[a]"Wie fünf Mädchen im Branntwein jämmerlich umkommen" was published in 1838. Jeremias Gotthelf is a pseudonym for the Swiss author Albert Bitzius (1797-1854).[b]Edmund Franz Andreas Hoefer (1819-1882).
From these examples you can see how well I first had to get to know my library and then also the needs of its readers. This involved some serious and difficult psychological considerations and led to the sad final conclusion that, basically, of the kind of books we needed there were only a very few. They were not just missing from our prison library, they were also missing from literature in general. I thought of my boyhood, of the little tracts I had read then and of the trash which had poisoned me; I thought further, and I compared. Then, a realization dawn on me. Are only the inmates of the penitentiaries in confinement? Is not every human being basically a prisoner? Are not millions of people confined by walls, which might not be visible to the eyes, but the existence of which can nonetheless be felt just too well? Does it only apply to the inmates of a penitentiary that the body has to be constricted, so that the higher part of our being, the part which came from above, shall reveal itself? Does it not apply to all mortals, and thus to all of mankind, that everything which is low has to be put in bondage, so that the soul, having gained liberty by such means, could uplift itself up to the highest ideal to be found on earth, to the nobility of the spirit? And are not religion, art, and literature those things which are supposed to guide us from these depths into those heights? The very literature, I, the prisoner confined to my narrow cell, am also a part of!
Proceeding with this train of thought, I arrived at considerations and conclusions, which might seem to be very strange, but were in their essence quite natural. A light shone between my four tight walls; they grew more spacious. At first I felt, than I saw, and finally I understood the concealed and yet intimate connections between the small and the big, the physical and the spiritual, the body and the mind, the finite and the infinite. This was the time, when I started to comprehend those dear, old fables of my grandmother in their deepest meaning. For entire nights, I lay awake and pondered. I was chained to the deepest, lowest, most despised Ardistan and sent all of my thoughts up to the bright, free, Jinnistan. I imagined myself as the lost human soul, which can never be found again, unless it finds itself. This finding of one's true self can never be achieved high up in Jinnistan, but only down here in Ardistan, among the suffering of earth, the torment of mankind, eating the husks of the lost son[a]of our biblical story. My imagination started to put this what I was looking for into a tangible form, to be able to seize it and to hold on to it. It dwelled and lived within me. And not just there, but also outside of me, omnipresent, in every other human being, and also in the entire human race as one large and whole entity. At this time, Marah Durimeh took form within me, this great, glorious soul of mankind, to which I gave the appearance of my beloved grandmother. At this time, Tatellah-Satah for the first time appeared within me, this mysterious "keeper of the great medicine", whom my readers got to know in the thirty-third volume[b]of my works. And at this time, the idea of "Winnetou" was born as well. Do not get me wrong, it was just the idea, not really him, whom I did not find until later. In those days, the psychological volumes of the officials' library and all others which had been made available to me were -- almost devoured, I was inclined to say; but this would not be the truth, because I have slowly analysed them, dissected them word by word, and have marked every word with a thoughtfulness, which is most likely not a very common thing; but I have done this so eagerly and with a hunger, with a zeal, as if my life, my salvation would depend upon me becoming fully aware of my internal condition. And when I finally thought that I was on the right path, I reached back into my childhood and turned back to my old, bold wish "to become a story-teller, like you, grandmother". After all, I was in in one of those places which are the greatest and richest sources of stories to tell, in prison. Here, all this gets condensed and concentrated which out there, in freedom, flows past so easily and thinly, that it cannot be seized and even much less be observed. And here, the contrasts, which outside intermix like on a plane surface, rise high up like mountains, so that, in this magnification, everything is revealed which would otherwise remain concealed in secrecy. They lay opened up before me, those difficult, scientific volumes on psychology, especially on criminal psychology. Almost every line was impressed on my memory. They contained the theory, a conglomeration of riddles and problems. But what this meant in practice, I could see all around me in a truthfulness, which was just as plain as it was disturbing. What a contrast between theory and practice? Where was the truth to be found? In the opened books or in open reality? In both! Science is true, and life is true. Science commits mistakes, and life commits mistakes. Both of these ways lead via mistakes towards the truth; there, they will have to meet. Where this truth is and what it says, we can only guess. Just one eye is granted the gift to glimpse ahead at it and this is the eye of -- -- the fable. Therefore I want to be a stroy-teller, nothing but a story-teller, just as grandmother was! I only need to open my eyes, to see them recorded, hundreds and hundreds of incarnations of these parables and salvation seeking fables. One in every cell and one on every chair in the workshops. Lots of sleeping beauties, who are just waiting for the kiss of mercy and love to wake them up. Lots of souls, languishing in bondage, in old castles, which had been converted into prisons, or in modern huge buildings, in which kindness goes from cell to cell, from chair to chair, to wake up and to free, whoever proves himself to be worthy of the awakening and of freedom. I want to be the mediator between science and life. I want to tell parables and fables, with the truth being hidden deeply inside, the truth which by other means cannot be perceived, yet. I want to derive light out of the darkness of my life in prison. I want to convert the punishment, which has come upon me, into freedom for others. I want to turn the severity of the law, under which I suffer, into a great sympathy for all those who have fallen, into a love and mercy, to which there will finally be no "crime" and no "criminals", but only the sick, again and again nothing but the sick.
[a]"the lost son": see Luke 15:24:
"For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and
is found."[b]"Winnetou IV", a.k.a. "Winnetous Erben"
But no one may suspect, that my stories are only parables and only fables, for if it was known, I would never achieve what I intend to achieve. I have to become a fable myself, I, my own self. This will surely be a boldness, which might easily ruin me, but what does the fate of one single, small human being matter, when the subject is the great, hugely arising question facing the entire human race? What matters the tiny fate of a despised prisoner, who is anyhow already lost to society, if the manner in which "crime" is regarded and discussed does not change soon!
This was a thought which came to me quite suddenly, but sunk in deeply and never left me again. It gained power over me; it became large. It finally encompassed my entire soul, which was probably because it contained the fulfilment of all this, which already, since my childhood, lived as my wish and hope within me. I seized it, this thought; I extended and deepened it; I elaborated on it. It had me, and I had it; we both became identical. But this did not happen quickly, it rather took a long, long time, and even harder and more dreary days than the present ones passed by, before I had developed the plan of my work and had it such firmly fixed, that no further change was to be made to it. I planned to continue writing my humorous stories and village-tales from the Ore Mountains for a while, to make a name for myself among the German readers and to show them that I was absolutely just moving on god-fearing territory. But then, I wanted to turn to a genre, the public was interested in, and possesses the greatest ability to make an impression: to the traveller's tale. To make real journeys the basis of these tales, was no absolute necessity; after all, they were only meant to be parables and only fables, though extraordinarily meaningful parables and fables. Nevertheless, journeys were desirable, to conduct studies, to get to know the various circles in which my characters had to move. Most of all, I had to prepare myself thoroughly, study geography, ethnology, and languages. I had to take my topics from my own life, from the lives around me, from the place where I was at home, and therefore, I could always maintain truthfully that everything I told about was experienced or witnessed by myself. But I had to move those topics out into distant lands and to foreign peoples, to give them the effect they would not have dressed in the familiar garments of home. Set in the prairie or under palm-trees, in the glistening sun of the orient or in raging blizzards of the Wild West, in perils which would evoke the reader's strongest compassion, thus and in no other way all of my characters had to be depicted, if I was to achieve through them what they were meant to achieve. And for this purpose, I had to be, at least theoretically, as much at home in all of those countries which I had to describe as a European could possibly be able to. So I had to work, to work hard and exhaustingly, to prepare myself; and for this, the quiet, undisturbed prison cell, I lived in, was just the right place.
There is a truth of earth, and there is a truth of heaven. The truth of earth is presented to us by science, the truth of heaven by revelation. Science usually proves its truthfulness; what a revelation asserts, the learned will regard as nothing more than believable, but not as proven. Such a true revelation from heaven descends down to earth on the rays of the stars and goes from one house to the next, to knock and to be allowed to enter. It is rejected everywhere, because it wants to be believed, but it is not believed, because it possesses no learned proof of validity. Thus it goes from one village to another, from one town to another, from one country to another, without being listened to and without being accepted inside. Then, it ascends back up to heaven on the rays of the stars and returns to the one from whom it came. Weeping, it laments before Him of its pains. But He smiles kindly and speaks: "Do not weep! Go back down to earth and knock at the door of that one person, whose house you have not found, yet: the poet. Ask him to dress you into the guise of a fairy-tale, and then try your luck again!" It obeys. The poet lovingly takes it on and dresses it up. It now begins its journey once again as a fairy-tale, and wherever it knocks, it is welcome. The doors and hearts are opened for it. Its words are attentively listened to; it is believed. It is asked to stay, because it has become so dear to everyone. But it must go on, on and on, to fulfil the task it had been given. But it only leaves as a fairy-tale; as the truth, it stays. And even though it is not seen, it is nevertheless there and works its influence within the house for all times to come.
So, this is the fairy-tale! But not the kind of fairy-tale for children, but rather the true, genuine, real fairy-tale, the fables and legends, which are in spite of their unseeming, simple appearance the highest and most difficult of all forms of fiction, due to the soul which lives within each tale. And one of those poets, to whom the eternal truth would come, to be dressed up, I wanted to be! I know very well, how bold this was. But I admit it without apprehension. Truth is so much hated, and the fairy-tale is so much despised, as I am myself; we are a good match. The fairy-tale and I, we are being read by thousands, without being understood, because the depth is not explored. As they say that fairy-tales were only for children, so I am referred to as "author for young people", who would only write for immature boys. In short, I need not apologise at all for having been so bold to wish for nothing more than to be an author of fables and parables. Do not "my life and my efforts" by themselves already seem rather like a fairy-tale, and are there not almost innumerable fables and fairy-tales, my opponents have build up around me! And whenever I protest against this, I am believed just as little as some people believe in the fairy-tales. But as for every genuine fairy-tale, there will finally come the time, when its truth will be evident, so all of my truth will eventually become evident, and what they do not believe from me today, they will learn to believe tomorrow.
Thus, all of my traveller's tales, which I had intended to write, were meant to be read figuratively, were supposed to be symbolic. They were meant to say something which was not visible on the surface. I wanted to bring something new, something blissful, without putting my readers at variance with the old, the previous. And what I had to say, I had to make them look for; I could not lay it openly before their doors, because people tend to ignore everything they get so cheaply and only appreciate what they had to fight for with great effort. It would have been an unforgivable mistake, to hint right from the start, that my traveller's tales were to be read figuratively. My books simply would not have been read, and everything I wanted to solve would have remained a fable and a fairy-tale. The reader had to find unsuspectingly what I had to give; he would then regard it as a prize he had fought for and hold on to it for the rest of his life.
But what was this, actually, I wanted to give? This was many things and nothing commonplace. I wanted to answer the questions of mankind and solve the mysteries of mankind. Laugh at me if you will; but this was what I wanted; I have tried it and I will continue trying it. Whether I will achieve it, neither I nor anybody else would be able to know. In carrying out my plan, I might have committed many a mistake, because I am just a flawed human being; but my intentions have been good and pure. Furthermore, I wanted to publish my psychological experiences. A young teacher, who has been punished, talking about his psychological experiences? Is this not even more ridiculous than the first plan? You may think so if you will; but I have seen in hundreds and hundreds of unfortunate people that the only cause for the beginning and continuation of their misfortune had been that their souls, those most precious entities of the entire creation of earth, had been completely neglected. The mind is the spoiled, conceited teacher's pet, the soul is the rejected, starving and freezing Cinderella. For the mind, there are all kinds of schools, from the simple primary school up to the university, but there is not a single school for the soul. For the mind, millions of books are written, but how many are there for the soul? To the human mind, thousands and thousands of monuments are built; where are those, which are dedicated to the praise of the human soul? Well so, I am saying to myself, let me be the one writing for the the soul, exclusively for the soul alone, no matter whether I will be laughed at for it or not! The soul is unknown. Therefore, many people will either not understand or misunderstand my work, but this should by no means keep me from doing what I had planned.
This was basically enough for one person; but I did not want
just this, I even wanted much more. All around me, I saw the
deepest misery of mankind; to myself, I was was its centre. And
high above us was the salvation, was the noble state of the human
soul, we had to aspire up to. But this task was not just ours
alone, but rather it had been given to all of mankind; the only
difference was that we, who were staying in a so much deeper
place than the others, had to ascent much further and with more
difficulties then they. From the depth into the height, from
Ardistan to Jinnistan, from a low, lustful person, rising to
become a nobly spirited person. How this had to happen, I wanted
to demonstrate by two examples, one in the orient and one in
America. For these, my very special purposes, I divided earth in
my mind in two halfs, in an American and an Asian-African half.
There lives the race of the native Americans and here
Semitic-Mohammedan race. I wanted to make these two races the
subjects of my fables, my thoughts, and explanations. Therefore,
my primary task was to learn about the Arabian and other
languages as well as the native American dialects. The steadfast
faith in Allah on the one side and the highly poetic faith in the
"great, good spirit" of the others, fitted well with my own, firm
faith in God. In America, a male character, and in Asia, a female
character were to represent the ideal, by whose example my
readers had to let their ethical intentions grow upwards. The one
character became Winnetou, the other one Marah Durimeh. In the
west, the plot shall rise, by and by, from the low life of the
savanna and prairie up to the pure and lofty heights of Mount
Winnetou. In the east, it shall uplift itself from the dunes of
the desert up to the hight summit of Jebel Marah Durimeh.
Therefore, my first volume starts with the title "Durch die
Wüste"
[a]In "Through the Desert" the main character is introduced by his sidekick to a third person by this name. The first person narrator then explains it like this: "The good man had at one time before asked me for my name and actually kept the word Karl in his memory. But since he was unable to pronounce it, he, without thinking much of it, turned it into Kara and added Ben Nemsi, meaning descendant of the Germans."
While considering these thoughts in my mind, I felt very well that I, by carrying them out, would put myself in a danger which was not to be taken lightly. What if this fictional self would not be understood and the meaning of this "first person narrator" would not be comprehended? What if they would believe that I was referring to myself? Was is not obvious that everybody who lacked the intelligence or good will to distinguish between fiction and reality, would call me a liar and a swindler? Yes, this was indeed possible, but I did not regard it as probable. After all, I had to equip this "first person narrator", this Kara Ben Nemsi or Old Shatterhand, with all of the good attributes which mankind had achieved up until this day in the course of its development. My hero had to possess the highest intelligence, the deepest heart, and the greatest skillfulness in all physical exercises. Did it not go entirely without saying that in reality, this could never all be found in a single human being! And if I, as I intended to do, would write a series of thirty to forty volumes, it could certainly be presumed, that no reasonable man would get the idea, that a single person could have experienced all this. No! The accusation that I was a liar and a swindler was, at least for people who think, entirely impossible! This was how I thought then. Yes, I was even firmly convinced that, though I did not describe myself in this "first person narrator", I could nevertheless maintain with a clear conscience that I had experienced or witnessed the contents of these narrations myself, because they were taken from my own life or at least from my closest environment. It was not at all difficult on me, but rather very easy, and most of all also interesting, to imagine that though Karl May writes those traveller's tales down, he does it in such a way, as if they were not the product of his own mind, but as if they were dictated to him by this fictional "first person", which is the great question of mankind. Whether this assumption of mine was right, the future will soon show.
The intention to give some of my characters native American and some of them oriental features led me quite naturally to a deep sympathy for the fate of those peoples. The extinction of the red race, which had been described as unstoppable, started to occupy my mind constantly. And about the ingratitude of the occident against the orient, to which it owes its entire material and mental culture, I had all kinds of serious thoughts. The welfare of mankind demands that there shall be peace between the two, no more exploitation and bloodshed. I was resolved to constantly emphasise this in my books and to kindle in my readers the love for the red race and for the inhabitants of the orient which we owe them as fellow human beings. These days, I am assured that I have not just achieved this in a few, but in hundreds of thousands, and I am inclined to believe this.
And now here is the main question: For whom were my books meant to be written? Quite naturally for the people, for the entire people, not just for single parts of it, for single classes, for single age-groups. Most of all, they were not solely meant for the young people! I have to put the greatest weight and the sharpest emphasis on this latter statement. If it had been my intention to be or to become an author for young people, I would quite necessarily have had to give up on executing all of my plans and on achieving all of my ideals for ever. And to do this, has never crossed my mind. It is true that I also had to think of the young generation, because they form, not just in a temporal sense, the first stage of the people; they are not just the ones who constantly replenish the people, but they are also the ones who will have to lead the way in the uplifting of mankind for the old and the lazy, to occupy the the terrain, discovered by our pioneers, at the quickest pace. But just as they only form a part of the people, this with what I had to address them could also be just a part of what I wrote for the people as a whole. When I say that I wanted to write for the people, I mean mankind in general, no matter how young or how old they may be. But not every one of my books is meant for every person. And yet again, it is for every person, but one after another, depending on whether he develops forward, depending on how much older and more experienced he has become, depending on whether he has gained the ability to understand and to comprehend their contents. My books shall accompany him through his entire life. He shall read them as a boy, a youth, an adult, an old man, at every one of these ages, he shall read what corresponds with the level of experience he has gained. He shall do all this slowly, with thoughtfulness and consideration. He who reads my books indiscriminately and too quickly, is perhaps to be pitied; but at any rate, it is even more of a pity for them! He who abuses them, shall not hold me or them responsible, but only himself. Let me just remind you of smoking, of eating and drinking. Smoking is an indulgence of pleasure. Eating and drinking is a necessity. But to smoke, to eat, to drink anytime, and to smoke and to devour everything available, would not just be foolish, but even harmful. Good, interesting literature shall be savoured, but not be devoured like by a shark! Since my books contain nothing but parables and fables, it goes without saying that the reader is supposed to think about them thoroughly and that they only belong into the hand of people, who are not just able to think about something, but also willing to do so.
At this time, when I had considered these ideas and made my plans, I had already written and published various things, but I would not have dared to call myself an novelist or even an artist yet. And does not every real novelist have to be an artist as well. I did not even regard myself as a proper apprentice in this business, but only as a beginner, who is not a part of this business, but just groping his way, like a child trying to take his first steps. And in spite of this all, I already made plans, covering so much ground, extending so far into the future! Looking over these plans, I ought to have become pretty scared, because undoubtedly, it had to take several men's lives full of work, without disturbances, and without misfortune, to cope with this task I was facing in a genuinely literary, which is to say artistic, fashion. But still, I did not become scared, I rather remained very calm through all of this. I was asking myself: Is it really necessary to be a novelist, and to be an artist, to be allowed to write these kinds of things? Who would want and who could forbid someone to do it? Let's do it without the established world of literature, if it will only turn out right! And let's do it without art, if it will only have its effect and achieves what it is supposed to achieve! Whether novelists and artists would accept me as a "colleague", I had to ignore then. Though, I had my individual pride just as anybody else, and I had the highest possible opinion of art. But these thoughts of mine were different than other people's thoughts, especially those of my fellow authors. To be an artist, stuck me as being the highest thing to be on earth, and deeply within my heart, there lived the ardent wish to reach these heights, even if it should not be until the final hour before my death. That night when I got to see the "Faust" as a child, still lived unforgotten in my soul, and the resolutions I had made under its impression still possessed the very same willpower and the same hold over me as before. To write for the theatre! To write dramas! Dramas, which show how man shall and can rise up from the sufferings of earth to the joys of existence, from the slavery of the low urges to the purity and greatness of the soul. To be able to write something like this, it is necessary to an artist, not just any artist, but a genuine and true one. But all of my conceptions of art were something entirely different than this what today's critics describe as art; and thus I was left with no other choice than to postpone all of my wishes, which concerned me being allowed to be an artist in literature, an artist who is a true, valuable artist, for many, many long years and to remain until then what I was at the time, a beginner, who is not a part of the established business, and who made no pretension to becoming a member of it. As I had always been, as long as I had lived, by myself and lonely, I was already then convinced, that my path as an author would also be a lonely one up to the end of my life. What I was looking for, could not be found in daily life. What I wanted was something absolutely beyond a common person. And what I deemed right, was most probably wrong for other people. Furthermore, I could not forget that I was a convicted criminal. Therefore, to stay entirely to myself and not to bother any more valuable people with my presence, seemed to be the natural thing to do. I was no expert on art. Perhaps, the others were right; I could be mistaken. In any case, my ideal kept me going: In the end of my life, once I was fully matured, a great, beautiful work of poetry was to be created, a symphony of redeeming thoughts, in which I ventured to produce light out of my darkness, happiness out of my misfortune, joy out of my torment. This was for later, when death will first announce his presence. But for now, my job was to learn, to learn a lot and to prepare myself for this great project, so that it would not fail. Now, I would write fables and parables, in order to extract the truth and the reality out of them in the end of my life and to put these onto the stage!
But these parables are not short texts like, for example, those wonderful parables of Christ, but long narratives, in which many characters appear and act out their parts. And they are numerous; they were meant to fill a large number of volumes and supply the material for that other great task, later on, with which I want to conclude my work. Thus, they cannot be carefully executed paintings, but only pen-and-ink drawings, only sketches, first exercises, études[a], which must not be measured by those standards which only apply to genuine works of art. I am neither able, nor willing, nor allowed to be another Paul Heyse[b], who has achieved perfection in this art, but rather my task is to chisel crude blocks of marble and alabaster from highly situated quarries, to be used in subsequent works of art, the shape of which I cannot more than hint, because the time to create them is not yet available to me. I give these very hints in these fables, which are interjected into my narrative parables and form the spots on which the interest of the reader is concentrated. Therefore, art critics do not need to deal with my traveller's tales, because it is not my intention at all to give them an artistic form or even perfection. They have to be like the simple, plain arm- and foot-bracelets of the Arabian women, which are meant to be nothing more than silver rings. Their value is in the metal, not in the work. A painter, hastily drawing sketches in preparation for a great painting, would surely be astonished by a critic, measuring these sketches by the same standards, he would then later have to use on the painting.
[a]études: studies, exercises (French)[b]Paul Heyse (1830-1914) won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1910.
This is all I want to say right now about these plans, which formed within me at this time and from which I did not depart and which I have carried out up until this day. They did not appear suddenly, and they did not appear all at once, but slowly, one after another. And they did not mature quickly, but it took months and years, until I had fully decided on one aspect after another. But I also had enough time for this. I have made a kind of agenda of my plans and their execution; I have kept it as a sacred treasure and still possess it today. Every thought was dissected into its parts, and every one of these parts was written down. I even made a directory of the titles and the contents of all these traveller's tales, I wanted to tell. Though I did not precisely go by this directory, it was nevertheless very useful to me, and I still benefit today from topics which had already then taken form within me. I also wrote busily; I wrote manuscripts, to have as much material as possible, to be published right after my release. In short, I was enthusiastic about my project and, though I was a prisoner, I felt infinitely happy about the prospects for a future, which promised to become an not entirely ordinary one, as it seemed I had every reason to hope.
Destiny seemed to agree with my intentions. It granted me, as if it wanted to compensate me for all the suffering, a rich, highly welcome gift: I was pardoned. The warden's office had applied for clemency on my behalf, due to which my prison term was reduced by a full year. My conduct was evaluated with the highest mark and I received an attestation of my trustworthiness, which eased my way back into life outside and spared me from all kinds of trouble with the police. He who knows about these things, will be able to appreciate what this means!
It was a beautiful, warm, sunny day, when I left the institution, armed with my manuscripts to fight the obstacles of life. I had written home, to inform my family about my return. How was I looking forward to this reunion. I had no reason to be afraid of accusations; this had already been settled in letters. I knew that I was welcome and that I would not get to hear a single word which would hurt me. Most of all, I was looking forward to seeing grandmother. How much must she have worried and grieved! And how much would she want to extend her old, dear, faithful hand to me. How delighted would she be about my plans! How much would she help me to carry them out and to get as much as possible out of them! I went from Zwickau to Ernstthal, this was precisely the way I had gone that time as a boy, to seek help in Spain. You can imagine what thoughts accompanied me on this way. On that way home with my father, I had promised myself never to sadden him with something like this again; but how badly had I kept my word! Should I make similar resolutions today, the fulfilment of which could never be guaranteed due to the powerlessness of man? The "fable of Sitara" appeared before me. Could it be that I was one of those whose souls were received at birth by the devil, to be hurled into misery, so that they would be lost? All resistance and rebelling is useless; they are doomed. Does this apply to me as well?
My thoughts became more and more gloomy, the closer I came to my home. I felt, as if evil premonitions were coming at me from this direction. It seemed as if my joyful confidence was trying to leave me; I had to try hard to hold on to it. From the Lungwitzer hill, I looked over the small town. There before my very eyes, were those winding paths, I used to walk so often, while desperately struggling with those frightful inner voices, calling out to me day and night without pausing these words: "the tailor's curse, the tailor's curse, the tailor's curse". And what was that? While thinking of it, I heard the very same voices echoing within me, very clearly, as I used to, only from a far, but they seemed to get closer, "the tailor's curse, the tailor's curse, the tailor's curse!" Was this supposed and willing to start all over again? A sudden fear came over me, a fear as I had never felt before, and I hurried away from this place, away from this memory, down the hill, through the town, home, home, home!
I arrived sooner than I had been expected. My parents still lived on the first floor of the same house. I walked up one flight of stairs and then another to the attic, where grandmother had always liked spending her time the most. I wanted to see her first and only then father, mother, and the sisters. Then, I saw the few things she had owned; but she was not there. There was her chest, with blue and yellow flowers painted on it. It was locked, the key was not in the lock. And there was her bed; it was empty. I rushed downstairs into the living-room. There sat my parents. The sisters were absent. They were considerate. They had thought, the parents had the right to go first. I did not even greet them, but asked where grandmother was. "Dead -- -- -- deceased!" was the answer. "When?" "Last year." Hearing this, I fell onto a chair and lay my head and arms on the table. She was no longer alive! It had been kept from me, to spare me, to avoid making the imprisonment even harder on me. These might have been rather good intentions; but now it hit me just the more powerfully. She had not been really sick; she had just simply pined away, because of the grief and suffering for -- -- -- me!
It took a long time, before I rose my head again, in order to greet the parents now. They were startled. Later, they told me that my face had looked worse than that of a corpse. The sisters joined us. They were happy about the reunion, but they looked at me so strangely, so timidly. This was nothing else but a reflection of my own face. Though I tried my best, I could still not fully conceal the blow which had just hit me. I wanted to know only things about grandmother for now, nothing else, and they told me. She had talked a lot about me, but never a single word which would necessarily have offended me, if I had been present. And she had never complained or even wept. She had said that now she knew that I was one of those souls which had been hurled over to the wrong side at their births, to be destroyed there. Now, she was convinced that I had to go through the spirits' furnace, to suffer all the torment of earth. But she knew that I would not scream, I would bear what I had to bear, and force my way up to Jinnistan. The closer she came to death, the more exclusively she only lived in her world of fairy-tales, and the more exclusively she talked about nothing else but me. On one of her final days, she said that the cantor, who had died a long time before, had been with her that night. He had been our neighbour. Those two houses were connected. Then, she said, the wall had suddenly opened in the darkness and a bright light had filled the room, but it was no ordinary light, but rather a light she had never seen before. Lit by this light, the cantor had appeared. He had looked just as he used to when he was still alive. Slowly, he had come up to her bed, had greeted her with a friendly smile, as he had always done, and then, he had said that she should not worry about me at all; I might very well fall as anybody else, but I could not stay down; I would be given a hard time, but I would surely reach my goal. Having said these words, he again nodded at her in his friendly manner and left just as slowly as he had come, back trough the gap in the wall. It closed behind him. The light disappeared; it became dark again.
After she had told this, it had been as if a part of this unknown, previously unfamiliar light was still reflected by her face, and it was still in her features, once she had closed her eyes and stopped breathing. Her death had been soft, peaceful, blissful; but I was not feeling peaceful and blissful at all, when I was told about it. Recriminations formed within me, but none of the kind which are mere thoughts, like in other people who do not have the same tendencies as I, but recriminations of a much more essential, much more compact kind. I saw them coming up within me, and I heard what they said, every word, yes really, every word! This were not thoughts, but characters, genuine beings, which did not seem to have anything in common with me, and yet they were identical with me. What a puzzle! But what an unusual, terribly frightening puzzle! They were like dark characters which used to scream inside of me in the past, which I had -- -- -- my God, as soon as I had thought of them, they were back, just as I used to be forced to see and hear them inside of me. I heard their voices as clearly, as if they were standing in front of me and were talking to me instead of my parents and sisters. And the stayed. When I went to bed, they lay down to sleep with me. But they did not sleep and did not let me sleep either. It started again, the former misery, the former torture, the former fight with these incomprehensible powers, which were just the more dangerous, since I could not discover at all, whether they were parts of myself or not. They seemed to be it, because they knew every one of my thoughts, even before I grew fully aware of them myself. And yet, they could not possibly be a part of me, because what they wanted was almost always the opposite of my own wishes. I had put an end to my past. The part of my life which was still to come was supposed to be entirely different from the part I had left behind. But those voices were trying hard to drag me back into the past with all of their might. As before, the demanded that I should seek revenge. Now more than ever, I was to seek revenge for the precious time I had lost in prison! They grew louder day by day; but I resisted them; I pretended to hear nothing, nothing at all. But even using the greatest strength, I could not stand this for more than a few days. In the meantime, I visited a few publishers, to negotiate the publication of the manuscripts, I had written in prison, with them. In doing so, it turned out that during my absence, the voices within me became just the more silent, the further I went from home, and became more clearly again, the closer I came to my home again. It was as if those dark characters resided there and could only attack me, whenever I was so imprudent to go there. I decided to put this to the test. I took the pay for my stories and made a longer trip abroad. Where I went, I will have to tell in the second volume of this work, in which I am planning to devote more space to my travels and their results than I could spare here. During this journey, these images disappeared entirely; I became completely free of them. But instead, an very unusual compulsion to return home came over me. This was no healthy, but a sick urge; I felt this very well, but it grew so strong that I lost my power to resist and gave in to it. I returned home, and as soon as I was there, everything I thought I had done away with came over me again as violently as ever. The struggle started anew. Incessantly, I heard the order inside of me, to seek revenge against human society by violating its laws. I felt that, if I should obey this order, I would be a most dangerous person and gathered up all of my strength to fight against this horrible fate.
I consider it necessary to state here that I did not regard my condition as pathological at all. All of my ancestors, as far as I knew them, had been both physically and mentally thoroughly healthy people. There was nothing atavistic in me. This which had attached itself to me in this respect had surely not been generated inside of me, but had come over me from outside. I worked busily, almost day and night, as I had generally always found my greatest joy in my work. My stories were eagerly bought. So, I was suffering no need at all, especially since I lived with my parents, which were now also better off than they used to be. Even if I had earned nothing for myself, I would have had all I needed to live. During this work was repeated what I had already described before. Whenever I wrote something ordinary, I was not obstructed in the least. But as soon as I turned to a higher topic, a mentally, religiously, or ethically more valuable task, forces stirred inside of me, which rebelled against this and kept me from performing my work by interjecting the most trivial, most stupid, or even most illegal thoughts, while I was writing. I was not supposed to rise up; I was supposed to stay down. They were joined by an old, very well known scoundrel, whom nobody may trust, no matter how much flattery he may use; I am talking about thirst. A disgust for liquor is part of my nature; if I drink it at all, it is only as a medicine. Wine had been out of my reach up until now, if for nothing else than for the price, and I also by no means have that kind of a liking for beer which one must have, to become an alcoholic. But now, strangely, I always felt a strong thirst, whenever I passed by an inn on my walks, and also in the evening, when others had finished their work, the desire came over me to put down the pen and to go to the bar, as they did. But I did not do it. Father did it. He could not very well do without his glass of simple beer and his smaller glass of hard liquor. But I did not feel like it and stayed at home. This was by no means a sacrifice for me and was not hard on me, oh no. I am only telling this, because it is psychologically interesting, since it strikes me as rather strange that this thirst for alcoholic beverages, which is so contrary to my entire nature and is otherwise so completely unknown to me, only appeared whenever those voices had the upper hand within me, but never at any other time!
So much, I had been looking forward to presenting the plans of my work to grandmother; now she was dead. Thus, I discussed them with my parents and sisters. Father had other things on his mind now. He was going through some kind of a social transformation and therefore of no use to me, especially since he never stayed at home in the evening. The sisters also had other interests. My entire train of thought was incomprehensible to them. So, I was just left with mother. In the evening, she sat, quietly knitting stockings, by the table, where I wrote. I enjoyed so very much putting the thoughts to her I kept my pen busy with. She calmly listened to me. She nodded in agreement. She smiled encouragingly. She said a dear, consoling word. She was like a saint. But she did not understand me either. She only felt it, had a hunch of it. And she wished with all of her heart that everything should turn out the way I yearned for it to be. And when she saw how firmly and unwaveringly I believed in my future, she believed as well and was as glad as a mother can be whose child is still thus fortunate, to be able to rely on God, mankind and himself. But I felt lonely, lonely as always; because even in the entire town, there was not a single person who would have been willing or even able to understand me. And for me, for me in particular, being thus harshly besieged in my inner self, this loneliness was dangerous in the highest degree. There was nothing I needed more than the company of someone who would understand me. But I was always on my own, though not externally, but internally, and thus, I was almost incessantly and unprotectedly subjected to those characters, who wanted to subdue me. And in the midst of all this vulnerability, I was now also seized by other enemies, which, though they were not internal, but external, were still to the same extent out of the grasp of my hands.
Due to her profession, my mother had to visit other families
all of the time. They confided in her. They liked her. She was
told everything, without feeling the need to explicitly ask her
to keep it confidential. She got to know everything which
happened in our little town and the surrounding area. Somewhere,
there had been a burglary. Everyone talked about it. The
perpetrator had escaped. Soon, there was another one, carried out
in the same manner. In addition, there were some cases of fraud,
probably pulled off by impoverished, young craftsmen. I did not
even listen, when the conversation turned to this, but noticed
after some time that mother was even more serious than usual and
regarded me, when she thought she was unobserved, with such a
peculiar, pitiful look. In the beginning, I stayed quiet, but
soon, I thought that I had to ask her for the reason. She did not
want to answer; but I asked her, until she did. There was a
rumour going around, an incomprehensible rumour, that I was this
burglar. Who else should be suspected but me, the former
prisoner? Externally, I laughed about it, but internally I was
outraged, and I had a few hard nights. There was a roaring inside
of me from nightfall until morning. The voices screamed out to
me: "Fight us as much as you will, we won't let you go! You
belong to us! We will force you to get even! To the world, you
are a scoundrel and have to continue being a scoundrel, if you
want to have your peace!" So I heard it at night. When I wanted
to work by day, I could not achieve anything. I could not eat.
Mother had told it to father as well. Both asked me not to let
this matter be so hard on me. They could speak up for me. After
all, they knew very well that I had not left the house at the
times in question. What we found out, was all said in confidence.
No name was given. Therefore, there was nothing tangible, I could
have used to defend myself. But it got worse. The local police
was against me. I had been dismissed with an attestation of
trustworthiness, and therefore, I had escaped their supervision.
Now they thought to have a reason for investigating me. A few new
pranks were pulled off, the perpetrators of which necessarily had
to possess some intelligence. It was believed that this would
point to me. This was at the same time when the before mentioned
"Lügenschmiede"
This was a hard, a fateful day. I felt the urge to run out of the house. I ran about the forest and did not return home until late at night, deadly tired, and went to bed, without having eaten anything. In spite of my tiredness, I found no sleep. Ten, fifty, or even a hundred voices mocked me from inside with incessant laughter. I jumped up from my bed and ran away again, out into the night; where to, where to? I did not even pay any attention to this. It seemed to me, as if the characters from inside of me had left my body and were running next to me. Ahead of them all ran the pious principal of the seminary, followed by the accountant who had denied letting me borrow his watch, a pack of bowlers with bowling balls in their hands, and the robber-knights, robbers, monks, nuns, ghosts, and spooks from the trashy library at Hohenstein. These pursued me all about; they chased me to and fro. They screamed and cheered and mocked, so that my ears were ringing. At sunrise, I found myself climbing up a deep, steep quarry. I was trapped; I could not get out. There they got me, and they would not let me get back down either. There I was stuck between the sky and the ground, until the workers came and got me down with the help of a few ladders. Then, it went on, on and on and on, all day long, all of next night; then, I collapsed and fell asleep. Where, I do not know. It was on the narrow ridge between two fields of rye. A thunder woke me up. It was night again, and the rain of a thunder-storm was pouring down. I hurried away and reached a field of turnips. I was hungry and pulled out a turnip. With it, I reached the forest, crawled under the densely growing trees, and ate. After this, I fell asleep again. But I did not sleep tight; I kept on waking up. The voice woke me up. They mocked me constantly: "You've turned into a beast, eating turnips, turnips, turnips!" When the morning broke, I got a second turnip, returned to the forest, and ate. Then, I sought a clearing and let the sun shine on me, to get dry. Here, the voices kept silent; this calmed me down. I found a long, though only light sleep, during which I kept on tossing and turning from one side to another and was tortured by the short, upsetting images of a dreams, which suggested to me that at one time I was a bowling-pin, being knocked down, then again a gipsy from Preziosa, and then again something even worse. This sleep only made me even more tired, instead of strengthening me. I broke out of it, when night fell, and left the forest. Stepping out from under the trees, I saw the sky red as blood; smoke rose up to it. Surely, there was a fire. This had a rather peculiar effect on me. I did not know where I was; but I felt compelled to go there, to look at the fire. I reached a rocky slope, which seemed familiar to me. There, I sat on a rock and stared into the blaze. Though it was a house which was burning, the fire was inside of me. And the smoke, this thick, suffocating smoke! It was not over there with the fire, but here with me. It enveloped me and invaded my soul. There it clustered into shapes, which developed arms and legs and eyes and faces and moved inside of me. They spoke. But what? Only later, much later, I came to understand how such internal abominations are generated. Then, I did not understand it yet, and thus they could have this horrible effect, against which my nerves, though being strained to the extreme, had no power to resist any more. I collapsed, just as the burning house over there collapsed, once the flames became smaller and smaller and finally were extinguished. Then, I gathered my strength to get up and leave. Inside of me, everything was extinguished as well. I was stupid, perfectly stupid. My head was as if it had been enveloped in a thick layer of clay and chaff. I could not find any thoughts. I did not even look for them. I walked unsteadily. I walked without knowing where to. I stumbled on, until I finally reached a town, the churchyard of which was by the side of the road I had been walking along. I leaned against the cemetery's wall and wept. This might have been unmanly, but I did not have the strength to prevent it. These were no liberating tears. They brought me no relief; but they seemed to cleanse and to strengthen my eyes. I suddenly saw that it was the churchyard of Ernstthal, where I stood. I was just as familiar with it as with the road, where it was at; but today, I recognised neither.
The morning dawned. I slowly went down the path the funeral processions took, across the market square, and quietly opened the door of our house, walked just as quietly up the stairs, to our lodgings, and there, I sat on a chair by the table. I did this without plan, without a free will, like a puppet, pulled by its strings. After a while, the door to the bedroom opened. Mother came in. She was in the habit of getting up early on account of her profession. When she saw me, she was startled. She quickly pulled the door shut behind herself and said excitedly, but quietly:
"For God's sake! You? Has anybody see you come in?"
"No", I answered.
"How do you look like! Quickly, get out of here again, as far away as possible! Over to America! Or else they'll catch you! If they'd lock you up again, I wouldn't survive that!"
"Go away? Why?" I asked.
"What have you done; what have you done! This fire, this fire!"
"What about the fire?"
"You have been seen! In the quarry -- -- in the forest -- -- in the field -- -- and yesterday, also by the house, before it burnt down!"
This was really horrible, nothing less than horrible!
"Mo -- -- ther! Mo -- -- ther!" I stuttered. "You wouldn't believe that -- -- -- "
"Yes, I believe it; I have to believe it, and father, too", she interrupted me. "Everybody is saying it!"
She said this hastily. She did not cry, and she did not whine; she was so strong when she had to bear a burden on her soul. She continued without catching a breath:
"For God's sake, don't let them catch you, most of all not here with us in the house! Go, go! Before the people wake up and see you! I mustn't say that you've been here; I mustn't know where you are; I mustn't see you any more! So go, go! When it has come under the statute of limitations, you'll come back!"
She quietly rushed back into the bedroom, without having touched me and without waiting for another word from me. I was alone and grabbed my head with both hands. There, I felt so very clearly this thick layer of clay and chaff. This person standing there, this wasn't me, or was it? Him, in whom even his own mother did not believe any more? Who was this fellow, who looked like a tramp in his dirty, wrinkled clothes? Get him out of her, just out! Be gone, be gone!
I still had enough of my mental faculties left to open the wardrobe and to change into another, a clean suit. Then, I left. Where to? My memory fails me. Again, I was as sick as I used to be. Not sick in the mind, but in the soul. The internal characters and voices had me completely under their control. When I make an effort to remember these times, I feel like someone who has seen some play at the theatre fifty years ago and is now, after all of this time, expected to know what had happened from one moment to another and how the scenery had changed. Single images are left in my memory, but they are so blurred that I cannot say for certain what part of them is true and what is not. In those times, I have obeyed those dark characters, who lived inside of me and controlled me. What I have done, will seem unbelievable to everyone who has not made such an experience. I was accused of having stolen a baby carriage! What for? An empty purse, containing only three pfennig! Other things are more credible and some have been proven directly. I had been arrested, and wherever something had happened, I was brought there, hoping that I was the perpetrator. This was a very interesting time for the regulars or the Lügenschmiede of Ernstthal. There, almost every day, new stories were told or new variations of old ones were created on all the stuff I was supposed to have done. Every tramp who entered the area of these fairy-tales used my name to sin on my behalf. Even for a man who was a prisoner externally as well as internally this was too much. During a transport, I broke my bonds and disappeared. Where I went, I intend to report extensively in the second volume, where I will be giving an account of my travels. For now, there is nothing more to tell than what I have mentioned before, this is that my soul became just the more free, the more I distanced myself from my home, that out there, far from home, I was seized by an irresistible urge to return home, and that I was just the more freed from this, the closer I came again to the place where I was born. Is there anybody who could get to the bottom of this? I partly followed that incomprehensible compulsion, partly I returned out of my own free will, for the sake of my good plans and my future. If I had sinned, I had to do penance for it; this went entirely without saying. And before this penance was not done away with, there could not be any profitable work and no future for me. So, I returned home five months later, to give myself up to the court of law, but unfortunately, I did not do this straight away, as it would have been the right thing to do, but I was again subdued by these forces within me, which appeared again and prevented me from doing what I had been planning. The consequence of this was that I was apprehended, instead of being able to give myself up voluntarily. This worsened my situation to such an extent that I fully comprehend the severity which the judge, who was pronouncing my sentence, applied. But just as much, the behaviour of the lawyer, who had been appointed by the court as my defence attorney, cannot be comprehended. He did not defend, but incriminate me, and did so in the worst way. He had the delusion that he could or should practice criminal psychology at this welcome opportunity, and yet, he lacked basically everything which is needed to solve such a task even to some extent. I very well might have denied it all, but rather confessed to everything I was accused of straight out. I did this, to get rid of this affair, no matter what the price may be, and to lose as little time as possible. The lawyer was unable to comprehend me or what was going on in any other not entirely commonplace soul. The verdict was four years in prison and two years under police supervision. However hard it is for me to write this down for the public to read, I cannot relieve myself of this duty; it has to be this way. I do not feel sorry for myself, but for my poor, law-abiding parents and sisters, my parents whom I still feel sorry for in their graves, because their son, for whom they had such great, perhaps not entirely unfounded hopes, had been forced by the infinite cruelty of the facts and conditions to make such confessions.
I would not think of listing the misdeeds, I had been accused of, here. To my executioner, flayer, and knacker, is something I will leave up to this abysmal lack of honour, which has crucified me ten years ago and has not stopped for a single moment during all of this time inventing ever new ways to torture me. Let it continue digging through these faeces, to delight all of those base creatures who sustain their lives on these matters. And just the same, I am not willing to make a sensation out of this renewed imprisonment of mine. I simply have to report of it, to tell the truth, and then, to hurry on, bidding my farewell to this apparent abyss, which is actually no abyss at all.
My punishment was hard and long, and the additional two years under police supervision could not possibly have been interpreted in my favour, when was committed to prison. So, I was expecting a strict treatment. It turned out to be severe, but it did not hurt. An institution's management acts quite right in showing no prejudice, but waiting calmly whether and how a new prisoner complies with its rules. Well, I did comply! Of course, this time my profession got me no special consideration. I was assigned to the occupation, where they happened to need workers at that time. I became a cigar-maker. I asked for a cell for myself; my wish was granted. For four years, I have inhabited the same cell, and even today, I still think back on it with that peculiar, grateful sentiment which a quiet, not cruel place of suffering deserves. I also started to like my work. It was most interesting to me. I became acquainted with all blends of tobacco and learnt to manufacture all kinds of cigars, from the cheapest to the most expensive. The daily workload had not been set too high. It depended on the kind of cigar, the willingness to do a good job, and on one's skillfulness. Once I had enough training, I easily fulfilled my quota and still had hours or half days left. To be able to use this time for myself, was my most heartfelt wish, and it was granted to me sooner, much sooner than I had thought possible.
Let me emphasise here once and for all, that to me, nothing happens by chance. Every one of my readers knows this. To me, there is only providence. So it also was in this case. The church of the penitentiary of Waldheim had a Protestant and a Catholic congregation. The Catholic Bible teacher played the organ during the Catholic services. But by now, he had become more and more overburdened with new obligation and lots of work that he had to look for someone who could take over playing the organ in his place, especially since he had to read the sermon whenever the priest was unable to come and therefore could not play the organ as well. The warden's office allowed him to look for a substitute among the prisoners. He did so. There was quite a number of sentenced teachers among the prisoners. They were examined. Why they did not take anybody else, I do not know. They had all been there for a longer amount of time than I and thus had time to obtain the trust which is needed for filling such a position. But I had been committed with nothing less than good attestations of character, could not possible escape the future police supervision, and had not found any time yet to show that I nevertheless deserved their trust. This is for me the reason why I presume that it was no coincidence, but providence. The Bible teacher came into my cell, talked to me for a while, and then left, without telling me anything. A few days later, the Catholic priest came as well. He also left after a short while, without mentioning the reason for his visit. But the next day, I was escorted to the church, seated in front of the organ, was presented with sheet music, and had to play. The officials sat below in the nave of the curch, so that I did not see them. Only the Bible teacher was with me, who presented me with my tasks. I passed the test and had to appear before the warden, who informed me that I had been assigned to playing the organ, and that I therefore had to conduct myself very well, to be worthy of this trust. This was the beginning, out of which so very much for myself and for my inner self has developed.
I, the Protestant, was the organ player in a Catholic church! The first thing I got out of this was a certain freedom to move around the prison building. After all, they could not place an watchman next to me at the organ! But I got even more out of it, respect that is, and the kind of consideration I was seeking in regard to certain appearances. The watchman of our "visitation" was a quiet, earnest man, I liked rather well; when he read in the registration book, that I had been made the Catholic organ player, he astonishedly came into my cell, to ask, whether a mistake might have occurred in the files of my commitment; there I was listed as evangelical-Lutheran. I denied that this was a mistake. At this, he looked at me with big eyes and said:
"We've never had this before! You must be -- -- -- h'm, YOU[a]must be a very talented musician!"