*PREFACE*
The author of the following work is a man well on in the fifties and
lives--as he should--on his native soil. Born in Steiermark, Austria,
in a lonely mountain region, he led the life of a forest peasant until
he reached the age of eighteen, when he became apprenticed to a
travelling peasant tailor. On the expiration of this apprenticeship,
which covered a period of four years, he spent other four years as
charity scholar in the commercial school at Graz.
After these experiences, and after having mastered such a variety of
subjects, he began to work at something which he not only had not
mastered but with which he was wholly unfamiliar--literature. He had
always had a passion for books, but having no money with which to buy
them, he had made them for himself.
In the peasant hut and in the workshop had been brought forth no less
than twenty-four magnificent volumes, closely written with ink made from
soot, illustrated with lead-pencil, and painted in water-colours with a
brush made from his own hair--_edition de luxe_! But worthy to be
printed!--not a single line.
Thus this youth had worked for ten long years, every Sunday, every
holiday, and often late into the night, by the light of a pine torch and
in the midst of the noise of his house companions, who occupied the same
room. The intellectual and spiritual life of the poor lad was a very
lonely one.
He did not write for print; the innocent boy scarcely knew that books
were already being printed in this age, for the most of those which he
had seen were old folios. He simply wrote to make two out of one, to
place himself before himself, in his thoughts, in poems, in all kinds of
yarns and tales, that in his great loneliness he might at least have a
comrade. Beyond this he did not think or strive, was happy rather than
unhappy, cherishing a vague hope that his life would at some time
change. Whenever he asked himself what this change might be, he would
calmly answer:--"Probably death."
But at this point things took a strange turn. The young man was
completely transformed; not only from boy to youth, from youth to man;
he changed not his coat alone, but in his fustian jacket, in his
workman's blouse or student's garb, there appeared each time another
being, which during all these transformations had not once died.
It finally seemed to him as though three or four different natures were
dwelling in him, and as the original one had formerly tried to express
itself, so now, in great confusion, they all struggled with one another
to do the same. He was twenty-six years old, he had seen something of
life, had read many books and had seen how they were made. Thus he was
inspired to write afresh, and this time--_for print_.
I should envy him his good fortune were I not the man myself. So
nothing remains for me but to thank Heaven for the pleasant paths over
which I have been led. I have not deserved it, for I was not conscious
of any definite aim, being satisfied to fill my days with work which
appealed to me. I could now write to my heart's content. That which
was written with the least effort was always the most successful, but if
I attempted anything great, which it seemed to me might even prove
itself immortal, it was usually a failure.
It was finally decided by one of my friends that for the future I should
neither do tailoring nor handle the plough or the yard-stick, but
instead become an author. My youth had not spoiled me, far from it, but
such an aim as this seemed beyond my reach.
I married and had children. I wrote, and my books found friends. And
now the time had come when one might truly say, "_Augenblick verweile!_"
But the moment did not stay, it flew and with it took from me my
dearest, my all,--my wife. In the _Waldheimath_ and in _Mein Weltleben_
those events have been depicted.
But my work was my salvation, and another transformation took place. In
the neighbourhood of my forest home I built myself a little house and
after a number of years I married a second time. More children came,
and as my hair whitened, I was surrounded by a lively circle of gay
young people.
In the meantime I had seen something of the world, wandering from the
north to the south, visiting friends over in the dear German Empire,
being invited to various cities to give readings from my works in
_steierisch_ dialect.
For twenty-three years I edited a monthly magazine in Graz, called "_Der
Heimgarten_," where my various writings were placed on trial. Those
which were worthy to endure but a day died with the day, those which
struck a deeper chord appeared in books. During the last thirty years
forty volumes have gone out into the world. Their merits must be judged
by the reader. They are not so impassioned as formerly; but the little
forest springs are clearer than the greater ones. I shall be proud if
my critics will only call them: "_Frisch Wasser_."