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.)