Books: My Life and My Efforts

K >> Karl May >> My Life and My Efforts

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The next day, her grandfather came to see me. She had told him
about me and had kindled the wish in him, to get to know me in
person as well, after having read my "sermons". He seemed to be
satisfied by me, for he asked me to return the visit. I did so.
A steady contact developed between us, which, after I had ended my
visit and had gone back to Dresden, changed from a personal to
written one. But Pollmer did not like to write. The letters I
received were by his granddaughter's hand. Who would have ever
thought that I would start corresponding with the "nickel", who
"brought nothing but mischief"!

Her letters made an extraordinarily good impression. There, she
wrote about my "beautiful, highly important profession", about my
"glorious tasks", about my "noble goals and ideals". She quoted
passages from my "Geographical Sermons" and extended them with her
own thoughts, which astonished me by being right on the mark.
What a natural gift for being an author's wife! Though I
occasionally had the impression that only a male author, and a
very educated one at that, could write such letters, I was was not
able to consider her capable of such a deception. My sister wrote
me, too. She was overflowing with praise for "Miss Pollmer" and
invited me to visit her again for the Christmas holidays. I did
so. I forgot that Christmastime in particular had rarely been a
friend of mine, and that I had been warned against the place of my
birth. This Christmas decided my fate, though I did not get
engaged right away. After all, I had time. This time, I mostly
spent travelling, until I called on my home again for Whitsuntide,
to continue studying the soul of the "nickel" again, who was now
supposed to become "my nickel". But this continuation was not to
be, but rather a decision had to be made right away, the likes of
which is otherwise only found on stage. This came about like
this: When Pollmer found out that I had returned, he visited me
and invited me for lunch at his place. He had been a widower for
a long time, and his family only consisted of him and his
granddaughter. I knew that he only talked most favourably about
me wherever he went and that my prior convictions did not keep him
at all from regarding me as a good, trustworthy person. But I
also knew that he considered his grandchild to be the most
beautiful and precious being in the entire area, and that he had
perfectly fairy-tale-like thoughts in respect to whom she should
marry. He was on the opinion that such radiant beauties were the
greatest wealth of their family and might only be married to a
husband who was as rich and noble as possible. Quite naturally,
this opinion of his could not have failed to influence his
granddaughter; I noticed this very well; and perhaps, it was
high time to get her away from this influence. Therefore, when he
asked me to have this day's lunch as his place, I answered:

"I'd very much like to come, but only under the condition that I
may not only come for your, but also for your daughter's sake."

He listened up in surprise.

"For Emma's sake?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What do you mean by this? Do you have any designs on her? Do
you perhaps even want to marry her?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Heavens! This is the first time I hear of this! But, I'd think,
that this is only your intention! Whatever does she say about all
this?"

"She agrees with me."

At this, he sprang up from his chair, became dark red all over his
face, and exclaimed:

"I won't have it, no way, no way! My daughter has not been born
and has not been brought up to toil her way through life with a
poor devil! She can get other men. I won't have her marrying an
author, who, if all turns out well, only lives by his fame and
otherwise starves!"

"Might it be that you are also considering my prior convictions in
this?" I asked. "This, I would accept!"

"Nonsense! I don't care about that. Hundreds of thousands are
walking about in freedom, who ought to be in prison! No, that's
not it. I have entirely different reasons. You won't get my
daughter!"

He shouted these words very loudly.

"Oho!" I answered.

"Oho? There is no oho! I'm telling you again, you won't get my
daughter!"

He pounded his walking stick on the floor with every one of these
words, to increase their effect. I was very tempted to place my
hand on his shoulder and to tell him laughingly: "Well, so keep
her!" But my father's legacy within me rebelled against this, the
tough, unreflected rage, which never does the right thing. I now
also became enraged:

"If you won't give her to me, then I'll take her!"

"Just try it!"

"I won't just try it, but I will do it, actually do it!"

Then, he laughed.

"You won't dare to come to my place. From now on, any kinds of
visits on your part are not welcome any more!"

"This goes without saying. But I predict: The time will come,
when you'll come to me in person and beg me to visit you. But for
now, farewell!"

"Me, begging you? Never, never, no way!"

He left. But I wrote three lines and sent them to his daughter.
They read: "Choose between me and your grandfather; if you
choose him, stay; if you choose me, come to Dresden right away!"
Then I left town. She chose me; she came. She left the man who
had brought her up and whose only treasure she was. This
flattered me. I felt as if I had been the winner. I put her up
with a minister's widow, who had two grown-up, highly educated
daughters. By the contact with these ladies, she was enabled to
easily obtain everything she did not possess yet. This gave her
the opportunity, to mange a household by herself. I also worked
with much, even very much success. I became well known and earned
very decent royalties. I had started my "traveller's tales",
which were also published right away in Paris and Tours,
translated into French. The word of this got around; this even
impressed the "old Pollmer". He was told by experts, that I was
about to become a prosperous, perhaps even a rich man. So he
wrote to his daughter. He forgave her for leaving him for my
sake, and asked her to come to Hohenstein, to visit him, and to
bring me along. She fulfilled his wish, and I accompanied her.
But I did not come to see him, but rather went to Ernstthal to my
parents. He sent for me; but I answered, I knew very well what I
had predicted to him. If he wanted to have me at his place, he
would have to come in person, to invite me. And he came!

Again, I felt as if I had been the winner. How foolish was I! It
was not me who had won here, but only the calculated thought that
I was likely to obtain a fortune, and for me, there even was the
danger that it was not just the grandfather who was thus
calculating. Aside from this, he asked her to stay with him in
Hohenstein, until we would get married. I had no objections and
gave up my lodgings in Dresden, to live with my parents in
Ernstthal. This was a time of rather strange internal and
external developments for me. I wrote and travelled. Returning
from one of these travels, I was told, as soon as I had stepped
off the train, that the night before the "old Pollmer" had died;
he had suffered a stroke. I rushed to his apartment. I had been
told too much. He was not dead; he was still alive, but he could
neither speak nor move. His grandchild sat in the next room,
rather materially busy. She had searched for his money and found
it. It was not much; I believe it was less than two hundred
marks. I pulled her away from this, over to the sick man. He
recognised me and wanted to talk, but only achieved an
inarticulate babble. His eyes expressed a terrible fear. Then,
the physician who treated him came. He had already examined him
the first thing early in the morning, did it now again, and
informed us that all hope was in vain. After he had left, the
dying man's daughter fell on her knees before me and begged me
that I should by no means leave her. I promised this to her and
have kept my word. I have even done more than this. I fulfilled
her wish to stay in Hohenstein. We rented one floor at the upper
market square and could have lived there in infinite happiness, if
such happiness had been in our destiny.

At this time, I had already been writing for Pustet in Regensburg
for several years, who published my "traveller's tales" in his
magazine "Deutscher Hausschatz". Pustet is a Catholic publisher,
and the "Deutscher Hausschatz" is a Catholic family magazine. But
this religious affiliation was most irrelevant to me. The reason
why I have remained faithful to this highly decent company was not
religion, but merely business. This was because, as early as
after my second short story, Councillor of Commerce [a] Pustet had
his editor Vinzenz Mueller [b] inform me that he would agree to
purchase all of my manuscripts; he wanted me to sent them to no
other publishing company. And he promised to pay instantly. In
case of longer manuscripts, which I was to send him one
installment after another, he would very much like to pay for
every part individually; as much money as there are pages!
Probably, there will not be too many authors who are made such an
offer. I happily agreed. For about twenty years, whenever I
mailed a manuscript, the royalties arrived precisely two days
later. I do not remember a single time, when it would have come
later. And never, there has been even the slightest disagreement
concerning the royalties among us. I never demanded more than
what we had agreed upon, and when Pustet suddenly doubled it, it
was his own, free decision, without me ever having stated any wish
in this respect. An author will remain faithful to such a
publisher, even without asking them for his faith or religious
affiliations.

[a] Kommerzienrat: a title, not connected with any public
office, which was awarded to businessmen in recognition
of their work by the German government up until 1919.
[b] Venanz Mueller (1831-1906?), not Vinzenz.

But even more valuable to me than this punctuality was the fact
that all of my manuscripts were ordered in advance and would
surely be accepted and printed. This enabled me to, now finally,
carry out my plans concerning my "traveller's tales". Now, I
could be sure to have the necessary space in a magazine for a long
time to come at my disposal. Who would later publish these tales
in the form of books, was a question which might just as well
remain unanswered for the time being. There are hostile people
who have said that I had only sought contact with this Catholic
publisher for the sake of money. This is such an unconscientious
and reprehensible lie that I cannot find the words to answer it.
I have done the very opposite of what I am here accused of. I
have made sacrifices for the "Deutscher Hausschatz" and its
publisher, the extent of which the Pustet family did not even
suspect. Before me, I have a letter which Professor Josef
Kuerschner, the well known, famous publicist, I used to be a very
close friend of, has written to me on October the 3th, 1886. He
was writing about the magazine "Vom Fels zum Meere" Mountains to the Sea>, which was published by Spemann in Stuttgart
and for which I used to work. The letter reads as follows:

"Dear Sir!

"In the meantime, you have once again supplied other companies
with material, while you are still keeping me waiting for what you
have already promised a long time ago. This is not exactly the
right thing to do, and I am asking you urgently to make good on
your promise to me, now. I do not want to miss this opportunity
to ask you, whether you would not be inclined to start writing a
rather thrilling, gripping, and eventful novel. In this case, I
would be able to guarantee YOU royalties of up to a thousand marks
per sheet of the magazine, if you would write something of the
kind.

"Most sincerely
your most devoted
Josef Kuerschner."

The royalties I received from Pustet were, compared with these
thousand marks, so insignificant that I cannot bring myself to
naming the amount here. The fact that I nevertheless preferred
Pustet is surely more than a sufficient proof that I did not write
for the "Hausschatz" to "make more money than I received from
others". My other publishers also payed significantly more than
Pustet. I hereby have to state this for a fact, to confront these
vicious rumours. I will tell you about the contents of these
tales I wrote for the "Hausschatz" elsewhere. Obeying the logic
of the facts, I have have to turn from Pustet back to Muenchmeyer.

The year was 1882, when I reached Dresden with my wife on a
recreational trip. I had described Muenchmeyer thus vividly to
her, that she could picture him quite correctly, though she had
not seen him yet. But she wished very much to get to know him,
the man about whom others had told her as well that he was a
handsome fellow, a splendid conversationalist, and felt
enthusiastically about beautiful women. At this time of the year,
he was in the habit of frequenting a certain garden restaurant at
nightfall. When I told her about this, she asked me to escort her
there. I did so, though I felt reluctant about showing him the
one I had preferred over his sister-in-law. I was not mistaken.
He was there. The only guest in the entire garden. His joy to
see me gain was sincere; this was plain to see. But might there
not also have been reasons relating to his business for this joy?
He had been sitting there so very much slouching and depressed,
with his head in both of his hands. But now, he was suddenly
happy and alert. He was radiating with pleasure. In his
colportage-style, he gave me the most impossible compliments, for
having such a beautiful wife, and he congratulated my wife in the
same expressions for the good fortune of having a husband who had
become famous so quickly. He knew my success, but exaggerated it,
to flatter the two of us. He impressed my wife, and she impressed
him just the same. He began to talk enthusiastically, and he
began to become honest. He told her that she was as beautiful as
an angel, and that she was to be his rescuing angel, yes, his
rescuing angel whom he needed in this present dire need. She
could save him by asking me to write a novel for him. And now he
told his story:

After I had left his business, he had not found a suitable editor
for the magazines I had founded. He himself had no gift for
editing. They very quickly lost in value; the subscribers
cancelled; they were discontinued. But this was not all.
Nothing at all seemed to work out for him. One loss followed
after another, and now, the situation was thus that he could no
longer evade Hamlet's question of "to be or not to be". Just in
this very moment, he had pondered the matter by whom or what he
could be saved, but in vain. Then, the two of us had come in,
like being heaven-sent. And now he knew, that he would be saved,
saved by me, by a novel of mine, by the beautiful, young, kind
woman of my heart, who would not leave me alone with this matter,
until the novel was in his hands. This sly fellow had, by means
of this crude praise, completely assured himself of my
inexperienced wife's assistance. He urged me to fulfil his wish,
and she joined in. He was clever enough to suggest to me that
basically it was only me who was to blame for his present bad
situation. Six years ago, everything had been extraordinary well;
but when I refused to marry his sister-in-law and left my job as
an editor, everything had turned completely into the opposite. To
undo this damage, he said, I was morally practically obliged, to
give him a hand, now.

As far as this final thought was concerned, I felt very well that
there was some truth in it. My willingness to marry the sister of
Mrs. Muenchmeyer had, at that time, been taken so much for
granted, that they were talking about it everywhere. By rejecting
this plan, not just this girl, but the entire family as well, had
suffered an almost public humiliation, which, though it was not my
fault, moved me to do Muenchmeyer some kind of a favour to repair
the damage. Furthermore, there had been no argument between us,
but we had parted as friends. So there could be no personal
reason, only perhaps one relating to business, to reject his wish.
But concerning business, there also was no compelling reason to
refuse. I had time; I just had to take it. The fact that
Muenchmeyer published colportage did not compel me to write for
him nothing but a trashy colportage-novel. It could be something
better, an evolving sequence of traveller's tales, as I delivered
to Pustet and other publishers. If I did so, this would at the
same time serve my life's work as well, and just it had been
planned for the Hausschatz-tales, I could, what I wrote for
Muenchmeyer, also have published in books later on for my own
benefit.

These ideas went through my head, while Muenchmeyer and my wife
were trying to persuade me. I finally declared that I might
perhaps decide to write the desired novel, but only under the
condition that after an appointed time, all right would revert to
me. Absolutely no word was allowed to be changed from my
manuscript; but, after all, he would know about this from my
previous work, I said. Muenchmeyer stated that he would agree to
this, but I should not be too hard on him concerning the
royalties. He was in need and could not pay much. Later, if my
novel should turn out to be a success, he could balance this out
with a "fine gratification". This sounded not too bad. He asked
me not to impose a time, when the novel should revert to me, but
rather to agree on a number of subscribers; once this would have
been reached, he would have to stop and return my rights to me.
He figured out that with six to seven thousand subscribers, he
would break even; everything beyond this was profit. Therefore,
I suggested that, in case I should write this novel, Muenchmeyer
should be allowed to sell up to twenty thousand subscriptions, not
more; then, he would have to pay me a "fine gratification", and
all of the rights to the novel would revert to me. Whether I
would then, for appropriate royalties, continue having it
published with him or another publisher, was entirely up to me.
Muenchmeyer immediately agreed to this, but did not definitely
consent yet; I declared that I wanted to think about the matter
thoroughly and give him my decision the next day.

As early as the next morning, Muenchmeyer came to our hotel, to
get my decision. I said yes, to equal parts voluntarily and
forced. My wife had been keeping at it, until I had given her the
promise to fulfil his wish. He got the novel at the desired
conditions, which was only up to the twenty thousandth subscriber.
For this, he had to pay 35 marks per issue and a "fine
gratification" in the end. We shook hands. Thus, our contract
was not in writing, but an oral agreement. He said that we were
both honest men and would never cheat one another. It would sound
like an insult to him to ask him for a signature. I had two good
reasons for agreeing to this. The first one was that, according
to the Saxonian law at that time, only a thousand copies were
allowed to be printed without a contract; thus, Muenchmeyer would
have only defrauded himself, if he had intended to be dishonest;
so I thought. And secondly, I could easily and inconspicuously
obtain the missing written contract by means of letters. I, quite
simply, only had to style my business letters to Muenchmeyer in
such a way, that his answers, in one letter after another, would
contain everything we had agreed upon. And so I did, safely
keeping all of his answers.

He was very eager that I should start with the novel right away.
I did him this favour and quickly returned to Hohenstein, to start
without delay. My wife urged me almost even more than Muenchmeyer
himself. He had a personal preference for the meaningless title
"Das Waldroeschen" [a]. I agreed
to this as well, but was careful not to make any further kinds of
concessions to him. After just a few weeks, there were good news.
The novel "went". This "went" is a term of the business, which
means a not too commonplace success. I received no proof-sheets
for correction or revision, and this was just all right with me,
because I had no time for this. Copies of the finished booklets
were not sent to me, because they would have interrupted my
concentration. I was to receive my free copies after the novel
was finished in one complete set. I agreed to this. Of course,
this gave me no opportunity to compare my original manuscript with
the printed text, but I did not worry about this. After all, we
had agreed that no word of mine was to be changed, and I was so
trusting in those days to think that this was enough.

[a] An English translation was published in 1886 under the title
"Rosita" in America.

The success of the "Waldroeschen" did not just seem to turn out
well, but even quite extraordinarily. Muenchmeyer wrote in his
letters that he was very satisfied. He repeatedly wrote that he
considered himself to be saved even now, after such a short time,
for he did hope that the novel would continue to attract as many
readers as it had up to now. He suggested that we should not stay
in Hohenstein, but move to Dresden, since he wanted me to be near
him. My wife enthusiastically jumped on the idea and made sure
that it was carried out as quickly as possible. By no means, I
offered any resistance. Especially since during my time in
Hohenstein, I had to think more and more often of the warning,
which was to be read in the Bible teacher's book. In spite of
this warning, I had not just settled down at the place of my
birth, but had also taken a wife from there. For some time, I had
tended towards regarding the contents of this passage of the book
as a superstition, but soon afterwards, I regarded it again with
the eyes of an psychologist and was finally, by the weight of the
facts, forced to realize that a single swimmer can at any rate
cross muddy waters easier than when he has to take a second person
along who can neither swim nor is willing to swim. Therefore,
this move was rather what I had wanted, and yet, as a matter of
caution, I did not move to Dresden itself, but rather to
Blasewitz, to have more freedom. Even there, Muenchmeyer called
on me right away, and repeated his visits several time a week. A
contact developed between him and us, which was quite advantageous
in the beginning. I worked to hard that I did almost never
permitted myself to relax. This novel progressed very rapidly,
and its success grew to such an extent that Muenchmeyer asked me
to write a second one and possibly even several more. I did not
suspect that my decision concerning this wish of his would be a
highly important one for me and that a positive answer could
become a source of unspeakable misery and unpronounceable torture
for me. I only looked at the alleged advantages, but did not see
the danger.

This danger developed, as it did once before, out of my literary
plans. Muenchmeyer had not forgotten these plans; he still knew
them very well. Now, he reminded me of them. Because I had given
up my job in his business, I had not been able to carry them out,
then. But now, I was no employee, but a free man, who could not
be kept from doing as he pleased by anything. And the most
important thing was: I did not need to stretch what I wanted to
write, as I had to do with Pustet, over many annual sets of a
magazine, but I could swiftly write it all, one thing after
another, to publish what was now printed in booklets, later, in
the form of books. This enticed me. On top of it, there was the
constant insistence of my wife, who could very easily silence the
minor objections I had to make. In short, I gave my consent to
write several novels more and this at the very same conditions as
the "Waldroeschen". So, these works also had to revert to me
after the twenty thousandth subscriber with all rights included,
and then, I was to payed a "fine gratification". There was just a
single change, and this was that I received royalties of fifty
marks per booklet for these novels, instead of just thirty-five
for the "Waldroeschen".

Due to this agreement, this was the beginning of a time for me, of
which I cannot think today without satisfaction, but also not
without a feeling of deep shame. I am not asking, whether I am
hurting my reputation by being thus honest; it is my duty to say
the truth, nothing else. At this time, I worked with an almost
feverish zeal. I did not have to spent much effort on looking for
topics like other authors; after all, I had made extensive lists
of topics for myself, I only had to turn to, to instantly find
what I was looking for. And all of them were already completely
thought out; I only had to carry them out; I only needed to
write. And I did the latter with an eagerness, which did not let
me look either left or right, and this in particular, this was the
very thing I wanted. I had to realize that there was no other
happiness for me in life than only this one, which was derived
from my work. Therefore, I worked, I worked so much and with so
much pleasure, so much pleasure! This restless zeal enabled me to
forget that I had been mistaken concerning my life's bliss and was
now leading an even much, much lonelier life than ever before.
This deep, internal loneliness urged me to be restlessly busy, to
fill the dreary desolation, and it unfortunately made me
indifferent in respect to the necessity of having to be cautious
in matters of business. In Muenchmeyer's company, so many things
happened which might have caused me to be vigilant, so that I had
more than a sufficient reason to ensure as much as possible the
future accessibility and integrity of everything I wrote for him.
Not thinking of this was a mistake, which I can excuse, but cannot
forgive myself for, even up to this day.

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