to the Orient and to America are definitely not true;
he probably never left Germany at this time. Only in his later
years, he took a long trip to the Orient and Asia (1899-1900) and
a trip to America (1908).
As far as the lawsuits and the events which led up to them are
concerned, Karl May, of course, cannot be expected to relate them
in an objective manner. After he had resigned his job at H.G.
Münchmeyer's publishing company in 1877, he wrote for other
publishers and got married in 1880. From 1882 on, we find him
working for Münchmeyer again, writing those novels which were to
become the reason for his first lawsuit. According to Karl May,
Münchmeyer was on the verge of bankruptcy and begged May to save
him with his gift for writing bestselling novels. But the truth
might have been rather different. Karl May admits himself that
the other publisher, he had mainly been working for, did not pay
him much: "The royalties I received from Pustet were (...) so
insignificant that I cannot bring myself to naming the amount."
Having to support a wife, one can easily imagine that May was the
one who was in need of some cash. Furthermore, I have read
elsewhere that Münchmeyer had payed May an advance of 500 marks, a
fact which May fails to mention in his autobiography.
And then there are Karl May's allegations that Münchmeyer, or
rather one of employees, had spiced up those novels with indecent
passages. Though it is likely that some abridgment had taken
place, the claim that those novels were completely rewritten from
morally impeccable stories into immoral trash are surely an
exaggeration. For almost twenty years after their original
publication, nobody seemed to be offended by these so-called
"indecent novels". Only after Münchmeyer's widow had sold the
rights to these novels, which she did not even own, and was
therefore sued by Karl May, articles started appearing in the
newspapers denouncing theses novels as highly immoral. These
articles were not just designed to destroy Karl May's reputation
and thereby ruin his chances in the pending lawsuits, they also
increased the demand for the illegally printed copies of these
novels. Perhaps, Karl May saw no other way to escape this trap
than to pretend that his novels had been altered, and perhaps, his
memory of them had also changed, regarding them as closer to his
later works than they really were. At any rate, a proof, one way
or the other, would be impossible. The original manuscripts had
been destroyed, and those who allegedly rewrote these novels were
already dead when the lawsuit started.
After Karl May's death, E.A. Schmid obtained the rights to all of
his works. He believed in the myth that Karl May's novels had
been thoroughly rewritten without the author's consent and made
sure that the original versions were no longer published. He then
created what he regarded as "improved" versions of all of Karl
May's works. Especially the disputed novels, originally published
by Münchmeyer, were rewritten rather dramatically; large parts of
the plot were removed and new solutions to certain mysteries were
invented; characters from Karl May's more popular novels were
added; etc. Generations of readers have known Karl May only
through Schmid's adaptations. After Karl May's works had entered
the public domain, a few editions presenting the original texts
have been published, but the vast majority of all books sold in
Germany under the name of Karl May still contains the adaptations
by Schmid et al.
I have read that Karl May was the most frequently translated
German author of all times, but unfortunately this does not apply
to the English language. Though even the Encyclopaedia Britannica
describes him as "one of the world's all-time fiction
best-sellers", he is virtually unknown by most English speaking
readers. The earliest English translation of one of his works
came in 1886, probably in the form of a weekly series of booklets
under the title "Rosita" (a translation of "Das Waldröschen", the
first one of those disputed novels Karl May had written for
H.G. Münchmeyer under a pseudonym). I suppose, these booklets
were just as quickly discarded and forgotten as they were printed.
In 1898, two books entitled "Winnetou, the Apache knight" and "The
Treasure of Nugget Mountain" were published, containing a severely
abridged and altered translation by Marion Ames Taggart of Karl
May's most famous novel "Winnetou". Among other things, the main
character is changed from a German, implicitly a Protestant, into
an American, whom the translator has named Jack Hildreth and who
keeps on emphasising that he was a Catholic. In one place, the
translator has even added a line in which the hero is made to
point out that the religion of the murderer Rattler was not his
own, but that of a non-Catholic, when Winnetou suggests to him
that he had the same religion as the murderer. In the original
book, the hero simply answers "Yes" and then goes on to explain,
as he also does in the translation, that the murderer did not keep
the commandments. These liberties of the translation are
particular serious since Karl May often had to defend himself
against allegations of promoting Catholicism, though being a
Protestant, just because he published many of his stories in a
Catholic magazine. In 1900, the series of translations by M.A.
Taggart was continued with "Jack Hildreth on the Nile", based on
Karl May's "Der Mahdi" a.k.a. "Im Lande des Mahdi". You can find
these three books on the Internet at:
http://karlmay.uni-bielefeld.de/kmg/sprachen/englisch/primlit/index.htm
In 1955, a translation of the beginning of Karl May's big oriental
adventure by M.A. de Becker and C.A. Willoughby has been published
under the title "In the Desert". I have neither read this, nor
any other later translations, but I have read about this
translation that it had a tendency to simplify, shorten, and
paraphrase the text. It is also peculiar that someone would only
translate the first volume of a novel in six volumes. Thus, the
reader would witness the hero finding the body of Paul Galingré in
the desert and starting on his pursuit of the killers, but he
would never solve the mystery and discover the criminal mastermind
behind all of it in the end of the last volume. In 1971, two
volumes of short stories entitled "Canada Bill" and "Captain
Cayman", translated by Fred Gardner, have been published in
London. These sold only about 3000 copies each. In 1977, a
series of translations by Michael Shaw was published. It included
"Ardistan and Djinnistan" (2 volumes), "Winnetou" (2 volumes), and
"In the Desert" (1 volume). These translations have been
described as faithful to the original. In 1979, the series was
continued with 4 books, entitled "The Caravan of Death", "The
Secret Brotherhood", "The Evil Saint", and "The Black Persian",
continuing the oriental adventure which had started with "In the
Desert". Only between 3000 and 4500 copies were sold per volume.
In 1980, some of these books were reprinted as pocketbooks, but
less than half of the printed books were actually sold, which put
an end to all plans for further English translations. (By the
way, the German original of "Winnetou" had sold about three
million copies in the edition as volumes 7 to 9 of "Karl May's
collected works" alone, when I bought it many years ago.) In
1998, there seems to have been a new edition of Michael Shaw's
translation of "Winnetou", and in 1999, David Koblick published
his abridged translation of the first volume of "Winnetou".
In this first (and only) volume of his autobiography, Karl May
describes his life until about 1887/88 and then turns to the
current events of 1910, when he had to defend himself against
various slanderous accusations, touching only upon those events
from the meantime which are somehow connected with these lawsuits.
In the time from 1887 to 1899, he wrote most of those novels which
have been the foundation of his lasting popularity. In 1899/1900,
he went on his long journey through the Orient and, in 1908, he
visited America. In the unwritten second volume of his
autobiography, Karl May had planned to discuss those novels and
his travels in detail. Here, I only want to give a short list of
his work and a few events in his life after 1887:
1887: Karl May publishes "Der Sohn des Bärenjägers" <The Son of
the Bear-Hunter> in a magazine for boys, published by Wilhelm
Spemann. In the course of the following years, he off and on
publishes several stories there, which are later collected in
seven books. This gets him the reputation of being mainly an
author for children, against which he vigorously protests in this
autobiography. Nevertheless, these stories, mainly set in the
Wild West, still rank among his most popular works.
1888: May finishes his big oriental adventure novel, which he had
already started publishing in a magazine called "Deutscher
Hausschatz" in 1881. For eight years (with interruptions), the
readers of this magazine had been able, to follow the adventures
of the first person narrator, whom many readers identified with
the author, regarding the imaginative story as a factual account.
On September the 6th, Karl May's father dies.
In early October, he moves from Dresden to one of its suburbs,
called Kötzschenbroda.
1889: Karl May meets Richard Plöhn and his wife Klara. They
become his closest friends.
In October, the "Hausschatz" starts publishing Karl May's novel
"El Sendador".
1890: Karl May can no longer afford to pay the rent on his large
house in Kötzschenbroda. He moves to Niederlößnitz.
1891: Karl May moves to Oberlößnitz.
In October, the magazine's publication of "El Sendador" ends, and
"Der Mahdi" starts.
F.E. Fehsenfeld becomes May's publisher. This marks the beginning
of a series of 33 books, called "gesammelte Reiseerzählungen"
<collected traveller's tales>, which are regarded as his most
important works.
1892: On April the 6th, H.G. Münchmeyer dies.
The first six volumes of the "collected traveller's tales",
containing the big oriental adventure, are published, with one
additional chapter in the end of the sixth volume, which was
previously unpublished.
1893: Karl May and his wife take a trip to the Black Forest.
Afterwards, they visit F.E. Fehsenfeld and his wife, and together
they travel to Switzerland. The trip only worsens the
deteriorating relationship of Karl and Emma May.
"Winnetou", Karl May's most famous novel, is published as volumes
7 to 9 of his "collected traveller's tales". While the first one
of these three volumes was written entirely from scratch by Karl
May, only reusing very few ideas from earlier stories, volumes two
and three mainly recycle material, which he had previously
published as individual stories.
Volumes 10 and 11, published by Fehsenfeld, present collections of
earlier stories with a few new passages to tie them together.
In September, the publication of "Der Mahdi" in the "Hausschatz"
ends and "Satan und Ischariot" starts (though this title is not
used by the magazine).
1894: Karl May's health is suffering. Together with his wife, he
visits a health resort in the Harz Mountains.
"El Sendador" is published as volumes 12 and 13 of Karl May's
"traveller's tales", with only minor changes, but under new
titles. Volume 14 contains the first volume of a new western
novel, entitled "Old Surehand".
Karl May rejects an offer by Pauline Münchmeyer, the widow of H.G.
Münchmeyer, to write a new novel for her.
1895: Volume 15 is published as the second volume of "Old
Surehand", but it does not really continue the story of the first
volume, but rather interrupts it with a series of flashbacks to
earlier stories, in which the title character does not even occur.
In editions published after Karl May's death, these stories have
been removed, so that "Old Surehand" no longer covers three, but
only two volumes. Most of the contents of the original second
volume was then adapted into an additional volume entitled
"Kapitän Kaiman".
[The English translations published in 1971 under the titles
"Canada Bill" and "Captain Cayman" are based on these stories
which Karl May originally incorporated into the second volume of
"Old Surehand".]
Karl May is visited by Ferdinand Pfefferkorn and his wife. Karl
May had gone to school with Pfefferkorn, who had since then
emigrated to Lawrence, Massachusetts. The Pfefferkorns conduct
spiritualistic séances with the Mays and probably also the Plöhns.
On December the 30th, Karl May buys a house in Radebeul, which he
names "Villa Shatterhand" after his alter-ego "Old Shatterhand"
from his western novels. Here, he spends the rest of his life.
Nowadays, the house continues to be preserved as a museum.
1896: Karl May further fosters the myth that his fictional
adventures were based on facts by commissioning a gunsmith to make
three customised rifles for him, which he then passes off as the
"actual" weapons used by the two main characters from his novel
"Winnetou". He also has himself photographed, dressed in
appropriate costumes, as the main character from his adventure
stories.
"Der Mahdi" is published under the title "Im Lande des Mahdi" <In
the Land of the Mahdi> as volumes 16 to 18 of Karl May's
"collected traveller's tales". Originally the story consisted of
two parts, which were both too large to fit into one volume each.
Karl May shortened the first part and extended the second part to
fill two volumes. Thus, most of the third volume presents new
material, not included in the magazine's version. Volume 19
contains the third volume of "Old Surehand", not published before
and finishing the story which had begun in the first volume.
1897: "Satan und Ischariot" is published as volumes 20 to 22 of
the "traveller's tales". In adapting the novel for this edition
(in the year before), Karl May had realised that Heinrich Keiter,
the editor of the "Hausschatz" magazine, had almost entirely
removed a rather long chapter from the novel. May demanded that
his original manuscript should be returned to him, but only those
pages of the lost chapter which had been ignored in their
entirety, as well as most of the last third of the novel, had
survived. But still, in spite of all this, he did not completely
restore the novel for the edition published by Fehsenfeld.
Instead, on about six printed pages, he only gives a summary of
the lost chapter, which otherwise would have covered approximately
200 pages. After Keiter's promise that this would never happen
again, Karl May writes the beginning of "Im Reiche des silbernen
Löwen" <In the Empire of the Silver Lion> for the magazine, but
discontinues his work on account of a new controversy. For the
next ten years, Karl May publishes no further novels in this
magazine.
Karl May and his wife travel through a large part of Germany,
Austria, and Bohemia.
Volume 23 of the "collected traveller's tales" presents a
collection of earlier short stories, and volume 24 contains a new
novel, called "Weihnacht!" <Christmas!>.
1898: On August the 30th, Heinrich Keiter dies.
"Im Reiche des silbernen Löwen" is published as volumes 26 and 27
of the "traveller's tales" with an additional chapter, not
published before.
1899: "Am Jenseits" <Near the Afterlife> is published as Karl
May's 25th volume for Fehsenfeld.
On March the 26th, Karl May embarks on his big trip to the Orient.
In Egypt, the news of the planned illegal printing by Adalbert
Fischer of his earlier novels reaches him. He protests and
threatens to sue. Furthermore, he has to find out that a smear
campaign has been started in several German newspapers against him
and his work, while he has been travelling abroad.
1900: May is joined on his journey by his wife Emma, his friend
Richard Plöhn, and his wife Klara. He returns home on July the
31th.
Karl May publishes a book of poetry, entitled "Himmelsgedanken"
<Thoughts of Heaven>.
1901: On February the 14th, Karl May's friend Richard Plöhn dies.
May writes his pacifist novel "Et in terra pax", but has to
interrupt it, since it violates the not so peaceful intentions of
the publisher Joseph Kürschner.
The illegal publication of his earlier novels starts, causing
those lawsuits, which were to drag on until long after Karl May's
death.
1902: Karl May publishes a third volume of "Im Reiche des
silbernen Löwen" as the 28th volume of his "traveller's tales",
but this is no longer a plain adventure novel like the first two
volumes, but rather an allegorical novel with many hidden,
autobiographical references.
On September the 10th, Karl May files for divorce.
1903: On March the 4th, the divorce is final.
On March the 30th, he marries Klara, the widow of Richard Plöhn.
The fourth volume of "Im Reiche des silbernen Löwen" is published
as the 29th volume of the "traveller's tales".
1904: The lawsuits against Rudolf Lebius start.
The painter Sascha Schneider, a close personal friend of Karl May,
creates new cover illustrations for his novels, which reflect the
metaphorical interpretation which Karl May now gives to all of his
work.
Karl May completes "Et in terra pax" and publishes it as volume 30
of his "collected traveller's tales" under the German title "Und
Friede auf Erden" <And Peace on Earth>, upon a suggestion by his
publisher.
1905: Karl May meets Bertha von Suttner, who won the Nobel Peace
Prize that year.
1906: Karl May publishes his drama "Babel und Bibel". It is
generally rejected by the critics and has, to my knowledge, never
been performed on stage.
1907: On January the 9th, Karl May wins his lawsuit against
Adalbert Fischer and Pauline Münchmeyer.
On April the 7th, Adalbert Fischer dies.
Karl May reconciles his differences with the "Hausschatz" magazine
and publishes in it his novel "Der Mir von Dschinnistan".
1908: On September the 5th, Karl and Klara May embark on their
journey to America. They visit New York, Albany, Buffalo, and the
Niagara Falls. In Lawrence, Massachusetts, Karl May meets his old
friend Pfefferkorn, who had emigrated to America. On October the
18th, he makes a speech on mankind's big questions: "Who are we?
Where do we come from? Where do we go to?" Probably in early
November, he returns home, to depart again for London by the end
of this month, spending about one week in England.
In early December, Karl May and his wife return home.
1909: The magazine's publication of "Der Mir von Dschinnistan"
ends. Under the new title "Ardistan und Dschinnistan", this novel
becomes volumes 31 and 32 of his "collected traveller's tales".
Karl May adds an fourth volume to his Winnetou trilogy, written in
his new, allegorical style. It is published in an supplement to a
newspaper called "Augsburger Volkszeitung".
1910: The fourth volume of Winnetou is included into his
"traveller's tales" as its 33rd and last volume.
Karl May publishes his autobiography.
1911: Karl May's health is getting worse. From May to July, he
spends time in several health resorts in Austria and Italy.
On December the 18th, Karl May wins his lawsuit against Rudolf
Lebius.
In the end of the year, May suffers from a severe case of
pneumonia.
1912: Against doctor's orders, Karl May accepts an invitation to
speak before the academy for literature and music in Vienna. On
March the 20th, he arrives in Vienna, and in an interview with a
newspaper reporter, he says: "What I have created up to now, I
regard as preliminary studies, as études. I have, in a manner of
speaking, tested my audience. Only now, I want to approach the
actual work of my life."
On March the 22th, he speaks before an enthusiastic audience of
about 2000 people.
On March the 30th, back at home in Radebeul, he dies.
About my translation:
This translation is based on the first edition of 1910.
That one footnote from the original text is marked with a [1].
Here and there, I have added some footnotes, to explain things
which do not translate so well into English or some readers might
not be familiar with. These additional footnotes are marked with
[a], [b] etc. I admit that there are still a few more expressions
which might require an explanation, but I could not fully resolve
myself.
Names of places and titles of books are often left untranslated,
but when they carry a translatable meaning I have added this in
angle brackets.
------------------------------------------------------------------
My Life and My Efforts
Autobiography by Karl May
Volume I
Original title:
Mein Leben und Streben, Selbstbiographie von Karl May, Band I
[Translated by Gunther Olesch in 2000]
The day this world will cast you from its sight,
Go calmly forth from here and don't lament.
By means like this, it freed you from your plight,
And as it did you wrong, it will repent.
(Karl May "Im Reiche des silbernen Löwen" [a])
[a] A slightly different version of this poem can be found in
"Im Reiche des silbernen Löwen IV" <In the Empire of the
Silver Lion, Volume 4> a.k.a. "Das versteinerte Gebet" <The
Petrified Prayer>. There, the last line would translate
literally as "and therefore it has to bear all of your
guilt", whereas here a more literal translation would be "and
it now has to bear its guilt (from its offence) against you
by itself".
Contents
I. The Fable of Sitara
II. My Childhood
III. No Boyhood
IV. My Time at the Seminary and as a Teacher
V. In the Abyss
VI. Working for the Colportage
VII. My Literary Work
VIII. My Lawsuits
IX. Conclusion
I. The Fable of Sitara
If someone should go in a straight line from the earth to the sun
within three months and proceed beyond the sun for another three
months into the same direction, he would reach a star named
Sitara. Sitara is a Persarabian word, meaning nothing more than
"star".
This star has much, very much, in common with our earth. Its
diameter is 1700 miles [a] and its equator 5400 miles long. It
revolves around itself and simultaneously also around the sun.
One movement around itself takes precisely one day, the movement
around the sun takes just as precisely one year, not a second more
or less. Its surface consists of one part land and two parts
water. But, while there are five continents to be found on earth,
the land of Sitara is arranged in a different, much simpler
manner. It is all connected. It does not form several
continents, but just a single one, which consists of the lowland,
full of morasses, and the highland, boldly towering up towards the
sun. Both are connected by a rather small, steeply ascending
strip of jungle. The lowland is a plain. It is unhealthy, rich
in poisonous plants and savage beasts, and at the mercy of all the
tempests, raging from sea to sea. It is called Ardistan. Ard
means earth, soil, a base substance, and figuratively it means the
pleasure of mindless existence in filth and dust, the
inconsiderate amassing of material possessions, the cruel,
destructive fight against everything that does not belong to one's
own self, or is not willing to serve it. Thus, Ardistan is the
home of the low, selfish ways of life, and in respect to its more
evolved inhabitants, the land where _persons_of_violence_and_
_egotism_ live. The highland, on the other hand, is lofty,
healthy, eternally young and beautiful, kissed by sunbeams, rich
in natural gifts as well as the products of human efforts, a
garden of Eden, a paradise. It is called Jinnistan. Jinni means
spirit, beneficent ghost, bliss-bringing, unearthly creature, and
figuratively it means the inborn yearning for higher goals, the
pleasure in mental and spiritual progress, the busy striving for
everything which is good and noble, and most of all the joy in
promoting one's neighbours' happiness, the well-being of all those
who require love and assistance. Thus, Jinnistan is the realm of
humanity and neighbourly love, stretching upwards like the
mountains, the once promised land of the _nobly_spirited_people_.
[a] This refers to the now outdated old German geographic mile,
which had a length of 4.6126 statute miles. Thus, Sitara has
precisely the same size as Earth.
Down below, Ardistan is ruled by a line of vile thinking, selfish
tyrants, whose most supreme law reads mercilessly short: "YOU
SHALL BE YOUR NEIGHBOUR'S DEVIL, SO THAT YOU SHALL BECOME YOUR OWN
ANGEL!" And high above, Jinnistan was ruled for countless ages by
a dynasty of generous, genuinely royal-minded regents, whose most
supreme law reads delightfully short: "YOU SHALL BE YOUR
NEIGHBOUR'S ANGEL, SO THAT YOU SHALL NOT BECOME YOUR OWN DEVIL!"
And for as long as this Jinnistan, this land of the nobly spirited
people, exists, every citizen had been required to be secretly,
without exposing him- or herself, the guardian angel of one other
person. So, there is happiness and sunshine for Jinnistan, but in
Ardistan, there is just a deep spiritual darkness and the
forbidden, and therefore secret, lamentation for liberation from
this hell! No wonder that down there, in the lowland, an ever
growing desire for the highland developed! No wonder, that the
more evolved ones of the souls there sought to free themselves
from the darkness and sought redemption! Millions and millions
enjoy life in the morasses of Ardistan. They have grown used to
the miasmas. They do not want to have it any other way. They
would not be able to exist in the clean air of Jinnistan. These
are by no means just the poorest and lowest, but even more so the
richest and most distinguished inhabitants of the land: the
pharisees, who need sinners in order to appear righteous, the
prosperous, who require poor people for contrast, the lazy ones,
who must have workers for their convenience, and most of all the
smart, cunning ones, for whom the stupid, trusting, honest ones
are indispensable, to be exploited by them. What would happen to
all those privileged ones, if the others were not to exist any
more? Therefore, everyone is most strictly forbidden, to leave
Ardistan and to escape the pressure of its laws. But the harshest
punishment is inflicted upon him who dares to flee to the land of
neighbourly love and humanity, to Jinnistan. The border is
guarded. He will not get through. He will be apprehended and
brought to the "spirits' furnace", to be tortured and tormented,
until the pain forces him to beg for forgiveness and to return to
the hated oppression.
This is because, between Ardistan and Jinnistan, there is
Maerdistan, that steeply ascending strip of jungle where the
infinitely dangerous and strenuous way up passes through its
labyrinths of trees and rocks. Maerd is a Persian word; it means
"man". Maerdistan is the frontier land, where only "men" may dare
to venture; anybody else would necessarily perish. The most
dangerous part of this almost entirely unknown area is the "forest
of Kulub". Kulub is an Arabian word. It means the plural of
"heart". Thus, the enemies who have to be conquered one by one,
if one would want to escape from Ardistan to Jinnistan, lurk in
the depths of the heart. And in the midst of this forest of
Kulub, that place of torture is to be found, about which I have
written in "Babel and Bible", page 78:
"In Maerdistan, the forest of Kulub,
Lies lonely, hidden well, the spirits' furnace."
"Do spirits forge there?"
"No, but they are forged!
Storms bring them, drag them, here at midnight's time,
When lightnings light the sky, tears pour like floods,
Where hatred comes on them in grim delight,
And envy digs its claws into the flesh.
Remorse will sweat and wail where bellows blow.
The pain is by the block with staring eyes,
A blackened face, the hammer in his hand.
There, now, o sheik, the pliers grab you fast.
They toss you to the blaze; the bellows creak.
The flame flares upwards, far beyond the roof,
And all that you possess and what you are,
The flesh, the mind, the soul, and all the bones,
The sinews, fibres, tendons, flesh and blood,
The thoughts and feelings, everything and all,
Is burnt from you, is tortured and tormented
Up to the whitest blaze - - -"
"Allah, Allah!"
"Don't scream, o sheik! I'm telling you, don't scream!
For screamers are unworthy of this pain,
Are thrown away to be the dross and refuse
And must, at last, be molten down again.
But you would want to be the steel, a blade
That glistens in the paraklet's [a] own fist.
Be quiet, thus!
"He rips you from the fire - -
He casts you on the anvil - - holds you tight.
It clangs and cracks on you in every pore.
The pain will start its work, the smith, the expert.
He spits into his fists, and then he grasps,
Lifts with both hands, the giant hammer up - - -
The blows do strike. Each blow is like a murder,
A murder killing you. You think you're crushed.
Hot scraps spew widely, everywhere around.
Your self gets thinner, smaller, even smaller,
And yet, you must go back into the fire - -
Again - - and yet again, until the smith
Will see the spirit in hell's agony,
Through all the gloom of soot and hammers' blows,
Who smiles at him in calm and grateful joy.
This one is fixed into the vice and ground.
The file does screech, and eats away from you
Whatever still - - -"
"Desist! It is enough!"
"It does go on, for now the drill is used,
It spirals deeply - - -"
"Silence! Oh, for God's sake!"
etc. etc.
[a] parakletos (Greek): a person called to one's aid, especially
to intercede before God, used in John 14-16 for the Holy
Spirit (the King James version translates it as "comforter"
here) and in 1John 2:1 for Jesus Christ (the King James
version translates it as "advocate" here).
So this is how Maerdistan is like, and this is what is going on
inside the "spirits' furnace of Kulub"! Every inhabitant of
Sitara knows the tale which says that the souls of all important
people, who are to be born, are sent down from heaven. Angels and
devils are waiting for them. A soul who is so fortunate to come
across an angel will be born in Jinnistan, and all of its paths
are smoothened. But the poor soul who falls into the hands of a
devil will be dragged to Ardistan by him, and hurled into an even
deeper misery, the higher the task was which the soul had been
given from above. The devil wants it to perish and rests neither
day nor night to turn him, who was destined to be gifted or
ingenious, into a rotten and doomed individual. All resistance
and rebellion is futile; the poor soul is doomed. And even if he
succeeded in escaping from Ardistan, he would still be apprehended
in Maerdistan and dragged to the spirits' furnace, to be tortured
and tormented, until he loses his last bit of courage to resist.
Only rarely, the heavenly strength, given to such a soul hurled to
Ardistan, is thus great and thus inexhaustible that it could bear
even the strongest pain of the spirits' furnace and face the smith
and his fellows "through all the gloom of soot and hammers' blows,
and smile at him in calm and grateful joy." Even the greatest
pain is powerless against such a heavenly child, it is immune; it
is saved. It will not be destroyed by the fire, but rather
purified and fortified. And once all the dross has fallen off,
the smith has to keep his distance, because there is nothing left
that would belong to Ardistan. Therefore, neither man nor devil
can prevent it now, and may all of the lowland burst out in an
roar of rage, from rising up to Jinnistan, where everyone is his
neighbour's angel. - - -
II. My Childhood
I was born in the lowest and deepest part of Ardistan, a favourite
of distress, worry, and sorrow. My father was a poor weaver.
Both of my grandfathers had met with fatal mishaps. My mother's
father died at home, my father's father in the forest. On
Christmas day, he had gone to a neighbouring village, to fetch
some bread. Nightfall came suddenly. In a raging snowstorm he
lost his way and plunged into the ravine of "Krähenholz" <Crows'
Wood>, which used to be rather steep, and could not struggle his
way out again. His tracks were blown away. He was searched for a
long time in vain. Not until the snow had disappeared, his
corpse, and also the bread, was found. Generally, Christmas has
very often been, for myself as well as my family, not so much a
joyous time, but rather a time of tragic misfortune.
I was born on February the 25th, 1842, in the tiny town of
Ernstthal <Earnest Valley> in the Erzgebirge <Ore Mountains> [a],
which was a very poor and small town then, mostly populated by
weavers. Now, it has been incorporated into the slightly larger
Hohenstein <High Rock>. There were nine of us: my father, my
mother, both grandmothers, four sisters, and me, the only boy.
My mother's mother scrubbed floors for other people and span
cotton. On some occasions, she earned more than 25 pfennig per
day. Then, she became generous and gave us five children two
tiny rolls of bread, which only cost four pfennig, because they
were extremely hard and stale, often even moldy. She was a kind,
hard working, silent woman, who never complained. She died, as
one would say, of old age. The real reason for her death was
probably what is nowadays discretely termed as "being underfed".
About my other grandmother, my father's mother, there is more to
tell, but not here, at this point. My mother was a martyr, a
saint, always quiet, infinitely hard working, constantly willing
to make a sacrifice for other, even poorer people in spite of our
own poverty. Never ever, I have heard her speak a bad word. She
was a blessing for everyone she met, and a special blessing for
us, her children. No matter how hard she suffered, she would
never let anyone know about it. But at night, when she sat,
busily knitting, by the light of the small, smoking oil-lamp and
thought no one was watching, it happened that a tear came to her
eye to run down her cheek, vanishing even faster than it had
appeared. With one movement of the fingertips this trace of her
sufferings was instantly wiped away.
[a] Erzgebirge: the mountain range which forms the border of
Saxony with Bohemia.
The name of the town is spelled "Ernsttal" throughout most of
the original book. In 1901, there had been a reform of the
German spelling system, changing "th" into "t" in all words
where it does not transliterate the Greek letter theta. Thus
"Thal" <valley> became "Tal". But this change should not be
applied to names of places and persons.
My father was a man of two souls: One soul of infinite tenderness
and one of tyrannic proportions, knowing no limits in his rage,
incapable to control himself. He possessed outstanding talents,
all of which remained undeveloped on account of our immense
poverty. He had never attended any school, but had learnt through
his own efforts to read fluently and to write very well. He was
naturally handy in all crafts necessary for daily life. Whatever
his eyes saw, his hands could reproduce. Though being just a
weaver, he was nevertheless capable to tailor his own coats and
trousers, and to sole his own boots. He enjoyed whittling and
sculpting, and what he achieved in these field had some appeal and
was not too bad. When I wanted a violin, and he did not have the
money to buy the bow as well, he swiftly made one himself. Its
shape was not so beautifully curved, and it lacked in elegance,
but it was entirely fit for its job. Father liked to busy himself
with his work, but all of his work was always done in a hurry.
What took another weaver fourteen hours, took him only ten. He
then used the other four to do things he enjoyed more. During
those ten hours of immense strain, he was very bad company,
everyone had to keep quiet, no one was allowed to stir. At these
times, we lived in constant fear of arousing his rage. Then, woe
on us! Attached to his loom, there was a threefold woven rope,
which left blue marks on the flesh, and behind the oven, he kept
the well known "birch-wood Hans", whom we children particularly
feared, because father loved to soak it in the large "oven-pot"
before every chastisement, to make it more elastic and therefore
more penetrating. But on the other hand, when the ten hours were
over, we had nothing to fear any more. We all sighed in relief,
and father's other soul smiled at us. He could be downright
endearing then, but even in most joyous and peaceful moments, we
felt like standing on an active volcano, which might errupt at any
given moment. Then we got the rope or the "Hans", until father's
strength wore out. Our oldest sister, a highly gifted, kind,
happy, conscientious girl, was still disciplined by slaps to the
face after she was engaged, because she had come home from a walk
with her fiancé just slightly later than she had been permitted.
Here, I have to interrupt, to interject a serious, more important
remark. I am not writing this book for my opponents' sake, to
respond to them or to defend myself against them. I am rather of
the opinion that the manner in which I am being attacked renders
any kind of response or defence impossible. Nor am I writing this
book for my friends, because they know, understand, and comprehend
me, so that I have no need to inform them about myself. I rather
write it only FOR MY OWN SAKE, to become certain of myself and to
account to myself what I have done up to now and what I am still
planning to do. Thus I write in order to confess. But I am not
confessing to people; after all, they would also never think of
admitting their sins to me, but rather I am confessing to my God
and myself, and whatever these two will say after I have ended,
will bear upon me. Thus, these are not ordinary, but sacred,
hours in which I write these pages. I am not just talking here
for this life, but also for the other life I believe in and I am
yearning for. In making this confession, I put myself into this
entity and existence as which I will persist after death. Thus,
it can be truly, truly irrelevant to me, what my friends or foes
will say about this, my book. I place it in very different hands,
the right hands, the hands of destiny, of omniscient providence,
which knows neither favour nor disfavour, only justice and truth.
Here, nothing can be concealed or embellished. Here, everything
has to be said and admitted honestly as it is, no matter how
unrespectful it may seem or how much it might hurt. Someone had
invented the expression "Karl-May-problem". Well then, I accept
it and let it stand. This problem will not be solved by any of
these people, who have not even read my books or did not
understand them and nevertheless pass judgement upon them. The
Karl-May-problem is mankind's most fundamental problem, transposed
from the huge, all encompassing plural into the singular, into the
single individual. And the same way this problem of mankind is to
be solved, the Karl-May-problem is also to be solved, there is no
other way! Whoever turns out to be incapable of solving the
Karl-May-puzzle in a satisfactory, humane manner, shall for God's
sake keep his feeble hand and inadequate ideas from grasping
beyond his own self and to deal with more difficult questions that
concern all of mankind! The key for all of these puzzles exists
for a long time. The Christian church calls it "original
sin" [a]. To know the forefathers and foremothers is to
understand the children and grandchildren; and only with a humane
attitude, a truly noble spirit, one will be enabled to be truthful
and honest concerning one's ancestors, in order to be able to be
just as truthful and honest concerning the descendants. To bring
the influence of the deceased on later generations to light, is,
on the one hand, a bliss and, on the other hand, a redemption for
both parts. And therefore, I too have to describe my family just
as they have been in reality, whether this might be regarded as
being contrary to child's duty or not. I do not only have to be
truthful concerning them and me, but also concerning all of my
fellow-men. Perhaps someone else could learn from our example to
do the right thing in his own affairs. - -
[a] "Erbsünde": the German expression for "original sin"
suggests rather a meaning of "inherited sin". Actually, the
idea of Adam's original sin being inherited by every human
being at birth is rather common among Catholics and
Protestants (but is rejected by Orthodox Christians). I have
been told that this belief is based on a misinterpretation of
Romans 5:12 by St. Augustine, who interpreted the words for
"sin" and "death" as synonymous in this verse: "as by one
man sin entered into the world, and death by sin; and so
death passed upon all men".
Entirely unexpectedly, mother had inherited a house as well as a
few small, linen money-pouches from a distant relative. One of
these money-pouches contained lots of two-pfennig-pieces, another
one lots of tree-pfennig-pieces, and a third one lots of
groschen [a]. A fourth one contained three score of
fifty-pfennig-pieces, and in the fifth and last pouch, ten old
pieces of six from Schaffhausen, ten eight-groschen-pieces, five
gulden [b], and four taler [c] were found. This was really a
fortune! In our poverty, it seemed almost like a million!
Granted, the house was just as wide as three small windows and
largely built of wood, but on the other hand, it was three storeys
high and had on the very top, right under the ridge of the roof, a
pigeonry, which is, of course, not so commonly found.
Grandmother, my father's mother, moved into the ground floor,
which only consisted of one room with two windows and the
entrance. Behind the room was a chamber with an old mangle, which
was rented to other people at two pfennig per hour. There were
happy Saturdays, when this mangle earned us ten, twelve, yes even
fourteen pfennig. This increased our standard of living quite
extensively. On the first floor, the parents lived with us.
There stood the loom with its reel. On the second floor, we slept
with a colony of mice and some larger rodents, who usually lived
in the pigeonry and only visited us at night. There also was a
cellar, but it was always empty. Once, it held a few bags of
potatoes, but they did not belong to us, but rather to a
neighbour, who did not have his own cellar. Grandmother remarked
that it would be much better, if the cellar belonged to him and
the potatoes to us. The yard was just big enough for us five
children to stand in it without crowding each other. It adjoined
the garden, which contained an elder-bush, an apple-tree, and a
plum-tree, as well as small pond, which we called our "lake". The
elder-bush supplied us with the tea, we drank in order to get into
a sweat, whenever we had caught a cold. But it did not last very
long, because as soon as one of us children had caught a cold, all
others started coughing as well and wanted to sweat along. The
apple-tree always blossomed very beautifully and amply. But since
we knew just too well that apples taste best right after the
blossoms were gone, all apples were usually harvested as early as
the beginning of June. The plums, on the other hand, were taboo
to us. Grandmother enjoyed them far too much. They were counted
daily, and nobody dared to touch them. Nevertheless, we children
got more, much more of them, than what was our rightful share. As
far as the "lake" is concerned, it was full of life, but
unfortunately not with fish, but with frogs. We knew all of them
individually, even by their voices. There were always between ten
and fifteen of them. We fed them with earth-worms, flies,
beetles, and all kinds of other nice things we could not enjoy
ourselves for gastronomic or aesthetic reasons, and they always
responded very gratefully. They knew us. They left the water,
whenever we approached them. Some even allowed us to hold and pet
them. But the full measure of their gratitude could be heard at
night, when we were falling asleep. No dairymaid could enjoy her
zither more, then we enjoyed our frogs. We knew precisely, which
one it was, making his noise, whether it was Arthur, Paul, or
Fritz, and when they even began to sing in a duet or in a chorus,
we jumped out of our beds, opened the windows, to join the
croaking, until mother or grandmother came and put us back where
we belonged. Unfortunately, one day, a so-called
district-physician came to our small town, to conduct a so-called
health-survey. Everywhere, he found something objectionable.
This equally weird and callous man clapped his hands over his
head, as soon as he saw our garden and our beautiful pond, and
declared that his cesspool of pestilence and cholera had to
disappear at once. The next day, the policeman Eberhardt brought
a note from the town's Judge Layritz, stating that within three
days the pond had to be filled in and the population of frogs had
to be killed, otherwise a fine of fifteen "good groschen" [d] had
to be payed. We children were outraged. To murder our frogs!
Well, if Judge Layritz had been a frog, then we would have done it
with pleasure! We discussed the matter, and as we decided, so it
was carried out. The water was scooped from the pond, until we
could catch the frogs. They were put into the large basked, which
had a lid, and carried to the large pond of the coal-pit behind
the rifle-house, grandmother marching ahead, we followed. There,
every frog was individually taken from the basket, lovingly
petted, and put into the water. How many sighs could be heard,
how many tears were shed, and how many condemning judgements were
passed on that so-called district-physician, I can no longer say
with certainty now, after more than sixty years have passed. But
I still know quite definitely that grandmother assured us, to put
an end to our immense sorrow, every one of us would, after
precisely ten years had passed, inherit a three times larger house
with a garden, five times as large, which would contain a ten
times larger lake with twenty times larger frogs. This brought an
equally sudden and pleasant change to our disposition.
Cheerfully, we marched home with grandmother and the empty basket.
[a] Groschen: a coin worth 10 pfennig.
[b] Gulden, a.k.a. guilder: a coin worth 20 groschen.
[c] Taler (outdated spelling: Thaler), a.k.a. dollar: a coin
worth 30 groschen. (The American currency was named after
this coin.)
[d] "Guter Groschen" (good groschen): an older type of groschen,
worth slightly more (1.25) than the Neugroschen
(new-groschen).
This happened at a time, when I was no longer blind and was
already able to walk. I was neither born blind, nor was I
inflicted with some kind of an inherited physical defect. Father
and mother were indeed vigorous and healthy by nature. They have
never been sick throughout their lives. To accuse me of atavistic
frailties is an act of malice, I have to reject most decisively.
That I fell seriously ill shortly after my birth, lost my
eyesight, and was ailing for entire four years, was not the
consequence of inheritance, but rather only due to the local
conditions, the poverty, ignorance, and harmful quackery, the
victim of which I became. As soon as I came into the hands of a
capable physician, my eyesight returned, and I became a most sound
and robust boy, who was strong enough to take on any other boy.
But, before I talk about myself, I have to devote some more time
to the surroundings, in which I have spent my earliest childhood.
Along with the house, mother had also inherited the debts,
associated with it. Interests had to be paid on them. Therefore,
all we got out of it was that we had to pay interests instead of
rent. Mother was economical, and father was so too in his own
way. But just as he was excessive in everything, in his love, his
rage, his work, his praise, his reprimand, so he was here as well
in is assessment of that small inheritance, which could only be an
incentive to continue saving money and to remove the debt from the
house. But though he did not take to the belief he had suddenly
become rich, he nonetheless presumed he could adopt a different
lifestyle, now. He stopped spending his entire life toiling at
the loom. After all, he had a house now, and he had money, lots
of money. He could turn to something else, which was less
strenuous, more worth while than weaving. While lying in his bed,
being unable to sleep, and thinking about what he should do, he
heard the rats rumbling upstairs in the empty pigeonry. This
rumble was repeated day by day, and so, in that manner well known
to any psychologist, the decision ripened in him, to drive out the
rats and to buy pigeons. He wanted to become a pigeon-dealer,
though he knew nothing at all about this trade. He had been told
that a lot of money could be made in this business, and was
convinced that, even without the necessary special knowledge, he
would possess enough intelligence to outsmart any other dealer.
The rats were driven out and pigeons were bought.
Unfortunately, this purchase could not be made without spending
some money. Mother had to sacrifice one of her pouches, perhaps
even two. She did it just reluctantly. The pigeons did not give
her the same joy, they gave us children. Our greatest pleasure
was to watch the dear animals changing their tender plumage.
Father had bought two pairs of very expensive "blue-striped"
pigeons. He brought them home and showed them to us. He hoped to
make at least three taler of them. Some days later, the blue
feathers lay on the ground: they had not been real, but had been
glued on. The precious "blue-striped" pigeons turned out to be
entirely worthless, common, white ones. Father purchased a very
pretty, young, grey cock pigeon for one taler and fifteen good
groschen. After a short time, the pigeon turned out to be blind
of old age. He never left the pigeonry, his value was zero. Such
and similar incidents occurred increasingly. The consequence of
this was that mother had to sacrifice another pouch to really get
the pigeon-trade going. Of course, father also tried his best.
He took no leisure-time. He attended all markets, all inns and
bars in order to buy or to find buyers. One time he bought peas,
another time vetches, he had obtained "almost for free". He was
always on the move, from one village to another, from one farmer
to another. He constantly brought home cheese, eggs, and butter,
we did not even need. He had bought them over price, just entice
the farmers' wives into a deal, and could only unload them with
difficulties and at a loss. This restless, unprofitable life
yielded no gain, but devoured the happiness of our home. It even
ravaged the remaining linen pouches. Mother talked to him kindly,
in vain. She worried and kept quiet, until it would have been a
sin to bear it any longer. Then, she arrived at a decision and
went to Judge Layritz, who turned out to be much, much more
reasonable in this case, than at that other time with our frogs.
She presented her case to him. She told him that she did love her
husband very, very much, but had to consider primarily her
children's well-being. She disclosed to him that she owned an
additional pouch, she had not shown, but kept from her husband.
She asked the judge to be so kind to tell her how she should
invest this money in order to achieve security for herself and her
children. She presented him with the pouch. He opened it and
counted. There were sixty hard, shiny, well polished talers.
This caused great astonishment! Judge Layritz thought about it,
then he said: "My dear Mrs. May, I know you. You are a good
woman, and I will vouch for you. Our midwife is old, we need a
younger one. You will go to Dresden and spent your money there on
becoming a midwife. I will arrange this! If you'll return with
the highest marks, we will hire you right away. I'm giving you my
word on this. But if you should return with lesser marks, we will
not be able to use you. But now, go back home and tell your
husband, he should come and see me right away, I'd have to talk
with him!"
So it happened. Mother went to Dresden. She returned with the
highest marks, and Judge Layritz kept his word; she was hired.
During her absence, father did all of the housework together with
grandmother. This was a hard time, a time of suffering, for all
of us. There was an outbreak of small-pox. All of us children
became ill. Grandmother did almost more than was humanly
possible; but father did so too. One of the sisters' head had
turned into a shapeless lump on account of the small-pox.
Forehead, ears, eyes, nose, mouth, and chin had entirely
disappeared. The physician had to probe for the lips with a
knife, in order to feed the sick girl with at least some milk.
She is still alive today, the most cheerful one of us all, and has
never been sick again. The scars are still visible, which
resulted from the physician cutting her, while searching for her
mouth.
These hard times were not entirely over yet, when mother returned,
but her stay in Dresden brought a big stroke of good fortune for
me. By her hard work and her quiet, deeply sincere ways, she had
gained the favour of the two professors Grenzer and Haase, and had
told them about me, her miserable, blinded, and yet spiritually so
lively boy. She had been asked to bring me to Dresden, to be
treated by these two physicians. This was now done, and with a
quite remarkable success. I learnt to see, and returned home
healthily in all other respects as well. But all of this required
a large, large sacrifice; of course it was only large in respect
to our poor conditions. Because of all of the necessary expenses,
we had to sell the house, and the small part of the price we were
to keep as our own was hardly sufficient to pay for the most
urgent things. We moved to a rented place. - -
And now, I will turn to that person, who had the most profound and
extensive influence on my development in a spiritual respect.
While our mother's mother had been born in Hohenstein and was
therefore called the "Hohensteiner grandmother" by us, my father's
mother was from Ernstthal and therefore had to listen to the name
"Ernstthaler grandmother". The latter was an entirely peculiar,
inscrutable, noble, and, I might almost say, mysterious character.
She was to me, from my early youth on, a cherished, blissful
puzzle, from the depth of which I could scoop up wisdom without
ever running out of it. Where had she obtained all this from.
Very simple: She was a soul, nothing but a soul, and modern
psychology knows what this means. She was born in the direst need
and had grown up in the direst suffering; therefore, she regarded
everything with hoping eyes, yearning for deliverance. And
whoever is capable to hope and to believe the right way, has
already pushed all the misery of earth aside and will only find
sunshine and God's peace ahead. She was the daughter of miserably
poor folks, had lost her mother at an early age, and to feed her
father, who was neither able to stand nor to lie and was tied and
bound to an old leather arm-chair for many years, until he died.
She took care of him with an endless self-denial, which would move
a person to tears. Poverty allowed her only the cheapest of
accommodations. Her chamber's window let her see only the
cemetery, nothing else. She knew all of the graves, and thought
there would only be one course for herself and her father, to be
carried out of their humble dying chamber in a coffin towards the
churchyard. She had one lover, who had decent and honest
intentions, but she gave him up. She wanted to devote her entire
time only to her father, and the good fellow agreed with her. He
said nothing, but he waited and remained faithful to her.
Upstairs, in the attic, stood an old chest, containing even older
books. This were heirlooms, bound in leather, of various
contents, both religious and secular. It was told that there had
been clerics, scholars, and travellers in our family, when it had
been prosperous, of whom we are reminded up to this day by those
books. Father and daughter were able to read, they had both
learnt it by themselves. At nightfall, after the strife and work
of the day was done, the Reifröckchen [1] was lit, and one of them
read to the other. Once in a while, a pause was made to discuss
what had been read. Though having read the books almost twenty
times already, they started over again and again, because every
time, new ideas were found, which seemed to be better, more
beautiful and also truer than those from before. Most frequently,
a rather large and very worn-out volume was read, the title of
which was:
[1] a small oil lamp
_The_Hakawati_
i.e.
the story-teller in Asia, Africa, Turkia, Arabia, Persia, and
India, including an appendix with interpretation, explanatio &
interpretatio, also many a comparison and images
by
Christianus Kretzschmann
who was from Germania.
Printed by Wilhelmus Candidus
A. D.: M. D. C. V.
*
* *
This book contained a large amount of meaningful, oriental tales,
which were not to be found in any previous collection.
Grandmother knew all of these tales. Usually, she recited them
literally, word by word, but in certain instances, whenever it
deemed her necessary, she made alterations or added applications,
from which became evident that she knew the spirit of the stories
she told very well, and made precise use of its effect. Her
favourite tale was the fable of Sitara. Later, it also became my
favourite, because it dealt with the geography and ethnology of
our earth and its inhabitants from a purely ethical point of view.
But let this just be a small indication, here.
The father died as a consequence of a series of hemorrhages.
Taking care of him was so exhausting that the daughter came close
to death herself, but she survived it. After the time of mourning
had passed, May, the faithful lover, came and took her on. Now
finally, finally she was truly happy! It was a marriage,
according to God's will. Two children were born, my father and a
sister before him; she later suffered a serious fall and was
crippled as a consequence of it. So you see, that we always had
our share of afflictions, or rather tests of faith. And you can
also see that I do not conceal anything. It must not be my
intension, to embellish the ugly parts. But shortly after the
birth of the second child, that sorrowful event occurred at
Christmas time, I already told about. The good young man plunged
at night with the bread into the deep, snowy ravine and froze to
death. Grandmother and both of her children had nothing to eat
during the Christmas holidays, and only found out after a long
time of agony that she had lost her beloved husband, and under
such dreadful circumstances. Hereafter came years of mourning and
then the hard times of the Napoleonic wars and of famine.
Everything was devastated. No work could be found anywhere.
Inflation grew; hunger raged. A poor, young journeyman came to
beg. Grandmother could not give him anything. She did not even
have a single piece of bread for herself and her children. He saw
that she was silently weeping. This aroused his compassion. He
left and returned after more than one hour. He poured out before
her, whatever he had got, pieces of bread, a dozen potatoes, a
rutabaga, a small, very ancient cheese, a small bag of flour, an
equally small bag of barley, a thin slice of sausage, and a tiny
piece of mutton-suet. Then, he swiftly went away to avoid her
gratitude. She never saw him again; but there is one who knows
him for sure and will not forget him. This one sent even more and
better help. The wife of a head forester had died. He lived
outside of the town and was known to be as prosperous as he was
kind-hearted. His wife had left him with a very large number of
children. He wished to employ grandmother as a housekeeper. In
this time of need, she would have liked to accept just too well,
but declared that she could not possibly part with her own
children, even if she found a place to house them. It did not
take the good man long to decide. He declared to her, he would
not care whether six or eight children ate at his house; they
would all be fed. She should just come, not without them, but
with them. This saved her from the direst need!
The stay in the quiet, lonely house of the forester was doing the
mother and her children a world of good. They grew healthier and
stronger from the better nutrition. The head forester saw
grandmother doing her best to show her gratitude and to gain his
satisfaction. She worked almost more than her strength would
allow, but felt good about it. He quietly observed this and
rewarded her by granting her children, in every respect, the same
things his own children received. Surely, he was an aristocrat
and basically proud. He ate alone with his mother-in-law.
Grandmother was just a servant, yet she did not eat in the
servant's, but the children's room. But when, after some time, he
had gained an insight into the peculiar world of her soul, he
cared for her spiritual wellbeing as well. He eased the heavy
burden of her work, allowed her to read to him and his
mother-in-law from her books in the evenings, and permitted her
then to look at his own books as well. How much did she enjoy
this! And he had such good, such useful books!
The children had, in reasonable limits, a free life. They chased
each other through the forest and got strong limbs and red cheeks.
Little May was the youngest and smallest of them all, but he
joined the others with all of his energy. And he payed attention;
he learnt and remembered. He wanted to know everything. He asked
about every object he did not know yet. Soon, he knew the names
of all plants, all caterpillars and worms, all bugs and
butterflies, which existed in his realm. He sought to familiarise
himself with their character, their properties and habits.
This zest for knowledge, gained him the head forester's special
affections, who did not even regard it beneath him, to allow the
boy to accompany him. I have to mention this, so that later
events become understandable. The following relapse from this
sunny, hopeful time of his boyhood into the previous poverty and
wretchedness could not possibly have had a positive effect on the
boy.
It was at this time that, during lunch, grandmother suddenly fell
from her chair and dropped dead to the floor. The whole house
became very excited. The physician was called. He diagnosed a
heart attack and stated that grandmother was dead and had to be
buried within three days. But she was alive. Yet, she could not
move a single limb, not even her lips or the not entirely closed
eyelids. She saw and heard everything, the weeping, the
lamentations for her. She understood every word that was spoken.
She saw and heard the carpenter, who came to take her measurements
for the coffin. When it was done, she was placed into it and put
into a cold chamber. On the day of the burial, she was laid out
in the corridor. The pall bearers came, the minister and the
cantor with the students' choir. The family started to bid its
farewell to her who appeared to be dead. Just imagine their
agony! For three days and three nights, she had made every
effort, to show by any kind of movement that she was still alive -
- in vain! Now, the last moment had come, when she could still be
saved. Once the coffin had been closed, there was no hope left.
Later, she told that in her terrible mortal fear, she had made
efforts, quite beyond what is humanly possible, to at least wiggle
one finger, when one after another came by to hold her hand for
the last time. So also did the head forester's youngest girl, who
had always felt particularly close to grandmother. Suddenly, the
child startled and screamed: "She has grabbed my hand; she wants
to hold on to me!" And really, everyone saw the seemingly
deceased, alternatingly opening and closing her hand in a slow
motion. The funeral was, of course, called off immediately.
Other physicians were brought in; grandmother was saved. But
from then on, the way she led her life was even graver and more
uplifted than before. Just rarely, she talked about what she had
thought and felt in those unforgettable three days on the
threshold between life and death. It must have been horrible.
But this also just served to strengthen her faith in God and to
deepen her confidence in Him. Just as her death had been unreal,
from now on she also regarded the so-called actual death as
equally unreal, and for many years she sought the right ideas to
explain and to prove this. It is thanks to her and her false
death that I in general only believe in life, but not in death.
Before she was mentally quite over this experience, grandmother
and her two children were hurled back into their previous way of
life, on account of the head forester being assigned to another
district and getting remarried. She returned to Ernstthal, and
again had to earn her living penny by penny. A good man, Vogel by
name and also a weaver by trade, proposed to her. Everyone kept
urging her, she had to give her children a new father; she owed
them that much. She did it, and had no cause to regret it, but
unfortunately, she became once more a widow after just a short
time. He died and left her everything he owned: poverty and the
reputation of a good, hard working man. Hereafter, her life
became quiet and even quieter. She got her girl a place with a
seamstress, and her boy was sent to a weaver, who kept him working
at the reel from dawn to dusk. After all, it was now taken for
granted that the boy had to become nothing but a weaver, though
he had definitely lost all interest in it during his stay at the
forester's house. He had already gained an entirely different
image of himself, and it is surely understandable that later,
after having been forced into this unloved craft, he got the idea
to free himself from it again by means of the pigeon-trade.
Nevertheless, he did his duty, both as a boy and as an adolescent.
He worked hard and became a capable weaver, whose merchandise
turned out so clean and accurate that every businessman liked to
have him work for him. But, in this leisure-time, he strolled
through forests and meadows, to collect plants and to keep all the
knowledge he had gained at the head forester's fast in his memory.
Therefore he took great pleasure from the fact that among the
previously mentioned inheritance of our mother there were also
some old, most interesting books, the contents of which turned out
to be of great benefit to him in these leisure-time activities.
Here, I am particularly thinking of a large, thick folio, which
had about a thousand pages and bore the following title:
Herbal Book
Of the most learned and worldwide famous Dr. Petri Andreae
Matthioli. Now again with many beautiful new illustrations,
useful medicine also, and other good pieces, for the third time
with particular effort enlarged and printed,
by
Joachimum Camerarium,
Doctor of medicine at the praiseworthy city of Nürnberg.
With three, well ordered, useful registers of herbs' Latin and
German names, and then the medicine, with the usage of the same
included. Also ample information, on distilling and kilns.
With special privilege of His Roman Imperial Majesty,
not to be copied in any format.
Printed in Frankfurt am Main,
M. D. C.
*
* *
It was the most natural thing in the world for father to
immediately take this book and to study it eagerly. It contained
even more than the title promised. For instance, the names of the
plants were often also given in French, English, Russian,
Bohemian, Italian, and even in Arabic, which later helped me in
particular to a quite extraordinary degree. Father also turned
from one page of this delightful book to another, from one plant
to another. He added much, much more to the knowledge, he already
had; not just about the flaura itself, but also about its
nutritious and technical properties and its healing effects. The
ancestors had tested these effects and had added very many
marginal notes to the volume, telling about the results of these
tests. Later, this book became a source of the purest and most
natural pleasure for me, and I may well say that father
excellently supported me in this.
Another one of these books was a collection of biblical woodcuts,
probably from the earliest time of the xylographic art. I own it,
just like the Herbal Book, up to this day. It contains very many,
quite excellent pictures; some are unfortunately missing. The
first one is Moses and the last one the beast from the eleventh
chapter of the Revelation of John. The title page has been lost.
Therefore, I do not know who the author is or in what year this
volume was printed. Grandmother used this book as an aid when
telling us the biblical stories. We immensely enjoyed every one
of these tales, and this brings me to most outstanding quality,
grandmother possessed for us children, this was her incomparable
gift for story-telling.
Actually, what grandmother did was not that much story-telling as
it was creating, drawing, painting, shaping. Even the toughest
subject-matter gained shape and colour, being told by her lips.
And when twenty persons listened to her, every single one of these
twenty had the impression that she told what she told quite
exclusively for him alone. And it stuck, it lasted. Whether she
related a passage from the Bible or from the vast realm of her
fairy-tales, it always culminated to some profound insight in the
relationship between heaven and earth, the victory of good over
evil, and the warning that everything on earth was just a parable,
because the source of truth was not to be found in this low form
of life, but only in a higher existence. I am convinced that she
did not do this consciously and with the full intension; she was
not sufficiently educated for this, but it was a inborn gift, a
genius, and such a beneficial spirit will, as is well known, do
its work most surely, when it is neither discovered nor observed.
Grandmother was a poor, uneducated woman, but nevertheless a poet
with a god-given talent, and therefore a stroy-teller, who created
characters from the wealth of her stories, which not just existed
in those stories, but truly came alive.
Thinking back at my earliest memory, I do not come across the
fable of Sitara first, but rather the fable "of the lost and
forgotten human soul". I felt such endless pity for this soul. I
have wept for it with my blind, unseeing eyes of a child. To me,
this tale contained nothing but truth. But only years later,
after I had experienced how life could treat a person and after I
had extensively delved into the the heart of mankind, I realized
that the knowledge of the human soul had indeed been lost and
forgotten and that all of our psychology had not not yet been able
to return this knowledge to us. In my childhood, I have spent
hours sitting quietly and motionlessly, staring into the darkness
of my sick eyes, to contemplate where this lost and forgotten soul
might have ended up. I really, really wanted to find it. Then,
grandmother took me on her lap, kissed me on the forehead and
said: "Be quiet, my boy! Don't be sad for it! I have found it.
It is here!" "Where?", I asked. "Here with me", she answered.
"You are this soul, you!" "But I am not lost", I objected. "Of
course, you are lost. You have been cast down into the poorest,
dirtiest Ardistan. But you will be found; because even when
everybody and all have forgotten about you, God has not forgotten
about you." - I did not comprehend this, then; I only understood
it later, much, much later. Actually, in this time of my early
childhood, every living being was just a soul to me, nothing but a
soul. I saw nothing. To me, there were neither appearances nor
shapes, nor colours, neither locations nor movement from one
location to another. I was very well able to feel, hear, and
smell the persons and objects, but this was not enough to picture
them truly and vividly. I could only imagine them. I did not
know how a person, a dog, a table would look like; I could only
picture it in my soul, and this picture reflected its soul.
Whenever somebody spoke, I did not hear his body, but his soul.
Not his external, but his internal appearance approached me. To
me, there were only souls, nothing but souls. And so it has
continued to be, even after I had learnt to see, from my boyhood
on, up to this day. This is the difference between myself and
others. This is the key to my books. This is the explanation for
everything which has been praised or condemned in me. Only he who
had been blind and became seeing again, and only he who possessed
such a deeply rooted and powerful world within himself that it,
even after he became seeing, dominated the world outside for his
entire life, only he will be able to put himself in my place and
understand everything what I was planning, what I did, and what I
wrote, and only he will have the ability to criticise me, _nobody_
_else!_
I spent the entire day not with my parents, but with grandmother.
She meant everything to me. She was my father, my mother, my
teacher, my light, my sunshine which my eyes lacked. Everything
that became a part of me, physically and mentally, I got from her.
Thus, I most naturally came to resemble her. Whatever she told
me, I told back to her, adding what my youthful imagination
partially guessed, partially grasped. I told it to my sisters and
to others who came to me, because I could not come to them. I
told it in grandmother's tone of voice, with her confidence that
left no room for any doubt. This sounded precociously and
convincingly. It gave me the nimbus of a child well beyond his
age in intelligence. Thus, adults came as well, to listen to me,
and I might have degenerated into an oracle or miracle child, if
grandmother had not been so very modest, truthful, and
intelligent, to intervene wherever any kind of danger arose to me.
A blind child is given little work. He has more time to think and
ponder, than other children. So, he might easily appear more
intelligent than he is. Unfortunately, father did not possess
grandmother's intelligent modesty, nor mother's silent
thoughtfulness. He enjoyed talking very much and exaggerated, as
we already know, in everything he did and said. So it happened
that this fate, which I escaped here, later, nevertheless, was to
come over me, that awful fate, to be praised to death.
When I learnt to see, my inner self was already developed and
fixed in its later major features to such an extent that even the
world of light, opening now before my eyes, did not possess the
power to draw the centre of my inner being outside towards it. I
remained a child for all times, just turning into an older child,
the older I grew; I remained a child in which the soul dominated
and still dominates today, so that no consideration for the world
outside and the physical life could ever keep me from doing
something, what I have found to be right for the soul. And in all
of my life, I have incessantly made the experience that with
entire peoples it is in no way different than with me. They
preferably act not due to external causes, but on account of
themselves, their souls. The greatest and most beautiful deeds of
a nation were born out of its inner self. And no matter how
strong and how inventive a poet's mind might be, he would still
never succeed in forcing the plot of a great, national drama upon
the history of a people, if it was not already in the people's
soul. And even if we would found hundreds of associations and
commissions of authors of books for young people and thousands of
libraries for children, students, and the general public, we will
arrive at the opposite of what we intent, if we choose books which
only satisfy the needs of our pedantry and our methodics, but not
the needs of those souls, upon which we force them. I have come
to know these souls, have studied them since the time of my youth.
I have been such a soul myself, and am it even still today.
Therefore I know that the general public and the younger
generation must not be given books full of paragons of virtue,
simply because there is no person who is a paragon of virtue. The
reader wants truth, wants real life. He hates the virtuous
dummies, which always stay where they were once placed, possess
neither flesh nor blood, and are only clothed in whatever that
dress-maker called "textbook morality" has dressed them up with,
and nothing more. The task of an author writing for a young
audience does not consist of the creation of characters who act so
exceedingly delightfully impeccable in every situation that the
reader necessarily has to get bored by them, but such an author's
art is rather to allow his characters to commit all those errors
and stupidities, he wants to save his youthful readers from. It
is a thousand times better he would let his fictional characters
perish, than to have the disgruntled boy transfer the evil, which
did not occur, though it should have occurred in all truthfulness,
from the book into the real life. This is the axis around which
our literature for the youth and the general public has to
revolve. Exemplary boys and men are bad role-models; they repel.
Show the negative, but true to life and thrilling, thus you will
achieve the positive.
After we had moved into a rented place, we lived at the market,
with the church in its centre. This square was the children's
favourite playground. In the evenings, the older school-boys
gathered at the church gate to tell stories. This was a most
exclusive club. Not everyone was allowed to go there. When
someone came, they did not like, they made no fuss; he was sent
away with a thrashing and surely would not return. I, on the
other hand, did not come, nor did I ask, but rather I was invited
in, though I was only five years old, while the others were
thirteen and fourteen. What an honour! Such a thing had never
happened before! I had grandmother and her tales to thank for
this! At first, I kept quiet and just listened, until I knew all
of the tales which were going around here. They did not hold it
against me, because I had learnt to see only a short time ago,
kept my eyes still half bandaged, and was treated with some
consideration by everyone. But once this was over, I had to take
my turn. Every day another fairy-tale, another story, another
narration. This was asking much, very much, but I delivered, and
with pleasure. Grandmother worked with me. What I was to tell at
dusk, we worked out in the early mornings, even before we ate our
morning soup. Then, I was well prepared when I reached the church
gate. Our beautiful book, "The Hakawati", supplied our stories
for a long time. On top of it, this stock of stories increased
quite extraordinarily over time, of course not in the book, but in
me. This was the very simple and natural consequence of me having
to translate, after I had become seeing, the world of my soul,
generated by the Hakawati in me, into the visible world of
colours, shapes, bodies, and surfaces. By this, innumerable
variations and multiplications were created, which I could only
put into a fixed shape and form by telling them.
By this time, father had managed to get me the permission to
attend school. Normally this permission was only granted after
the age of six; but my mother was, in her capacity as a midwife,
in frequent contact with the minister, who enjoyed granting her
this wish, since he also served as the local school inspector, and
father met the elementary school teacher Schulze twice a week to
play skat or schafkopf [a], and therefore it did not turn out to
be difficult to obtain his permission as well. I learnt to read
and write very quickly, because father and grandmother helped with
it, and then, once I could do this, father thought the time had
come to start carrying out the plans he had for me. He wanted to
fulfil in me what was not fulfilled in him. At the forester's
house, he had been granted a glimpse at better and more humane
conditions. And he was always haunted by the idea that there had
been important men among out ancestors, about whom we, their
descendants, had to say that we were not worthy of them. He
wanted to live up to their example, but was violently pushed down
by the circumstances. This offended and annoyed him. For
himself, he had settled with these circumstances. He had to
remain what he was: a poor, uneducated craftsman. But now, he
transfered all of his wishes, hopes, and everything else onto me.
And he was resolved to do everything possible and not to miss any
opportunity to turn me into the man he had been denied to become.
This can surely only be regarded as a commendable act of his. But
the important thing was what path and manner he gave to my
education. He wanted whatever was good and beneficent to me. He
could only achieve this with good and beneficent means. But
unfortunately, I have to say, without telling too much about
future events, that my "childhood" came to an end now, at the age
of five. It died in the very moment when I opened my eyes to see.
What those poor eyes got to see from then on up to today, was
nothing but work and work again, worry and worry again, suffering
and suffering again, up to my present agony, like being tied to a
stake and being incessantly tortured without any end being in
sight. - - -
[a] Skat, Schafkopf: Two popular games of cards. The word
"Skat" is derived from the Italian "scarto" (discarding
cards), and "Schafkopf" means literally "sheep's head".
III. No Boyhood
Oh dear, beautiful, golden time of youth! How often have I seen
you, how often have I found joy in you! With others, always just
with others! You have never been with me. You steered clear of
me, keeping in a far, far distance. I was not envious, truly not,
because there is no room in me for envy at all, but it hurt
nonetheless, when I saw the sunshine warming other people's lives,
while I stood in the most remote, cold corner of the shadows.
Yet, I also had a heart, I also yearned for light and warmth. But
even the poorest of all lives requires love, and if this most poor
one is sufficiently determined, he can become richer than the
rich. He just has to search within himself. There, he will find
what fate has denied him, and can pass it out to all, all of those
who give him nothing. For truly, truly, it is better to be poor
and nevertheless giving, than to be rich and nevertheless do
always nothing but receiving!
I guess, this is the right place to clarify a misconception about
me from the very start. This is that I am regarded as very rich,
a millionaire even; but I am no such thing. Until now, I had
just enough "to get along comfortably", nothing more. Even this
is most likely to come to an end soon, since the relentless
attacks against me will eventually bring about, what was to be
brought about by them all along. I am getting used to the idea
that I will die just as I was born, as a poor man without any
possessions. But this does not matter. This is just externally.
This cannot change any part of my inner self and its future.
The lie that I was a millionaire, that my income had amounted to
180.000 marks, was invented by a tricky and very intelligently
calculating opponent, who possesses a keen knowledge of human
nature, and would not hesitate for a moment to use this knowledge,
even if his own conscience should urge him otherwise, to obtain
profit and advantages. He knew very well what he did, when
placing his lie into the newspapers. By this, he stirred up the
very lowest and ultimately worst enemy against me: envy. The
previous attacks against me hardly matter any more, now; but
since I am believed to be in the possession of millions, I am
assaulted quite mercilessly and pitilessly. Even in the articles
of otherwise rather respectable and humane critics, this financial
vindictiveness plays a part. It causes a boundless feeling of
embarrassment to see people, who have proven themselves as
courteous knights of literature in every other case, riding around
on this vulgar horse! I own a house, not encumbered with debts, I
live in, as well as a small amount of money I keep saved for my
travels, nothing else. I am left with nothing of my income. It
is just barely enough for my modest household and for the hard
sacrifices I have to make for the lawsuits I have been forced
into. In the past, I could follow my heart and be giving to the
poor, especially to poor readers of my books. This has stopped
now. Nonetheless, I am now, more than ever, pestered by letters
demanding money from me, on account of this cunning lie of being a
millionaire, but unfortunately I cannot help any more, and almost
everyone I have to turn away, feels disappointed and becomes my
enemy. I conclude that this unscrupulous act of depicting me as a
filthy rich man, has harmed me more, much more than all adverse
criticism and other hostilities put together.
After this digression, which I deemed necessary, I will now turn
back to the "boyhood" of this alleged "millionaire", who seeks
such a very different kind of treasure than all those who aim to
exploit him.
It had been a dreadful time, especially for the poor inhabitants
of that area were I was at home. Living in the present times of
prosperity, it is almost impossible to imagine how miserably
people starved through their days in the end of the 1840s.
Unemployment, deformity, inflation, and revolution, these four
words explain it all. We lacked almost everything that is
required for the body's sustenance and relief. At lunchtime, we
asked our neighbour, the innkeeper of the inn called "Zur Stadt
Glauchau" <The City of Glauchau's>, for the potato peelings, to
use the few scraps that might still be attached to them for a
hunger-soup. We went to the "Red Mill", where we got a handful of
dust from the empty bags and the spelt that had been thrown out
for free, to turn it into something resembling food. We plucked
atriplex [a] from the rubble dumps, otterzungen [b] from the
ridges of the fields, and wild lettuce from the fences, to cook it
and to fill our stomachs with it. The leaves of the atriplex felt
greasy. This resulted in two or three little drops of fat
floating on the surface of the water, when they were cooked. How
nutritious and how delicious did this seem to us! Luckily, there
were also a few stocking-weavers among the many unemployed weavers
of our town, whose business had not stopped entirely. They wove
gloves, these extremely cheap, white gloves, corpses are dressed
up with, before they are buried. Mother succeeded in getting the
job of sewing such burial-gloves together. There we sat, all of
us except father, from early in the morning until late at night,
stitching away. Mother sewed the thumbs, for this was difficult,
grandmother sewed the sides with little finger, and I, together
with my sisters, sewed the middle fingers. When we had all worked
very hard, we had all together earned eleven or even twelve
new-groschen by the end of the week. What a financial stock! For
this, we got beetroot-syrup for five pfennig, spread on five tiny
rolls of bread; these were very conscientiously divided into
pieces and passed around. It was just as much a reward for the
past week as it was an incentive for the next.
[a] Melde = atriplex: some kind of a weed from the goosefoot
family (chenopodiaceae), also known as orach or orache in
English.
[b] Otterzungen: Germany's most respected dictionary, the
"Duden", defines this as a "petrified fish-tooth". This seems
a bit strange to me. I would rather guess that it must be
some kind of a plant. Literally it would mean "adders'
tongues".
While we were busily working at home in this manner, father was
just as busy outside; but unfortunately his work was of that kind
which yields more honour than sustenance. He joined the effort to
save king Frederic August and the entire Saxonian government from
certain ruin. Just a short time ago, public opinion had demanded
the very opposite: The king was to be dethroned, and the
government to be chased out of the country. This was desired by
almost all of Saxony, but in Hohenstein and Ernstthal, minds soon
changed, and did so for the most excellent reasons: It was too
dangerous! Those who were screaming the loudest had joined
together and ransacked a bakery. Then, came the Santa
Hermandad [a] and locked them all up. They regarded themselves as
victims and martyrs of politics for a few days though, great and
powerful, but their wives were not interested in this kind of
heroism; they fought it all the way. They met; they parted;
they ran up and down; they convinced the other women; they
talked politically, diplomatically, threateningly, beggingly.
Calm, reasonable men joined them. The old, venerable, minister
Schmidt made speeches for peace; and Judge Layritz, too. The
policeman Eberhardt went from house to house, warning people of
the terrible consequences of a rebellion; police-sergeant Grabner
supported him in this. At the church gate, at dusk, the boys only
told stories about being shot, being hanged, and especially about
the scaffold, which was described in such a manner that everyone
hearing it reached for the front or back of his neck. So it came
about that the mood changed quite thoroughly. Dethroning the king
was now entirely out of the question. On the contrary, he had to
stay, for there could not be a better one than him anywhere in the
world. From now on, the object was no longer to drive him out,
but rather to protect him. Meetings were held to discuss in what
manner this could best be achieved; and since there was talk of
fighting, war, and victory all over the place, it came quite
naturally that we boys, also, increasingly put ourselves not just
in a militant mood, but also in militant clothes, and imagined
ourselves in acts of militant heroism. Granted, I did all of this
only from a distance, because I was too small for this and had no
time; I had to sew gloves. But all the other boys and girls were
standing together in all kinds of corners and niches, telling each
other what they had heard at home when they were with their
parents, and had most important discussions about the manner in
which the monarchy was to be preserved and the republic was to be
prevented. They were particularly outraged at some old, evil
woman. She was to be blamed for everything. Her name was
Anarchy, and she lived in the deepest forest; but at night, she
came into the towns, to tear down the houses and to burn down the
barns; what a beast! Luckily, all of our fathers were heroes, no
one of them was afraid of anybody, not even of this boorish
Anarchy. It was decided to put all citizens in arms for king and
fatherland. In Ernstthal, there had been, for a long time, a
company of riflemen and a company of guardsmen. The first shot at
a wooden bird and the latter at a wooden disk. In addition to
these two, two or three other companies were to be founded,
especially a Polish company of scythe-men, to stab the enemy to
death from a large distance. And so it turned out, then, that in
our little town there was an unusually large number of people with
an immensely militant disposition, for both strategical and
tactical planning. Every one of them was in great demand. They
were counted. There were thirty-three of them. This suited very
well and worked out rather smoothly, because: Each company needed
one captain, one first lieutenant, and one second lieutenant; if,
in addition to the riflemen and the guard, nine new companies were
to be founded, this added up to eleven and all thirty-three
officers were taken care of. This suggestion was carried out,
which of course meant that the number of men in the individual
companies could only be rather small; but the drum-major, the
master [b] stocking-weaver Löser, who had served in the military
and therefore had to train all thirty-three officers, maintained
that this could only be advantageous, because the fewer men there
were in a company, the fewer could be shot down and lost from that
company in a war; and so the decision was left as it was.
[a] Spanish for "holy brotherhood", an alliance of Spanish cities
with their own jurisdiction and police-force. I suppose, the
term is used figuratively here.
[b] Meister: a craftsman who has passed a special examination
before the chamber of handicrafts, which gives him the right
to own a business and to train others in that craft.
My father was the captain of the seventh company. He got a sabre
and a signal-whistle; but he was not content with this rank; he
had his sights on a higher position. Therefore, he decided that,
once he had finished his training, he would secretly, without
letting anybody know of it, practice his skills in the "higher
command". And since he had chosen me to assist him in this, I
was, for the time being, relieved from sewing gloves, and joined
him daily for a walk to the forest, where, on a meadow entirely
surrounded by bushes and trees, our secret evolution took place.
Father changed from a lieutenant, to a captain, a colonel, and a
general, while I was the entire Saxonian army. I was first
trained as a platoon, then as a an entire company. Thereafter, I
became a battalion, a regiment, a brigade, and a division. I had
to ride as well as run, forwards as well as backwards, to the
right and to the left, advance and retreat. Though I was not dumb
and was eagerly and lovingly engaged in the matter, I was
nevertheless still rather young and small; and so you might
imagine, considering the unpredictable nature of my general's
moods, that it was impossible for me to develop within such a
short time from a simple, small squad into a complete and powerful
army, without having experienced the severity of military
discipline firsthand. But I did not cry at any punishment; I was
too proud for that. There is no such thing as a crying Saxonian
army! Furthermore, the reward also came swiftly. When father had
become a vice-commander, he said to me: "My boy, you've had a
large part in this. I'll build a drum for you. You shall be an
army-drummer!" I was so happy! And there were moments when I was
really convinced that I had received all those slaps, pushes,
blows, and head-punches only for the benefit and safety of the
king of Saxony and his cabinet! If he only knew!
I got my drum, because father always kept his word. Master
plumber Leistner, who had his shop at the market of Hohenstein,
helped him in building it. It was a solo drum and had turned out
very well; it still exists today. Later, when I had grown a bit
older, but still being a boy, I had been a drummer for the seventh
company; I will have mention this drum once again at a later
point. The eleven companies performed their duty. They trained
almost daily, having more than enough time on their hands, since
there was no work. How we were nevertheless able to exist and
what kept us from starvation, I can no longer recall today; it
strikes me like a miracle. In other places, they were also out to
"save the king". They were in contact with one another and had
decided to get on their way to Dresden, as soon as the order was
given, and to risk everything for the king, possibly even their
lives. And on one beautiful day it came, that order. The bugles
sounded; the drums were rolled. From every door, the heroes
rushed forward, to gather on the market place. The master butcher
Haase was the regiment's adjutant. He had borrowed a horse and
sat right on top of it. It was no easy job for him to go between
the commander, the vice-commander, and the captains, because the
horse constantly disagreed with its rider. Judge Layritz's wife
draped her windows with a table-cloth and her Sunday saloppe [a].
This was our show of colours. Whoever had something that could
serve this purpose did what she had done. By this, the market
place gained a festive, joyful face. All around there was nothing
enthusiasm. Not even a hint of a sad farewell! No one felt the
need to bid his wife and children a special farewell. Only
exclamations of joy, a triple cheer, vivat, "hurray" all over the
place! The commander had a speech, followed by grand flourish of
the wind-instruments and the drums. Then came the commands of the
individual captains: "Attention - - eyes right, rrrright dress -
- eyes frrront - - order arms - - raise arms - - present arms - -
shoulder arms - - turn rrrright - - forward, marsh!" The adjutant
led the way on the borrowed horse, followed by the musicians with
the Turkish crescent and the drummers; then came the commander
and the vice-commander, thereafter the rifle-men, the guard, and
the nine other companies; thus, the entire host marched, left,
right - left, right, leaving town by the alleyway, which was then
called "Hintergasse" <Rear Alley>, passing by the coalpit's pond,
the same one which had been entrusted with our frogs, marching on
to Wüstenbrand, to reach the capitol via Chemnitz and Freiberg. A
crowd of friends and relatives followed in their train, to escort
the courageous troops up to the border of the small town's
jurisdiction. But I was with a man I held particularly dear,
Cantor Strauch, who was our neighbour; we stood in the door of
his house, together with Friederike, his wife, who was a sister of
Judge Layritz. They had no children, and I had been called upon
to run many a small errand for them. I worshipped him endlessly;
but she was repugnant to me, because the only reward I ever got
from her for all of my errands were rotten apples or mushy pears;
she also did not permit her husband to smoke more than two cigars,
at two pfennig a piece, per month. I had to get them for him from
the grocer, because he was ashamed of buying such cheap cigars for
himself, and he smoked them in the yard, because Friederike could
not stand the smell of tobacco. He was also truly delighted today
by the sight of our troops. Watching them leaving, he said:
[a] Saloppe: I have no idea what this word means.
"Yes, there is something great, something noble in this kind of
enthusiasm for God, king, and fatherland!"
"But what does one get out of it?" asked the cantor's wife.
"Bliss is what you get out of it, the genuine, the true kind of
bliss!"
With these words, he entered the house; he did not like to argue.
I went to our yard. There stood a French apple-tree [a]. I sat
in its shade and thought about what the cantor had said. So the
true kind of bliss was to be found in these words: God, king, and
fatherland; I wanted and had to remember that! Later, experience
has reshaped and ground down these words for me; but though they
might have altered their shapes, the inner essence has remained.
[a] Franzäpfelbaum: A small kind of apple-tree with hardly any
trunk, first grown in France.
Of all those who had moved out today, to perform great heroic
deeds, the borrowed horse was first to return. The adjutant had
handed it over to a currier, who brought it home, because walking
was much healthier than riding, and because the rider did not have
enough money saved to replace the horse, in case it would be
injured or even shot dead in a fight. The master weaver
Kretzschmar followed in the evening. He maintained that he could
not have walked any further with his flat-feet; this was a
natural defect, beyond his control. After dark, a few others
turned up as well, who were dismissed for urgent reasons, bringing
news that our corps had put up camp beyond Chemnitz, near Oederan,
and that spies had been sent to Freiberg to investigate the
battle-field there. In the morning, the surprising, but not at
all sad, news arrived that they had been instructed at Freiberg to
turn around immediately; they were not needed at all, since the
Prussians had moved into Dresden, and therefore, there was not
even the slightest danger for the king and the government any
more. You can easily imagine that there was no school and no work
on that day. I also refused to stitch any gloves. I simply ran
away and joined those brave boys and girls, who were to form
eleven companies and move out to meet their returning fathers on
the way. This plan was carried out. We made our camp at the
lakes of Wüstenbrand, and as soon those whom we were waiting for
came, we marched with them to the sound of music and the beating
of the drums, down the mountain at the rifle-house, where our
orphaned wives and mothers stood, to welcome all of us, tall and
small, some of them moved to tears, some laughing with joy.
Why do I tell all of this at such length? Because of the deep
impression it has made upon me. I have to point out the sources
from which the causes of my fate have flown out and joined. The
reason why I never wavered for a single moment in my faith in God,
in spite of everything that happened later, and why even when fate
hurled the rocky tablets of the law at me, I did not lose any part
of my respect for that law, is partially rooted in myself, but
also partially in those small events of my early boyhood, which
all had a more or less marked effect on me. I never forgot those
words of my old, dear cantor, which have not just become flesh and
blood, but also mind and soul for me.
After this excitement, life returned to its calm previous course.
Again, I sewed gloves and went back to school. But father was not
satisfied with this school. I was to learn more that what an
elementary school education had to offer in those days. My voice
developed into a good, resounding, versatile soprano. Therefore,
the cantor took me into the students' choir. Soon, I learnt to
hit every pitch and grew self-confident before an audience. So it
came that I was trusted to sing the solos in church after just a
short time. The congregation was poor; they did not have the
money to buy expensive sheet-music. The cantor had to copy it
manually and I helped him. Wherever this was not appropriate, he
composed himself. And he was a composer! And what a composer!
But he was from the small, unassuming village of Mittelbach, the
son of mortally poor, uneducated parents, he had literally starved
his way through music-school, and before he became teacher and
cantor his only clothes were a blue linen jacket and a pair of
blue linen trousers, he regarded one taler as a fortune, which
could support him for weeks. This poverty had deprived him of his
self-esteem. He did not know how to make his opinions count.
Everything was good enough for him. Being an quite excellent
organist, pianist, and violinist, he could also compose for any
other musical instrument, and he could have swiftly gained fame
and fortune, if he had only possessed more self-confidence and
courage. Everyone knew: Wherever in Saxony and across the border
a new organ was put into service, there cantor Strauch of
Ernstthal was sure to appear, to get acquainted with it and to
seek the opportunity to play it once. This was the only pleasure
he allowed himself. That is because he did not just lack the guts
to seek a higher position than that of cantor in Ernstthal, but
most of all he lacked the permission of his very strict wife
Friederike, who had been a prosperous girl and therefore dominated
the marriage like a thirty-two foot "principal" [a], while the
cantor was only allowed the voice of a soft "vox humana".
Together with her brother, she owned several orchards, and their
harvest was exploited down to the last fruit, and as I already
mentioned, I only got rotten or mushy apples and pears from her.
But she always succeeded in making a face as if she was giving
away an entire kingdom. She did not have the slightest concept of
her husbands immensely great worth, both as a person and as an
artist. She was tied to her orchards, and he was therefore tied
to Ernstthal. She did not care about his mental existence and his
spiritual needs. She never opened a single one of his books and
his many compositions disappeared, as soon as they were finished,
at the very bottom of those dusty chests in the attic. After he
had died, she had sold all of it as waste-paper to the paper-mill
without me being able to prevent it, because I was not at home.
What a deep misery, almost beyond an outsider's comprehension, is
this to be tied for an entire lifetime to such a female, who only
exists in the lowest spheres and prevents even the most talented,
or even ingenious, husband from reaching those better heights,
this is beyond words. My old cantor could only bear this misery,
because he possessed this immense ability to accept whatever life
would bring, supplemented by a kind-heartedness which could never
forget that he was just a poor devil, but that Friederike was a
rich girl and also the sister of the town's judge.
[a] The main register of an organ, usually eight feet tall.
Later, he taught me to play the organ, the piano, and the violin.
I have already said that father made the bow to go with the violin
himself. These lessons were most naturally for free, since my
parents were too poor to pay for them. His strict wife Friederike
did not agree with that at all. The organ lessons were given in
church and the violin lessons at school; the cantor's wife could
not do anything about that. But the piano was in the living-room,
and when I came knocking at the door, to ask about it, nine out of
ten times the cantor came out with the answer: "There is no
lesson today, dear Karl. My wife Friederike can't abide it; she
has a migraine." Sometimes, I was even told "she has vapeurs" [a].
I did not know what that was, but regarded it as something even
worse than that other thing I also knew nothing about, that
migraine. But I still felt uneasy about the fact that it only
occurred whenever I came to play the piano. The kind cantor
amended this loss by also giving me an introduction to harmonics,
whenever there was an opportunity; there was no need for
Friederike to find out about this, but this was in the later time
of my boyhood, and I am not quite there, yet.
[a] Vapeurs: gas or hysteric mood-swings (French)
As my father was impatient in all things, he was so too in regard
to what he called my "education". Mind you, he "educated" me; he
cared less for my sisters. He had placed all of his hopes in me
achieving in life, what he could not achieve, which was to obtain
not just a happier, but also a mentally higher position in life.
In this respect, I have to praise him for at least that much that,
in spite of regarding the wish for a so-called good income as the
most immediate priority, he saw the greater value in a sound
development of the personality in a mental respect. He felt this
in his innermost soul to a larger extent and more clearly, than he
was able to express in words. I was to become an educated,
possibly even a highly educated, man, able to achieve something
for the general well-being of humanity; this was his most
heartfelt wish, though he might not have expressed it in these
words, but differently. It is plain to see that he was asking a
lot, but this was no impudence on his part, but rather he always
believed in his wishes, and was fully convinced he could realize
them. But unfortunately, he was uncertain of the ways and means
for achieving this goal, and he underestimated the huge obstacles,
opposing his plan. He was willing to make every, even the
greatest, sacrifice, but he did not consider that even the very
greatest sacrifice of a poor devil does not carry the weight of
one gramme, one quentchen [a] against the opposition of the
general circumstances. And most of all, he never even suspected
that it took quite a different man than him for directing someone
towards such goals. He was of the opinion that, most of all, I
had to learn as much as possible, as quickly as possible, and all
of his actions were aiming at this with the greatest energy.
[a] Quentchen: An outdated German unit of measurement, 3.6515 g,
sometimes also a bit less.
I entered school at the age of five, which ended at the age of
fourteen. Learning was easy for me. I quickly caught up with my
two years older sister. Then, used school books were bought from
older boys. At home, I had to solve the problems, they had been
given in school. Thus, I soon became a stranger to my grade, a
severe psychological calamity for such a small, soft human child,
which was of course mostly beyond father's comprehension. I
believe that even the teachers did not suspect what a severe
mistake had been committed here. They just assumed without much
thought that a boy who cannot be taught anything new in his grade
simply had to be promoted to the next one in spite of his youth.
These gentlemen were all more or less close friends of my
father's, and so even the the local school inspector chose to
ignore the fact that I, at the age of eight or nine, sat among
boys who were eleven and twelve years old. In respect to my
mental progress, which, of course, does not mean much in an
elementary school, this might very well have been correct; but
in respect to my soul, it meant a severe, painful deprivation, I
was subjected to. Let me remark here that I make a very sharp
distinction between the mind and the soul, between what is mental
and what is spiritual (i.e. relating to the soul). What was given
to my little mind in those grades, I did not belong to according
to my age, was taken away from my soul. I did not sit among
children of my own age. I was regarded as an intruder, and all of
my little, warm needs of a child's soul were offered nothing to
satisfy them. I short, I was a stranger to my grade from the
start and became more of a stranger with every year. I had lost
the class-mates who had fallen behind, without winning those over
who were with me. Please, do not smile at this seemingly tiny,
most insignificant fate of a boy. An educator, knowing his way
around in the realm of a person's and a child's soul, will not
hesitate for a moment in taking this seriously, very seriously.
Every grown-up and even more every child wants to stand on firm
ground, which he must not lose, no matter what. But I had been
deprived of this ground. I have never had what is commonly
referred to as "boyhood". I was never granted a genuine, real
school-mate and boyhood-friend. The most simple consequence of
this is that I am still today, in my old age, a stranger to my
home-town, yes even more than any other stranger. They do not
know me there; I was never understood there, and so it happened
that a web of myths has been spun about me there, which I have to
reject most decidedly.
What I had to learn, according to my father, was not at all
limited to the lessons at school and the homework. He gathered
all kinds of material, without having the ability required to make
a selection or to determine any meaningful order. He brought
together everything he found. I had to read or even copy it,
since he believed that I could remember it better this way. What
did I have to endure, then! Old prayer-books, mathematical books,
books on natural history, learned treatises, I did not understand
a word of. I had to copy the entire 500 pages of a book on the
geography of Germany from 1802, in order to remember the numbers
better. There were, of course, already outdated for a very long
time! I spent entire days and half nights, cramming this
unnecessary stuff into my head. I was literally force-fed and
over-fed with this. I would probably have perished from it, if my
body had not developed such a strength that, in spite of the
extremely scarce food, it had been able to withstand even such a
strain quite well. And there were also times and hours of
relaxation. This was because father did not take a single walk
and did not make a single errant to the countryside without taking
me along. He used to pose only this one condition, that I would
not miss a single moment in school on account of this. The walks
through forests and groves were always most interesting, because
of his rich knowledge of the flora. But we did not spent all of
this time outdoors. There were were certain days for certain
inns. There met the teacher Schulze, the principal, the rich man
Wetzel, the grocer Thiele, the merchant Vogel, the captain of the
rifle-men Lippold, and others for bowling or for playing skat.
Father was always one of them, and me too, because I had to. He
thought, I belonged to him. He did not like to see me with other
boys, since I would have been unsupervised then. He did not have
the slightest concept for the fact that being with him, in the
company of grown men, was certainly not the best place for me
either. There, I could hear things and make observations, which
had better been kept from such a youthful boy. By the way, father
always practised moderation, even in the most happily drinking
company. I have never seen him drunk. Whenever he went to an
inn, his regular limit was one glass of simple beer at seven
pfennig and one glass caraway-liquor or a double juniper-liquor at
six pfennig; I was allowed to sip of this, too. On special
occasions he shared a piece of cake for six pfennig with me. No
one has ever warned him against bringing me into such a company of
adults, not even the principal or the minister, who also joined in
occasionally. At least those gentlemen should have known that,
even when the conversation centred on permissable and perfectly
clean topics, I was, as a silent, but very attentive listener,
nonetheless introduced to things and affairs which should have
been several decades in the future for me. I did not mature
early, since this term is only used in respect to one's sexuality,
and I did not get to hear anything about that, but rather
something much worse: I was lifted out of my childhood and
dragged onto that hard and filthy path on which my feet had to
feel like walking on broken glass. How well did I feel
afterwards, when I came to grandmother and could escape with her
to my dear land of make-believe! Naturally, I was much too young
to realize that this land was founded on the truest and firmest
part of reality. To me it had no feet; it floated in the air;
only later, after I had worked my way up to fully understand it,
it could offer me the support, I so desperately needed.
Then came the day, when a world revealed itself to me, which has
grabbed hold of me ever since. The theatre came to town. Just an
quite ordinary, miserable puppet-show, but a theatre nonetheless.
This was at the master weaver's house. First rows three groschen,
second rows two groschen, third rows one groschen, children half
price. I was permitted to go with grandmother. This cost fifteen
pfennig for both of us. The piece was called: "The miller's rose
or the battle of Jena." My eyes were burning; I was all ablaze
inside. Puppets, puppets, puppets! But for me, they were alive.
They talked; they loved and hated; they suffered; they made
great, daring decisions; they sacrificed themselves for king and
for fatherland. There it was again, what the cantor had said and
admired, then! My heart was cheering. After we had returned
home, grandmother had to describe to me how the puppets were
moved.
"On a wooden cross", she explained to me. "From this wooden cross
the strings extend downwards, which are attached to the limbs of
the puppets. They move, as soon as the cross above is moved."
"But they do speak!" I said.
"No, but the person holding the cross in his hands speaks. It is
just as in real life."
"What do you mean?"
"You don't understand this yet; but you will learn to understand
it."
I did not rest, until we were permitted to go once again. The
play was "Doctor Faust or God, man, and devil". It would be to no
avail, if I attempted to put the impression this play had on me
into words. This was not Goethe's Faust, but the Faust of the
ancient, traditional tale, not a drama summing up the entire
philosophy of a great poet and a bit more, but rather a scream to
heaven for redemption from the torment and fear of the worldly
life, emerging directly from the deepest depth of the people's
soul. I heard, I felt this scream, and I joined in with it,
though I was just a poor, ignorant boy, hardly nine years old
then. Goethe's Faust would not have been able to tell me, as a
child, anything; to be honest, it still does not tell me even
today what it probably wanted to tell and should have told
mankind; but those puppets spoke loudly, almost too loudly, and
what they said was great, infinitely great, because it was so
simple, so infinitely simple: a devil, who may only return to
God, if he brings that human soul along! And those strings, those
strings, which are all reaching upwards, straight into heaven!
And everything, everything moving down there is attached to the
cross, to pain, torment, the sufferings of this world. Whatever
is not attached to this cross is obsolete, is motionless, is dead
from heaven's perspective! Of course, the latter thoughts did not
occur to me then yet, not for a long time; but grandmother
talked in this manner, though not thus clearly, and whatever part
of it I did not see vividly before my very eyes, I nevertheless
started to sense in some uncertain manner. Being a member of the
students' choir, I had to attend church two times on Sundays and
holidays, and I enjoyed it. I cannot remember ever having missed
any of these religious services. But I am honest enough to say
that, in spite of all the spiritually uplifting experiences I had
there, I never came home from church with such an indescribably
deep impression, as that time from the puppet-show. Since that
night, up to this day, I regard the theatre as a place through the
gates of which nothing impure, ugly, or unholy must ever intrude.
When I asked the cantor, who had thought up and written down this
play, he answered that this had not been a single person, but
rather the soul of the entire human race, and a great, famous
German poet, Wolfgang Goethe by name, had turned it into a
wonderful work of art, written not for puppets, but for living
human beings. At this point, I quickly interjected: "Cantor, I
also want to become such a great poet, writing not for puppets,
but for living human beings! How do I have to go about it?"
Then, he gave me a long look with an almost pitiful smile and
answered: "Go about it however you like, my boy, you'll end up
sacrificing your work and your existence for nothing more than
puppets most of the time." Of course, I was not able to
understand this response until later; but those two nights had
undoubtedly a very marked effect on my little soul. God, man, and
devil have been and continue to be my favourite topics, and the
idea that most people were nothing but puppets, not moving by
themselves, but being moved, is always nearby in the background of
everything I do. Is it God or the devil, is it another human
being, a champion of the mind or a champion of arms, holding the
cross in his hands, from which the strings extend downwards, to
influence the human race? This is never obvious from the start,
but can only be determined later by the consequences.
Shortly afterwards, I also got to know plays which did not
come from the souls of the common people, but were written by
poets for the theatre, and this is the point where I have to
return to my drum. A company of actors came to stay in Ernstthal
for a while. So this was not a puppet-show, but rather a genuine
theatre. The prices were more than moderate: First rows 50
pfennig, second rows 25 pfennig, third rows 15 pfennig, and fourth
rows 10 pfennig, standing room only. But in spite of this
inexpensiveness, half of the seats remained empty every day. The
"artists" incurred debts. The manager got frightfully scared. He
was no longer able to pay the rent for the room which served as
the theatre, when a saviour appeared before him, and this saviour
was - - - me. While taking a walk, he had met my father and
poured out his troubles to him. They discussed the matter. As a
result of this, father rushed home and said to me: "Karl, get
your drum from the attic; we have to clean it!" "What for?" I
asked. "You have to drum Madame Preziosa [a] and all of her
gipsies three time across the stage." "Who is Madame Preziosa?"
"A young, beautiful gipsy girl, who is actually a count's
daughter. She has been kidnapped by the gipsies. Then, she
returns and finds her parents. You're the drummer boy, and you'll
get shiny buttons and a hat with a white feather. This will
attract the audience. It will be announced. If the "house" will
be sold out, the manager will give you five new-groschen;
otherwise you'll get nothing. The rehearsal is tomorrow at 11
a.m."
[a] The play "Preziosa" was written by Pius Alexander Wolff
(1782-1828).
It goes without saying that I was engulfed in joy. A gipsy
drummer! A count's daughter! Shiny buttons! A white feather!
Going three times around the entire stage! Fife new-groschen!
The following night, I slept very little and arrived very
punctually at the rehearsal. It worked out very well. All of the
artists liked me. The manager's wife petted my cheek. The
manager commended me on my intelligent face, my courage, and my
swift comprehension; but after all, he said, my part was rather
easy. Perhaps I could do it for just forty pfennig; even thirty
pfennig would be a generous salary. But father was with me and
did not yield a single pfennig, because he had realized my
artistic value and was not inclined to haggle. For these fifty
pfennig, I had to appear only once, to lead the big parade of the
gipsies. I stood by the scenery with all of the gipsies behind
me. On the opposite side of the scenery stood the director, who
also played the role of Pedro, the old overseer of the castle.
When he lifted his right hand, this was the sign for me to start
the parade immediately and to disappear back to the same spot in
the scenery, after having marched three times across the stage.
This was so childishly easy; it was impossible to go wrong. I
was given the shiny buttons right after the rehearsal. Mother had
to sew them to my clothes. There were more than thirty of them;
she had a hard time fitting them all on my waistcoat. In the
course of the afternoon, the hat with the white feather was
brought to me. It was hung out of the window for publicity and
worked its effect. I had to arrive a quarter of an hour before
the beginning of the show. I was received be the manager's wife
with a bright smile, because the room was already thus full that
some "box-seats" were quickly improvised in front, at a price of
ten new-groschen per seat. They were also swiftly sold. Father,
mother, and grandmother had been given free seats. After all, I
was a most valuable little person on that day. This realization
was so generally accepted that the manager's wife deemed it
necessary, to put my five new-groschen into the right pocket of my
trousers, before the curtain had even risen for the first time.
This increased my confidence and my artistic enthusiasm
enormously.
And now they had come, those grand, uplifting moments of my first
performance on stage. The first act was set in Madrid. Here, I
had nothing to do. I sat in the dressing-room and listened to
what was spoken on stage. Then, they came for me. I strapped on
the drum, put on the feathered hat, and went for my place in the
scenery. Don Fernando, Donna Klara, and also someone else stood
on stage. Overseer Pedro, who had to give me my sign, was leaning
against the opposite part of the scenery. He saw me coming on
with such a forceful stride that he thought I wanted to go
directly and right away out onto the stage. Therefore, he quickly
rose his right hand to tell me to stop. But I took this, most
naturally, for the agreed sign, though the gipsies were not
standing behind me yet, I started to roll my drum, and marched
out, all around the stage. Don Fernando and Donna Klara were
startled and petrified. "Brat!" the overseer shouted at me, when
I marched past him. Standing behind the scenery, he grabbed for
me, in oder to seize me and to pull me to him, but I had already
marched on. From all kinds of places behind the scenery, they
made signs at me, that I should stop and leave the stage; but I
insisted on what we had agreed upon, which was to go three times
all around the stage. "Brat!" the overseer bellowed, when I
passed him by for the second time, and doing this so loudly that,
in spite of the roll of the drum, it echoed throughout the entire
auditorium. The answer came in the form of loud laughter from
there; but I started my third round. "Bravo, bravo!" the cheers
of the audience resounded. Now, finally, the startled manager,
who was playing the part of Don Fernando, started to move again.
He leapt towards me, grasped both of my arms, so that I had to
stop and could not roll my drum any more, and roared at me:
"Boy, have you gone entirely mad? Will you stop it!"
"No, don't stop, go on, on and on!" they called from the
auditorium laughingly.
"Yes, on and on!" I also answered, freeing myself from his grasp.
"The gipsies have to come! Bring out the gang, bring out the
gang!"
"Yes, bring out the gang, bring out the gang!" screamed, hollered,
and cheered the audience.
But I marched on and started to roll my drum once again. And
then they came, the gang, though just reluctantly, Vianda the old
gipsy-mother ahead of them, and then all of the others following
her. Now, the real parade started, three rounds across the stage
and then back to my place in the scenery. But the audience wanted
more. They shouted: "Bring out the gang, bring them out!" and we
had to start the parade once again, and over and over again. And
in the end of the act, I had to appear two more times. What fun
was that! After that, there was really nothing else for me to do
and I could have left, but the manager would not let me go. He
wrote a short speech for me, which I had to learn by heart on the
spot and was supposed to recite in the end of the show. In case I
would do my job well, he promised me another fifty pfennig. This
invigorated my memory immensely. After the play had ended and the
applause began to fade away, I marched out once again rolling my
drum, to ask, while standing close to the edge of the stage, the
"noble ladies and gentlemen" not to depart immediately, because
the manager's wife would appear and go from seat to seat to sell
season-tickets as cheaply as they could hardly be made available
tomorrow, the day after, or anytime thereafter. Reminiscent of
words the audience had shouted in applause today, the manager had
put the end of this address into the following form: "Thus,
rrrreach with your hand into the pouch! And brrrring out the
money, brrrring it out!" By no means, the audience was offended
by this, but rather reacted with kind laughter, and my speech
produced its desired effect. All faces were smiling brightly, the
management's as well as those of the rest of the artists including
myself, because I did not only receive my other five new-groschen,
but on top of it also a free ticket valid for the entire, current
stay of the company in our town. I used it repeatedly, this is
for plays my father could allow me to see. But with this not at
all naughty company the audience hardly faced any danger of moral
corruption, because when one day the manager joined the bowlers
and was asked at this opportunity what fear caused him to remove
all those tender love-scenes from all of his plays, he answered:
"It's partially my moral obligation and partially just common
sense. Our first and only leading actress is too old and
furthermore too ugly for those parts."
In the plays I saw, I sought to find the cross and the strings,
suspending the puppets. I was too young to find them. This was
left to a later time. I also could not succeed in spotting the
influences of God, devil, and man. Even still today, this happens
to me very frequently, though these three factors are not just the
most relevant, but also the only ones, the interactions of which
have to be the building-blocks of a drama. I say this now, as a
grown-up, an old man. Then, as a child, I understood none of this
and allowed empty, hollow superficialness to impress me
tremendously, like any other more or less grown-up child. Those
people, who wrote such plays that were performed on stage, seemed
to me like gods. If I was such a gifted person, I would not tell
of kidnapped gipsy-girls, but of my glorious Sitara-fable, of
Ardistan and Jinnistan, of the spirits' furnace of Kulub, of the
deliverance from the torments of earth, and all those other,
similar things! It is plain to see, once again I had reached one
of these points in my life, where I was ripped out off the firm
ground which other children have, and which I also needed so
desperately, to be lifted up into a world I did not belong to,
because only the chosen ones, men of ripe age, may enter here.
And there was more than this.
My parents were Lutheran Protestants. Accordingly, I had been
baptised in the Lutheran manner, received Lutheran religious
education, and had a Lutheran confirmation at the age of fourteen.
But this did not lead to an hostile attitude against members of
other faiths at all. We neither regarded ourselves as better or
more called upon to do God's work than them. Our old minister was
a kind, friendly gentleman, who would never have thought of using
his office to saw religious hatred. Out teachers thought the
same. And those who matter most in these things, father, mother,
and grandmother, were all three of a deeply religious background,
but of this inborn, not acquired religiosity, which does not seek
any kind of confrontation and demands from everyone most of all to
be a good person. Once he is this, he can just the more easily
prove himself to be a good Christian as well. Once, I heard the
minister talking to the principal about religious differences.
The first one said: "A fanatic is never a good diplomat." I
remembered that. I have already said that I attended church twice
on every Sunday and holiday, but without being bigoted or even
regarding this as a special merit on my part. I prayed daily, in
every situation of my life, and still pray today. As long as I
live, there has never been a single moment when I might have
doubted in God, his all-mightiness, his wisdom, his love, or in
him being just. Today, I am still as steadfast as ever in this,
my unwavering faith.
I always had a tendency towards symbolism, and not just the
religious kind. Every person and every action which stands for
something good, noble, or deep is sacred to me. Therefore, some
religious customs, I had to participate in as a boy, made a rather
special impression upon me. One of these customs was this: The
confirmees, who had received their blessing on Palm Sunday,
participated on the following Maundy Thursday, for the first time
in their lives, in the Holy Communion. Only during this one
celebration of the last supper, and no other one for the entire
year, the first four members of the students' choir stood by the
altar, two on each side, to offer their assistance. They were
dressed just like ministers, a cassock, bands, and a white scarf.
They stood between the minister and the communicants, approaching
the altar two at a time, and held out black cloths with golden
borders, to keep any part of the holy offering from being spilled.
Since I joined the students' choir at quite a young age, I had to
perform this office several times, before I received the blessing
for myself. These godly moments of faith before the altar still
continue to have their effect on me today, after so many years
have past.
Another one of these customs was that each year on the first day
of Christmas the leading boy of the students' choir had to ascent
the pulpit during the main religious service, to sing the prophesy
of Isaiah, chapter 9, verses 2 to 7. He did this all alone,
mildly and quietly accompanied by the organ. This took some
courage, and rather often, the organist had to come to the little
singer's aid, to keep him from getting stuck. I also have sung
this prophesy, and just as the congregation heard me sing it, so
it is still impressed upon me and resounds from me to even my most
distant reader, though in other words, between the lines of my
books. Whoever has stood on the pulpit as little school-boy and
has sung with a cheerfully uplifted voice before the attentive
congregation that a bright light would appear and that from now on
there would be no end to peace, he will, unless he utterly resists
against it, be accompanied by this very star of Bethlehem for his
entire life, which even keeps on shining when all other stars fade
away.
Someone who is not accustomed to see the deeper meanings might say
now that here again I have come to such a point, where the support
of my fellow men had been pulled out from under my feet, so that
spiritually I was finally hovering in thin air. But the very
opposite is the case. Nothing has been taken from me, but much,
very much has been given, though no support, no save hiding-place
down in the soil, but rather a rope, sufficiently strong and firm,
to be saved by rising upwards, if ever the abyss should open up
beneath me, the abyss I was destined for, as fatalists would say,
from the very start. By starting to talk about this abyss, I
enter those areas of my so-called boyhood, where the morasses were
to be found and still are found, from which all the mists and all
the poisons arise, which have turned my life into an
uninterrupted, endless torment.
The name of this abyss is, to call it by its proper name right
from the start - - reading. By no means did I plummet into it,
suddenly, surprisingly, and unexpectedly, but rather I descended
into it, step by step, slowly and purposefully, always guided by
my father's hand. Granted, he suspected as little as I, where
this path would lead us. My first reading material consisted of
the fairy-tales, the herbal book, and the illustrated Bible with
our ancestors' annotations. This was followed by the various
school-books of the present and the past, which were to be found
in our little town. Then came all sorts of other books, father
borrowed from all around. Besides this, there was the Bible. Not
just a selection of biblical stories, but the entire, complete
Bible, which I have read repeatedly as a boy, from the first word
to the last, with all that is in it. Father thought this was a
good thing, and no one of my teachers spoke out against him, not
even the minister. He did not permit me to even give the
appearance of having nothing to keep me busy. And he was against
any kind of participation in the "misdoings" of other boys. He
brought me up as one would manufacture a prototypical specimen, to
promote one's work before others. I had to be at home all the
time, to write, to read, and to "learn"! By and by, I was exempt
from sewing gloves. Even when he left the house, this did not
give me any relief, because he took me with him. When I saw
children of my own age jumping, running, playing, and laughing in
the market square, I rarely dared to utter the wish to join them,
because when father was not in a good mood, this was very
dangerous. Then, when I sat sadly or even with a hidden tear with
my book, mother occasionally pushed my out of the door and
mercifully said: "So just go out for a bit; but be back within
ten minutes, or he'll beat you up. I'll say, I'd sent you
somewhere!" Oh, this mother, this uniquely good, poor, quiet
mother! If you want to know what else I think of her, even today,
turn to the poem on page 105 of my book "Himmelsgedanken"
<Thoughts of Heaven>. And the poem on page 109 refers to my
grandmother, out of whose soul the character of Marah Durimeh has
grown, this oriental princess, which symbolises to my and my
readers the "soul of mankind".
After I had read so about everything that was to be found in the
private households of Hohenstein-Ernstthal in the form of books of
every genre, and had also copied or made notes of much, very much
of it, father started looking around for new sources. There had
been three of them, these were the libraries of the cantor, the
principal, and the minister. The cantor proved to be the most
reasonable one of the three in this respect as well. He said, he
had no books for entertainment, but only books for learning, and I
was still far too young for those, then. But nevertheless, he
parted with one of them, for the thought, it might be very useful
for me as member of the choir to learn how to translate the Latin
texts of our hymns into the the German language. This book was on
Latin grammar; the title page was missing, but on the next page
it read:
"A boy must get his lessons down,
for him to be a dominus, [a]
but if he learns just with a frown,
thus he will be an asinus!" [b]
[a] dominus (Latin) = master, lord
[b] asinus (Latin) = donkey, ass
Father was truly delighted about this four-lined rhyme and stated
that I should take good care that would not become an asinus, but
rather a dominus. So, now I was to get busy and quickly learn
some Latin!
Soon afterwards, some families of Ernstthal arrived at the
decision to emigrate to America, in the coming year. Therefore,
their children were to learn as much English as possible during
this period of time. It goes without saying that I had to join
them! And then it happened that in some manner, I do not recall
how, a book came into our possession, containing French songs of
the Freemasons, both lyrics and melodies. It had been printed in
the year 1782 in Berlin and was dedicated to "His Royal Highness,
Friedrich Wilhelm, prince of Prussia". Just for that, it had to
be good and of a very high value! The title read: "Chansons
maçonniques", and the melody I liked the most had seven four-lined
stanzas to be sung to it, the first of which I would like to quote
here:
"Nous vénérons de l'Arabie
La sage et noble antiquité,
Et la célèbre Confrairie
Transmise à la postérité." [a]
[a] We venerate Arabia, the wise and noble ancient world, and the
famous Brotherhood (confrérie), passed on to posterity.
The term "songs of the Freemasons" had a particular attraction.
What a delight to be able to delve into the secrets of
freemasonry! Luckily, the principal also gave private lessons in
French. He permitted me to enter into this "circle", and so it
happened that I had to deal with Latin, English, and French now
all at the same time.
The principal was less reluctant in respect to borrowing me some
of his books than the cantor. His favourite subject was
geography. He possessed hundreds of geographic and ethnographic
volumes, which he all made available to my father for me. I
grasped this treasure with true enthusiasm, and the kind gentleman
was glad about it, without having even the most obvious objections
against it. Though he contemplated seeking employment as a
minister, he was nonetheless in his heart more a philosopher than
a theologian, and tended towards a freer way of thinking. But
this was less obvious from his words than from the books he owned.
At the same time, the minister also allowed me access to his
library. He was no philosopher at all, but only and exclusively a
theologian, nothing else. I am not referring to our old, kind
minister, I mentioned before, but his successor, who first gave me
all of his little tracts to read and then added to them all kinds
of scriptures by Redenbacher and other good people, to awaken the
faith, uplift the spirit, and educate the youth. So it happened
that I had received from the principal, for instance, an
enthusiastic description of Islamic charity and from the minister
a missionary report, which bitterly complained about the obvious
decline in Christian compassion, now lying before me side by side.
In the first one's library, I got familiar with Humboldt,
Bonpland, and all those other "great" men, who trusted more in
science than in religion, and in the second one's library there
were all those other "great" men, who esteemed religious
revelation infinitely higher than all scientific results. And
during all this, I was by no means an adult, but a stupid, a very
stupid boy; but even much more foolish than I, were those who
allowed me to fall and sink into those conflicts, without knowing
what they did. Everything that was written in those so diverse
books, could have been good, yes even excellent; but for me it
had to turn into poison.
But even worse things followed. The private lessons in those
foreign languages, which I received now, had to be payed, and I
was the one who had to earn this money in one way or another. We
looked around. A bar in Hohenstein was looking for a nimble,
persevering boy to set up the pins in the bowling alley. I
applied, though I had no experience, and got the job. Yes, I did
earn money there, very much money, but how! By what pains! And
what else did I sacrifice for this! The bowling alley was used
often, being located in a closed room with a stove, so that it
could be used in summer as well as in winter and in all kinds of
weather. They bowled every day. From now on, I could not even
find a quarter of an hour of spare time, and in particular not on
a Sunday afternoon. Then, it started right after church and
lasted until late at night. But the most busy day was Monday,
because this was the day of the weekly market, when the
inhabitants of the countryside came into town, to bring their
products, to do their shopping, and - last but not least - to have
a game of bowling. But this one game turned into five, ten,
twenty, and it could happen on these Mondays that I had to toil
from twelve o'clock at noon until after midnight, without even
being able to take just five minutes of rest. To strengthen
myself, I got in the afternoon and in the evening a buttered slice
of bread and and a glass of stale beer, poured together from the
left-overs. It also happened that a sympathetic bowler, seeing
that I could hardly go on, brought me a glass of hard liquor, to
invigorate me. I never complained about this excessive strain at
home, because I saw how indispensably what I earned was needed.
The amount I got together there on a weekly basis really made a
big difference. I received a fixed income for every hour and
furthermore a certain amount for every honneur [a] that was
bowled. If the game was not played in the normal way, but free
betting, or even gambling was practised, this amount was doubled
or tripled. There have been Mondays, when I brought home more
than twenty groschen, but was so tired, I more stumbled than
climbed up the stairs to our lodgings.
[a] Honneur: French for "honour", but here it means striking the
middle row of the pins.
But what did my soul gain from this? Nothing at all, it just lost
something. The beer they drank was just of a simple and cheap
kind, but hard liquor was consumed in particularly large
quantities. I will show elsewhere that these were not the kind of
people, who would be familiar with what one might describe as
consideration or even sensitivity. Everything which might have
come into someone's mind was blurted out without restraint. You
can imagine the kinds of things I got to hear there! The long
enclosure of the bowling alley worked like an ear-trumpet. Every
word which was spoken in the front among the players reached me
clearly. Everything which grandmother and mother, the cantor and
the principal as well, has built up within me, was outraged at
what I got to hear here. There was much filth and also much
poison in it. There was none of that powerful, utterly healthy
gaiety which, for instance, can be found at an upper Bavarian
bowling alley, but those were people, who came directly from the
mind-numbing atmosphere of their looms into the bar, to have for a
few hours the illusion of pleasure, but which was anything less
than a pleasure, at least for me it was torture, physically as
well as spiritually.
And yet, this bar had even much worse poison to offer than beer
and brandy and similar, evil things, this was a rental library,
and what a library! Never again have I seen such a filthy,
internally and externally perfectly rough, extremely dangerous
collection of books like this one! It was extremely profitable,
because it was the only one for both small towns. No new books
were bought. The only change that came upon it was that the
covers grew even filthier and the pages grew even greasier and
more worn out. But the contents was eagerly devoured by the
readers, again and again, and I have to admit to the truth and
confess to my own disgrace that I also, once I had tasted it,
totally succumbed to the devil, who was hiding in those volumes.
Let some of the titles show what kind of a devil this was:
Rinaldo Rinaldini, the Robbers' Captain, by Vulpius, Goethe's
brother-in-law [a]. Sallo Sallini, the Noble Captain of the
Robbers. Himlo Himlini, the Charitable Captain of the
Robbers. [b] The Robbers' Den on Monte Viso. [c] Bellini, the
Admirable Bandit. The Robber's Beautiful Bride or the Victim of
the Unfair Judge. The Tower of Starvation or the Cruelty of the
Laws. Bruno von Löweneck, der Annihilator of the Clerics. [d]
Hans von Hunsrück or the Robber-Knight as a Protector of the Poor.
Emilia, the Immured Nun. Botho von Tollenfels, the Saviour of the
Innocent. The Bride at the Execution. The King as a Murderer.
The Sins of the Archbishop etc. etc.
[a] This is Christian August Vulpius (1762-1827), the brother of
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's wife Christiane.
[b] "Sallo Sallini" and "Himlo Himlini" were both written by
Georg Carl Ludwig Schöpffer (1811-1876), published in 1828 and
1833.
[c] "Die Räuberhöhle auf dem Monte Viso", by Theodor Graeber,
published in 1834.
[d] Perhaps this refers to "Bruno von Loeveneck und Clara von
Hundsrück", published anonymously in 1825.
When I came to set up the pins and no players had come yet, the
owner of the bar gave me one of these books, to read it for the
time being. Later, he told me I could read them all, without
having to pay for it. And I read them; I devoured them; I read
them three or four times! I took them home. I sat for entire
nights over them with burning eyes. Father did not object.
Nobody warned me, not even those who would have been so very much
obliged to warn me. They knew very well, what I read; I did not
conceal it. And what an effect this had! I did not even suspect
what this caused inside of me; how much collapsed within me;
that the few means of support I, the boy who was spiritually
hovering in thin air, still had now also fell with the exception
of one, this was my faith in God and my confidence in Him.
Psychology is presently in a process of transformation. More and
more, the distinction between the mind and the soul is being made.
There is an attempt to separate the two, to define them sharply,
to prove their differences. It is being said that a human being
was not a single entity, but a drama. For the purpose of going
along with this view, I must not confuse what affected my small,
still growing mind and my boyish soul. All of this extensive
reading, I was forced to do up to now, did not profit my soul at
all, not in the least; just the ever so tiny mind did bear the
effects of this, but what an effects were these! It had been
blown up and rolled out into a little, monstrously fat, big-headed
freak. The very well, perhaps even extraordinarily, talented boy
had transformed into an unshapely, mentally deformed creature, who
possessed nothing real except for his helplessness. And
spiritually, my soul was without home, without youth, was just
held up by this strong, indestructible rope, I mentioned before,
and was only tied to the earth below by this more poetic than
material high regard for king and fatherland, law and justice,
which originated from those days when the eleven companies of
heroes had been formed in Ernstthal, to save the severely besieged
monarch of Saxony and his government from certain ruin. But now,
this support was taken from me as well by reading from this
shameful rental library. All of those robber-captains, bandits,
and robber-knights, of which I read there, were noble people.
Whatever they were now, they had become because of bad people,
especially because of unfair judges and the cruel authorities.
They possessed the true religious virtues, ardent patriotism,
limitless charity, and styled themselves as the knights and
saviours of all those who were poor, all those who were
downtrodden and oppressed. They imbued the reader with respect
and admiration; but all adversaries of these glorious men were to
be despised, and in particular the authorities whose designs were
foiled again and again. And most of all, there was this fullness
of life, of action, of movement, which dominated these books! On
every page, something happened, something most interesting, some
great, hard, daring deed, which was to be admired. What, on the
other hand, had happened in all those books I had read up to now?
What happened in the minister's tracts? In his boring,
meaningless scriptures for the youth? And what happened in those
otherwise rather good and useful books of the principal? They
described great, large, and distant countries, but nothing
happened in all of this. They told of foreign people and nations,
but they did not move, they did nothing. This was all just
geography, just geography, nothing else; any kind of a plot was
missing. And just ethnography, just ethnography; but the puppets
stood still. There was no God, no man, and also no devil, to take
the cross with the strings into his hand and to give these dead
characters life! And yet, there is one person, who absolutely
demands this life, this is the reader. And this is the one, upon
whom everything depends, because he alone is the one the books are
written for. The reader's soul will turn away from any kind of
lack of movement, because this means this soul's death. What a
wealth of life was there, on the other hand, in this rental
library! And how was it tuned to the peculiarities and
requirements of the one who would take such a book into his hands!
As soon as he would feel a wish while reading, it is already
fulfilled. And what an admirable, unchanging justice rules the
scene. Every good, honourable person, may he be the captain of
the robbers ten times over, is invariably rewarded. And every
evil person, every sinner, may he be ten times a king, general,
bishop, or public prosecutor, is invariably punished. This is
true justice; this is divine justice! No matter how much Goethe
may write in poetry and prose about the glory and irrevocability
of divine and human law, he is nonetheless wrong! Only his
brother-in-law Vulpius is right, for he has created that Rinaldo
Rinaldini!
What was worst about this reading was that it took place in the
later phase of my boyhood, when everything which took hold of my
soul was to be kept there forever. In addition, there was my
inborn naivety, which I still have even today to a large degree.
I believed in what I read there, and father, mother, and sisters
believed it with me. Only grandmother shook her head, and even
the more the longer it lasted; but she was outvoted by the rest
of us. In our poverty, we found an great delight in reading about
"noble" people, who kept on giving away riches. That they had
stolen and robbed those riches from others before, was just their
business; this did not irritate us! When we read how many needy
people had been supported and saved by such robbers' captain, we
were happy about this and imagined how nice it would be, if such a
Himlo Himlini would suddenly step through our door, put ten
thousand shiny talers on the table, and said: "This is for your
boy; let him study and become a dramatic poet!" This was because
the latter had become my ideal, since I had seen the "Faust".
I must confess that I not just read those ruinous books, but read
them to others as well, first to my parents and sisters and then
also to other families, who were so very eager to hear them. It
is immeasurable how much damage a single one of these trashy books
can cause. Everything positive is lost, and finally, only the
miserable negation remains. The concepts and views of the law
change; the lie turns into the truth, the truth, into the lie.
The conscience dies. The differentiation between good and evil
becomes more and more unreliable! This finally leads to the
admiration for the forbidden deed, which gives the illusion of
relief from want. But with this, a person has by no means reached
the very bottom of the abyss yet; it is deeper, even deeper
still, leading down to the most extreme criminal existence.
This was the time when the decision had to be made, what I should
do after the confirmation. I would have liked so endlessly much
to go to a secondary school and then to a university. But for
this the means just were not enough. I had to downgrade my wishes
and finally arrived at the idea of becoming primary school
teacher. But we were even too poor for this. We looked around
for help. The merchant Friedrich Wilhelm Layritz, no relation
with the town's judge by the same name, was a very rich and very
religious man. Though nobody had ever proven him responsible for
any charitable act, he never missed church, enjoyed talking about
humaneness and neighbourly love, and was connected with our family
by means of a godfathership. We had got all of the information
and had made a rough estimate. If we worked properly, saved
properly, starved properly, and I would not waste a single pfennig
at the seminary in vain, we would only need another five to ten
taler per year. We had figured this out. Of course it was all
wrong; but we thought it to be right. My parents had never
borrowed a single pfennig; now they were determined to take a
loan for my sake. Mother went to Mr. Layritz. He sat down in an
arm-chair, folded his hands, and let her state her case. She told
him everything and asked him to borrow us five taler, not right
now, but when we would need them, this was when I would have
passes the entry exam. Until then, there was still so very much
time. To this, he answered without giving it much thought: "My
dear friend, it's true, I'm rich and you're poor, very poor. But
you have the same God as I, and as He has helped me to get where I
am, so He will help you as well. I also have children, like you,
and have to provide for them. Thus, I can't lend you these five
taler. But be confident and go home, pray frequently, then you
can be sure that in time someone will be found who can spare the
money and will give it to you!"
This happened late in the evening. I sat at home, reading one of
these books about robbers, when mother returned and told what Mr.
Layritz had said. It was more her outrage at such a kind of
religiousness than the rejection, which made her cry. Father sat
still for a long time; then, he got up and left. But while
stepping out of the door, he said: "We'll not try anything like
this again! Karl will go to seminary, even if I have to work
until my hands bleed!" After he had left, the rest of us
continued sitting sadly together for a long time. Then we went to
bed. But I did not sleep, but stayed awake. I searched for a way
out. I struggled to reach a decision. The book I had been
reading bore the title: "The Robbers' Den at Sierra Morena or The
Angel of All Oppressed". After Father had returned home and had
fallen asleep, I got out of bed, sneaked out of the chamber, and
got dressed. Then, I wrote on a piece of paper: "You shall not
work until your hands bleed; I am going to Spain; I am getting
help!" I placed this paper on the table, put a small piece of dry
bread into my pocket as well as a few groschen from the money I
had earned at the bowling alley, descended down the stairs, opened
the door, took another deep breath and sighed, but just quietly,
very quietly, lest anybody should hear it, and walked with hushed
steps down the market square, leaving town by the Niedergasse
<lower alley>, turning to the Lungwitzer road, which lead via
Lichtenstein to Zwickau [a], towards Spain, to Spain, the land of
the noble robbers, the helpers from distress. - - -
[a] Zwickau is the next larger town to the west of Ernstthal,
about 17 km (10 miles) away. Lichtenstein is a small town
about half way between the two. (Do not confuse this with
Liechtenstein.)
IV. My Time at the Seminary and as a Teacher
No plant draws what is to be contained in its cells and in its
fruits from itself, but rather from the soil it sprang from and
from the atmosphere it breaths. A human being is also a plant in
this respect. Though not being physically attached to one spot,
we are nevertheless mentally and spiritually rooted, deeply
rooted, very deeply, more deeply than many a giant tree in the the
Californian soil. Therefore, nobody can be held fully responsible
for whatever he does while he is still in the process of
development. To hold him fully accountable for all of his
mistakes, would be just as wrong as pretending that he had
obtained all of his good qualities entirely on his own. Only he
who precisely knows and correctly assesses the native soil and the
adolescent atmosphere of a "developed" one, is capable to prove
with some amount of certainty, which parts of his lot in life are
the product of the given circumstances and which of the purely
individual intentions of the person concerned. It has been one of
the worst cruelties of the past, to burden every poor devil who
was led to a violation of the law by his circumstances, in
addition to his own, possibly minor, guilt, with the entire, heavy
load of the circumstances as well. Unfortunately, there are still
more than enough people today who, even now, still commit this
cruelty, without even suspecting that they are the ones who would
have to share in bearing the responsibility, if there were laws to
that effect. And usually, it are not at all the remote people,
but even more so the dear "neighbours", who cast stone upon stone
on one of them, though the influences he succumbed to where most
of all coming from them as well. Thus, they also bear part of the
guilt themselves, which they cast upon him.
When I am now taking on the task of putting the circumstances
which shaped me through an unbiased examination, this is not done
with the intension to cast any part of my own guilt from me and
upon others, but only to demonstrate for once by an expressive
example how careful someone has to be who would want to endeavour
on a precise investigation of the origin and development of a
single human being.
At this time, Hohenstein and Ernstthal were two small towns, which
were situated so close together that in some parts their narrow
alleys intertwined like the fingers of two folded hands. In
Hohenstein, the natural philosopher Gotthilf Heinrich von Schubert
was born, whose earlier work was under the influence of Schelling,
but who then turned to pietistic-ascetic mysticism. His native
town has built a monument in his honour. From Ernstthal was the
accomplished philosopher and author Pölitz, whose library
consisted of more than 30.000 volumes, which he had left to the
city of Leipzig. Here, I am less concerned with Hohenstein than
with Ernstthal, where I, as Hobble-Frank [a] would put it, "for
the first time saw the light of day". The first and oldest
impressions of my childhood are those of a lamentable poverty, and
not just in a material, but also in another respect. Never again
in my life, I have seen so much mental frugality in one spot as
then. The mayor had no university training. There was a
night-watchman, but the inhabitants had to take turns in
participating in the nightly watch. The main occupation was
weaving. The wages could only be described as meagre, often even
more than meagre. At certain times, there was little or no work
at all for weeks, sometimes even for months. Then, one could see
women going to the forest and bringing back baskets full of
brushwood, to have something for the fire in winter. At night, on
lonely paths, one could come across men, carrying large logs home,
which had to be sawn and chopped into firewood the very night, so
that nothing could be found, when the premises were searched. The
poor weavers had to work hard, in order to fend off hunger.
Saturday was payday. Then, everyone brought his "piece to the
market". For every flaw, which could be found, a certain amount
was subtracted from the wages. So many a man brought home less
than he had expected. Then, it was time to relax. Saturday night
was devoted to gaiety and - - - booze. One neighbour met with
another. The "Bulle" was handed around. "Bulle" is short for
bouteille [b]. In some families they sang to this, but what songs
were these ever so often! In others the cards ruled the scene.
Then, they played "lumpen", "schafkopf", or even "tippen". The
latter is an illegal game of chance, on which some men spent the
earnings of an entire week. To this, they drank from a single
glass. This went from one hand to another, from one mouth to
another. Even on the Sunday promenade, just as anytime someone
left his house, a supply of brandy was brought along. So they sat
at the picnic and drank. Hard liquor was a part of everything;
one would not want to do without it. It was regarded as the only
relief from worry, and its worst effects were accepted, as if this
was the most natural thing in the world.
[a] Hobble-Frank: a character from several of Karl May's novels.
[b] bouteille: bottle (French). Let me offer an alternative
etymology for the word "Bulle". It is common for people from
Saxony to pronounce a "P" like a "B". Thus, I would guess
that "Bulle" is actually just the Saxonian pronunciation of
that colloquialism for a bottle which is more correctly
pronounced and spelled as "Pulle", which in turn is a
degeneration of the Latin "ampulla" according to my
etymological dictionary.
Of course, there were also so-called better families, who were not
governed by alcohol, but there were only very few of them. There
were no patrician dynasties in either town. In Hohenstein lived
some families who had a higher reputation than others, but not in
Ernstthal. The minister and the physicians were the only persons
with an academic education, and then there also was a lawyer,
whose liquidations simply would not want to turn into a
comfortable income. Thus, the entire way of life was on an
extremely low level, and the general tone of conversation was
tuned in a way which would seem almost impossible now. In
personal relations, nick-names were often more in use than the
genuine, real names. Let the name Wolf serve as the only example,
I am going to list here. There was a Weißkopfwolf <white head
wolf>, a Rotkopfwolf <red head wolf>, a Daniellobwolf, a
Schlagwolf, and also lots of wolves by other names. The houses
were little, the alleys were narrow. Everyone could look into his
neighbour's windows and observe everything what happened. Thus it
became almost an impossibility to keep secrets from one another.
And since there is no one without fault, everyone has his
neighbour in the bag. Everything was known, but nothing was said.
Just occasionally, when it was deemed necessary, a small hint was
dropped, and this was enough. What this led to was an
everlasting, but silent hypocrisy, a low form of irony, a
seemingly benevolent sarcasm, which had no real basis. This was
unhealthy and spread more and more, without anybody noticing it.
This corroded; this was like poison. Thus, the card games of the
Saturday nights had turned into a shady undertaking, serving the
purpose of carrying out an illegal, yes even cheating, fraudulent
game of cards. The persons concerned met, to practise the
fabrication and the usage of marked cards. They established
themselves in an inn, located out of town. They sent out scouts
to bring in their victims. There they sat for entire nights,
playing for high stakes. Ever so often, someone came with full
pockets and left with empty ones. These goings on were well known
in town. The news of every new trick they pulled off spread
quickly. The sums they bagged were discussed with pleasure,
instead of holding their fraud against them. The card sharpers
were treated like honest people. They were supported. Yes, their
wits were admired and praised, and not the slightest thing that
was known about then was betrayed. It would not have occurred to
a single person that, by this, the entire town became an accessory
to the fraud, committed against the victims they brought in, and
that everyone who knew about these rackets ought to have
considered himself as guilty as a receiver of stolen goods. If,
at this time, anybody had said that this was a deplorable, general
state of immorality, he would probably have been laughed at or
perhaps even worse. The general sense for what is right had been
misguided. The card sharpers were admired, just as the Rinaldo
Rinaldinis and Himlo Himlinis from the old rental library were
admired, the volumes of which were eagerly read, because it was
the only library for both towns. I have never heard that the
mayor, the minister, or any other official, whose duty this might
have been, had ever summoned one of these card sharpers to
admonish him and to make him cease setting such an evil example
for the entire community. It was tolerated. Everyone shut his
eyes to it and kept quiet. But the younger generation, seeing and
hearing all of this, had to get the impression that these acts of
fraud were an admirable and very worth while occupation, and such
an impression will never be blurred again. At one time, I have
been told by a law-professional, that I had grown up in a filthy
swamp. Would you think, that this gentleman was right or not?
Two peculiar outgrowths of this swamp were the two names
"Batzendorf" <Batzen Village> and the "Lügenschmiede" <forge of
lies>. The first name is derived from the well known, old, South
German and Swiss divisional coin, batzen by name. Batzendorf was
the community of a non-existent village, which every inhabitant of
Ernstthal could join. It was a joke, but a joke which was
frequently overdone. Batzendorf had its own council, its own
minister, its own administration, but all of this was regarded in
a manner which was meant to be humorous. The very smallest house
of Ernstthal, the one where the vegetable vendor Dore Wendelbrück
lived, had been declared to be the town hall of Batzendorf. One
morning, there was a tower on top of it, which had been pieced
together from wooden boards and cigar-boxes, und had been placed
on old Dore's roof, without even asking her. But she was very
proud of it. The innkeeper's wife from the Meisterhaus-inn was
the village's night-watchwoman. She had to announce the hours and
blow her horn. Every public authority and people from every lower
walk of life were represented, down to the potato-watchman and the
guardian of the pods, all of this was also a joke. Every
Saturday, they held a meeting. Here, the entire community came
together and the craziest plans were hatched, to be actually
carried out, later on: baptisms of infants at the age of fifty,
the wedding of two widows, an exercise of the fire-brigade without
water, the election of a new community-goose, a public test of a
new remedy against tape-worms, and similar crazy, often even very
crazy things. The town's judge Layritz had grown old and did
nothing about this. The minister was even older and never thought
bad of anything. He always said: "Just don't overdo it, just
don't overdo it!" With this, he thought his duty was done. The
cantor shook his head. He was too modest, to step forward with a
public reproof. But when being alone with my father, he had the
courage to warn him: "Don't go along with this, neighbour, don't
you go along with this! This isn't good for you, and it's also
not good for Karl. What's done there, is nothing but parody,
irony, mocking, and jeering of things, the sanctity of which no
one should ever question! And especially children should never
get to see or to hear something like this!"
He was very, very right. This "Batzendorf", where batzen-money
was the only accepted currency, has existed for quite a number of
years and had many a quiet, secret, but just the more evil effect.
There, "the ties of decent restraint" were loosened. There was
something new every week. We children observed the silliness of
the adults with huge interest and joined in the mockery and the
parody, but of course, without becoming aware of it. This went on
like that, until the town's administration and the church came
under a new, strict rule, and Batzendorf was ruined by its own
doings. But it had benefited no one. This was a swamp of moral
degradation to which not only the older ones had turned, but we
younger ones were also led right into it and very much of our
nature as children got stuck in it and had to be left behind. The
untalented ones were less hurt by this; but on the talented ones
it continues to have its effect and grows inside of him up to a
size which later, once it becomes apparent, cannot be contained
any longer.
The "Lügenschmiede" was of a slightly newer date. In talking
about it, I intensionally do not give any names. What I have to
say, I only want to direct against the matter itself, not against
any persons. In Ernstthal, there were several younger people who
had much talent for satire. Basically, they were very
respectable, kind people, and therefore could have used their
talents for their benefit, if they had lived under different, more
generous circumstances, but as things were, they got stuck below,
in the limited circumstances, and were therefore unable to achieve
anything but the petty and the ordinary, often even just the very
trivial. This has been a real waste of talent!
One of them, perhaps the most enterprising and most humorous one,
got to own his own house and had the audacity to open a
delicatessen in this town of Ernstthal, where there was so little
appreciation and money for delicacies, but of course, this
included a restaurant, because without it, he surely would not
have been able to find any customers. At first, this restaurant
bore no particular name; but it did not take long, until it got
one, and a very fitting one, as well. It had been called the
"Lügenschmiede" <forge of lies> and its proprietor was referred to
as the "Lügenschmied" <smith of lies>. Why? The proprietor as
well as his regulars all liked a good laugh. A stranger might
have frequented this place several times, without noticing
anything of it. But suddenly, it came over him, suddenly,
entirely unexpectedly, and with an irresistible certainty. He was
"done", as they called it. They had discovered his weakest spot
and his strongest hook, which was used to hang some cleverly
devised lie on it, which he had to believe, whether he liked it or
not. This lie had to put him into an embarrassing situation, no
matter how he might try to avert it, and even if he had been ten
or hundred times smarter than those who had decided to trip him.
This forge of lies became famous all around. Thousands of
strangers came as guests, and everyone who got the idea of getting
into an argument with the owner and his regulars, got his
thrashing and embarrassedly went on his way.
Ordinary guests got the simple treatment. When someone demanded a
beer, he got a cognac. Did he ask for a brandy, he received
lemonade. If he wanted to eat a pickled herring, he was presented
with unpealed potatoes and apple-sauce. And nobody refused to
take it and to pay for it, because they all knew that otherwise
embarrassment would follow. Better guests were not in for such
ordinary jokes. They were kept waiting. "He isn't quite ripe
yet", the Lügenschmied used to say. And everyone got ripe,
everyone, whoever or whatever he might be, whether he had studied
or not, whether his rank was high or low. The pranks were often
quite ingenious, but had always a tendency towards the ordinary.
A guest, who wanted to get a shave, had been told, the barber was
not at home, but rather here, sitting right next to him. But
actually, this man was no barber, but rather a baker. He lathered
the man with aniline and shaved him, while all the others kept a
straight face. The saved man payed and happily went away, blue
all over his face. For weeks, he could not show his face in
public; this was his punishment for insisting at the
Lügenschmiede that he was smarter than all others and that no one
could fool him. Another guest had been told that his brother has
had an accident on the fairground the same day before noon. He
had come to close too a huge barrel organ, and so his right leg
got entangled in the gears; as a consequence, the leg had to be
amputated below the knee. The man jumped up in fright and ran
off, but very soon, he returned laughing with his entirely healthy
brother. The gentlemen of the public authorities also very much
enjoyed frequenting the Lügenschmiede, but only at times when they
knew they could be alone and unobserved. They also put up with an
odd prank, and often it was just due to their influence when the
proprietor's pranks, which often went too far, bore no unpleasant
consequences. This was because the whole matter was increasingly
overdone, like everything which comes from the low-minded way of
thinking. The pranks became more ordinary; they lost their
attraction. It had all been done to death. And everyone entering
the Lügenschmiede, thought he could tell lies and misrepresent the
truth. The spirit was gone. What had been real humour, real fun,
real kidding and joking, now became obscenity, ambiguity,
untruthfulness, forgery, imprudent gossip, and lie. The
Lügenschmiede has disappeared by now. The house has been
demolished. But unfortunately, the consequences of this
inappropriate tomfoolery have not disappeared with it. They still
exist today. They continue having their effects. This also was a
swamp, a swamp hidden under the brightest green and the most
alluring flowers. Not just the town's soul had suffered from it,
but its miasmas have also spread around over a larger area of the
land, and I deeply, deeply regret that I am also one of those who
suffered from it extensively and severely, and still have to
suffer up the the present day. What enabled my opponents to turn
the Karl May I really and truly am into this most untruthful of
all caricatures and to parade me through all of the newspapers as
a bandit who robs market-women and a robber-captain was to a
large extent the Lügenschmiede; its regulars never even
considered what they were doing to me by exposing each other to
ever new, made up stories of my supposed adventures and misdeeds.
I will return to this elsewhere, but here, I still have to say one
very short thing: What I had to report of the card sharpers, of
"Batzendorf", and of the "Lügenschmiede", are just a few short
insights into the conditions of my native town at that time. I
could increase and deepen these insight extensively, to prove that
it has really and truly been a very contaminated soil, where my
soul had been forced to be rooted in, but I would like to refrain
from this with great pleasure, because I have been delighted to
see recently, how much has changed there. I had shunned my native
town for quite some time and wanted to avoid it furthermore as
well, when a legal action forced me to return there one again. I
was pleasantly disappointed. I am not referring to external, but
to internal matters. I have seen enough towns and places;
nothing can surprise me and nothing can disappoint me in that
respect. As I, primarily and above anything else, seek to get to
know the soul of any stranger I happen to meet, so I also seek to
know the soul of every place I enter anew. And though the soul of
Hohenstein-Ernstthal was still the same, I saw this right away, it
was nevertheless uplifted, it had cleansed itself, it had obtained
a different, better, and more dignified appearance. I had the
opportunity to observe it for a few days, and might very well say
that I enjoyed these observations. I found intelligence, where
there had not been any before. I met with a lively respect for
the law, which was not as easily misguided as in the past. There
was more responsibility for the community, more of a feeling of
togetherness. Yes, the material conditions were looking up
everywhere, up towards the ideal. The ground on which the people
lived was uplifted and presented the ability to better itself
furthermore and increasingly. I met old acquaintances, who had
really made something of their lives. To me, this was a
satisfaction, I had not expected. There were no longer those old,
indolent faces with an expression of the disagreeable cunning of
uneducated people, but the features showed insight and ability,
healthy intelligence and considered judgement. Might this have
been just a consequence of new people moving into town? Surely
not exclusively, though it cannot be denied that new blood from
outside has a invigorating, strengthening, and improving effect on
the life of a community. I honestly confess that after this visit
and after these observations, I have again a certain fondness for
my native town and wish with all of my heart that the presently so
clearly visible progress, also in the direction towards spiritual
goals, may be a lasting one. The proof had been made that the old
times are gone. The people have made the effort, to rise up with
youthful energy; this yields success, and along with success,
will also come the blessings.
After these general remarks, I can now turn back to myself and to
this early morning, when I left Ernstthal, to get help from a
noble, Spanish robber-captain. Do not think that had been a
"crazy" idea. I was perfectly sane. Though my logic was still
that of a child, it was already well trained. My mistake was just
that, due to the trashy literature I eagerly consumed, I took the
novels for the real life, and therefore I now simply treated life
as a novel. The exceedingly rich imagination, nature had gifted
me with, turned the possibility of such a delusion into reality.
My trip to Spain lasted only one day. Near Zwickau, lived some
relatives of ours. I spent the night with them. They received me
kindly and persuaded me to stay. In the meantime, at home, my
note had been found and read. Father knew what the direction to
Spain was. He instantly thought of those relatives and got going
right away, being convinced to surely find me there. When he
came, we sat around the table and I told in all of my naive
honesty where I wanted to go and also to whom and why. These
relatives were poor, simple, honest weavers. There was not a
trace of imagination in them. They were simply stunned at my
undertaking. Seeking help with a robber-captain! At first, they
would not know what to do, what to make of me, and so it was a
relief for them to see my father entering the house. He, the
hot-tempered man, who at the slightest occasion blew his top,
behaved completely differently than usual. His eyes were in
tears. He said not a single angry word to me. He hugged me and
said: "Never do something like this again, never again!" Then,
after a short rest, he left with me - - back home.
The walk took five hours. All of this time, we walked silently
side by side; he led me by the hand. I never felt more clearly
than at this time, how much he actually loved me. Everything he
wished and hoped to get out of life, he projected upon me. I
solemnly promised myself, never to let him experience such a pain
as today through me again. And what about him? What kind of
thoughts might that have been which now echoed through his mind?
He said nothing. When we reached our home, I had to go to bed,
because I, the little fellow I was, had walked for ten hours and
was extremely tired. We never said another word about my
excursion to Spain; but the work at the bowling alley and the
reading of those morally destructive novels did stop. In due
time, the necessary help came about, without having to be brought
in from the land of the chestnuts. The minister recommended me to
the patron of our church, the count of Hinterglauchau, and he
agreed to support me with fifteen taler per year, an amount which
was regarded as sufficient for me to attend the seminary. At
Easter 1856 was my confirmation. On Michaelmas [a] I passed the
entry exam to the proseminary of Waldenburg and started living at
this boarding school.
[a] September the 29th.
So it was not a secondary school where one did obtain the
qualifications to proceed to a university, but just the seminary!
There were no academic studies for me, I was to become only a
teacher! Only? How wrong! There was no higher position than
that of a teacher, and with all of my thoughts, feelings, and
actions I was thus concentrated on my present task that I enjoyed
everything which was connected with it. Of course, this task was
just the foreground. In the background, towering high above it,
rose above anything else what had become my ideal since that night
when I had seen the Faust: to write plays for the theatre! On
the subject of God, man, and devil! Could I not do this as a
teacher just as well as if I had been to an academy? Yes,
certainly, provided of course that I did not lack talent. How
proud was I the first time I wore the green hat! How proud were
my parents and sisters as well! Grandmother hugged me and urged:
"Always think of our fable! Now, you are still in Ardistan; but
you are supposed to rise to Jinnistan. This journey will start
today. You have to ascent. Never turn to those who want to hold
you back!"
"And what about the spirits' furnace?" I asked. "Do I have to
enter it?"
"If you are worth it, you can't avoid it", she answered. "But if
you aren't worth it, your life will proceed without struggle and
without pain."
"But I want to enter it; I want to!" I exclaimed courageously.
Then she placed her hand on my head and said with a smile:
"This is up to God. Don't forget Him! Never forget Him as long
as you live!"
I did heed this advice, but have to confess, to be honest, that it
was never hard on me. I cannot remember any occasion where I had
to wrestle with doubt or even disbelief. In a manner of speaking,
the conviction that there was a God who also watched out over me
and would never leave me has, at all times, been a firm,
inalienable ingredient of my personality, and therefore I cannot
at all regard it as a special achievement of mine that I have
never been unfaithful to this uplifted, beautiful faith of my
childhood. Granted, I also was not entirely free of perturbations
of my inner self; but the perturbation came from outside and did
not become a part of me in such a manner that it could have
persisted. It was caused by the very special manner in which
theology and religious education were taught at the seminary.
Every morning and every evening, there were prayers every student
was compelled to participate in. This was quite right so. On
Sundays and holidays, the entire student body was brought to
church. This was just as right so. Furthermore, there were
certain ceremonies for the mission and similar purposes. This was
also good and fitting. And there was for all classes of the
seminary a well thought out, very extensive curriculum on
religion, biblical teachings, and hymns. This entirely goes
without saying. But in all this, there was one thing missing, the
very thing which is the most important part of all religious
matters; this is that there was no love, no kindness, no
humility, no forgivingness. The lessons were cold, strict, tough.
It did not have the slightest trace of poetry. Instead of causing
delight and enthusiasm, it was repelling. The religious lessons
were the ones which were the least inspiring. It was always a
pleasure when the hand on the clock reached the number twelve.
All of these lessons were held year by year with precisely the
same contents and precisely the same words and expressions. What
was taught on this date, was inevitably to be taught next year on
the same day again. This worked like an old cuckoo-clock; this
all sounded so wooden, and this all looked so faked, so
fabricated. Every single thought had been designated to its place
among a dozen ideas and was by no means allowed to turn up in any
other spot. This did not allow any trace of a warm feeling to
form; this killed the inner self. I have never known a single
one among my fellow students who would have ever said one
favourable word about this form of religious education. And I
have also known no one who would have been religious enough to
voluntarily fold his hands to pray. I myself have prayed always
and at every occasion; I still do this today, without being
ashamed; but at that time, at the seminary, I kept it a secret,
because I was afraid of my fellow students' smirks.
I would have liked to keep silent about these religious
conditions, but was not allowed to, because it is my task, to say
everything honestly, what influenced me in my internal and
external development. This Christianity of the seminary seemed to
me to be without soul to the same extent as it was seeking
conflict. It did not satisfy and nevertheless pretended to be the
only pure, true teaching. How poor and how godforsaken did this
make a person feel! The others did not even accept this as a
disaster; they were indifferent; but I, who required religious
love, felt sick from the cold and withdrew into my self. Here
also, I grew increasingly lonelier, and even more, much more than
at home. And here, I became even more of a stranger to my grade
than I had been there. This was partially due to the conditions,
but also partially due to myself.
I knew much more than my fellow students. I may say so without
being suspected of bragging. Because what I knew was nothing but
a mess, an unregulated, unsystematic accumulation of knowledge,
which did not benefit me in the least, but only burdened me.
Whenever I might have let anyone notice something of my unfruitful
masses of information, I was stared at in amazement and laughed
at. They felt instinctively that I was less enviable than
lamentable. The others, most of them the sons of teachers, might
not have learnt as much as I, but what they had learnt was firmly
stored and well arranged in the chambers of their memory, always
ready to be used. I felt that I was very disadvantaged compared
to them and yet resisted to admit that much to myself and them.
The quiet and busy main part of my work most of all consisted of
putting my poor head in orde
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