[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"
[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"
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 adominus,[a]but if he learns just with a frown,thus he will be anasinus!"[b]