Books: My Life and My Efforts

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

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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"
. And the poem on page 109 refers to my
grandmother, out of whose soul the character of Marah Durimeh has
grown, this oriental princess, which symbolises to my and my
readers the "soul of mankind".

After I had read so about everything that was to be found in the
private households of Hohenstein-Ernstthal in the form of books of
every genre, and had also copied or made notes of much, very much
of it, father started looking around for new sources. There had
been three of them, these were the libraries of the cantor, the
principal, and the minister. The cantor proved to be the most
reasonable one of the three in this respect as well. He said, he
had no books for entertainment, but only books for learning, and I
was still far too young for those, then. But nevertheless, he
parted with one of them, for the thought, it might be very useful
for me as member of the choir to learn how to translate the Latin
texts of our hymns into the the German language. This book was on
Latin grammar; the title page was missing, but on the next page
it read:

"A boy must get his lessons down,
for him to be a dominus, [a]
but if he learns just with a frown,
thus he will be an asinus!" [b]

[a] dominus (Latin) = master, lord
[b] asinus (Latin) = donkey, ass

Father was truly delighted about this four-lined rhyme and stated
that I should take good care that would not become an asinus, but
rather a dominus. So, now I was to get busy and quickly learn
some Latin!

Soon afterwards, some families of Ernstthal arrived at the
decision to emigrate to America, in the coming year. Therefore,
their children were to learn as much English as possible during
this period of time. It goes without saying that I had to join
them! And then it happened that in some manner, I do not recall
how, a book came into our possession, containing French songs of
the Freemasons, both lyrics and melodies. It had been printed in
the year 1782 in Berlin and was dedicated to "His Royal Highness,
Friedrich Wilhelm, prince of Prussia". Just for that, it had to
be good and of a very high value! The title read: "Chansons
maconniques", and the melody I liked the most had seven four-lined
stanzas to be sung to it, the first of which I would like to quote
here:

"Nous venerons de l'Arabie
La sage et noble antiquite,
Et la celebre Confrairie
Transmise a la posterite." [a]

[a] We venerate Arabia, the wise and noble ancient world, and the
famous Brotherhood (confrerie), passed on to posterity.

The term "songs of the Freemasons" had a particular attraction.
What a delight to be able to delve into the secrets of
freemasonry! Luckily, the principal also gave private lessons in
French. He permitted me to enter into this "circle", and so it
happened that I had to deal with Latin, English, and French now
all at the same time.

The principal was less reluctant in respect to borrowing me some
of his books than the cantor. His favourite subject was
geography. He possessed hundreds of geographic and ethnographic
volumes, which he all made available to my father for me. I
grasped this treasure with true enthusiasm, and the kind gentleman
was glad about it, without having even the most obvious objections
against it. Though he contemplated seeking employment as a
minister, he was nonetheless in his heart more a philosopher than
a theologian, and tended towards a freer way of thinking. But
this was less obvious from his words than from the books he owned.
At the same time, the minister also allowed me access to his
library. He was no philosopher at all, but only and exclusively a
theologian, nothing else. I am not referring to our old, kind
minister, I mentioned before, but his successor, who first gave me
all of his little tracts to read and then added to them all kinds
of scriptures by Redenbacher and other good people, to awaken the
faith, uplift the spirit, and educate the youth. So it happened
that I had received from the principal, for instance, an
enthusiastic description of Islamic charity and from the minister
a missionary report, which bitterly complained about the obvious
decline in Christian compassion, now lying before me side by side.
In the first one's library, I got familiar with Humboldt,
Bonpland, and all those other "great" men, who trusted more in
science than in religion, and in the second one's library there
were all those other "great" men, who esteemed religious
revelation infinitely higher than all scientific results. And
during all this, I was by no means an adult, but a stupid, a very
stupid boy; but even much more foolish than I, were those who
allowed me to fall and sink into those conflicts, without knowing
what they did. Everything that was written in those so diverse
books, could have been good, yes even excellent; but for me it
had to turn into poison.

But even worse things followed. The private lessons in those
foreign languages, which I received now, had to be payed, and I
was the one who had to earn this money in one way or another. We
looked around. A bar in Hohenstein was looking for a nimble,
persevering boy to set up the pins in the bowling alley. I
applied, though I had no experience, and got the job. Yes, I did
earn money there, very much money, but how! By what pains! And
what else did I sacrifice for this! The bowling alley was used
often, being located in a closed room with a stove, so that it
could be used in summer as well as in winter and in all kinds of
weather. They bowled every day. From now on, I could not even
find a quarter of an hour of spare time, and in particular not on
a Sunday afternoon. Then, it started right after church and
lasted until late at night. But the most busy day was Monday,
because this was the day of the weekly market, when the
inhabitants of the countryside came into town, to bring their
products, to do their shopping, and - last but not least - to have
a game of bowling. But this one game turned into five, ten,
twenty, and it could happen on these Mondays that I had to toil
from twelve o'clock at noon until after midnight, without even
being able to take just five minutes of rest. To strengthen
myself, I got in the afternoon and in the evening a buttered slice
of bread and and a glass of stale beer, poured together from the
left-overs. It also happened that a sympathetic bowler, seeing
that I could hardly go on, brought me a glass of hard liquor, to
invigorate me. I never complained about this excessive strain at
home, because I saw how indispensably what I earned was needed.
The amount I got together there on a weekly basis really made a
big difference. I received a fixed income for every hour and
furthermore a certain amount for every honneur [a] that was
bowled. If the game was not played in the normal way, but free
betting, or even gambling was practised, this amount was doubled
or tripled. There have been Mondays, when I brought home more
than twenty groschen, but was so tired, I more stumbled than
climbed up the stairs to our lodgings.

[a] Honneur: French for "honour", but here it means striking the
middle row of the pins.

But what did my soul gain from this? Nothing at all, it just lost
something. The beer they drank was just of a simple and cheap
kind, but hard liquor was consumed in particularly large
quantities. I will show elsewhere that these were not the kind of
people, who would be familiar with what one might describe as
consideration or even sensitivity. Everything which might have
come into someone's mind was blurted out without restraint. You
can imagine the kinds of things I got to hear there! The long
enclosure of the bowling alley worked like an ear-trumpet. Every
word which was spoken in the front among the players reached me
clearly. Everything which grandmother and mother, the cantor and
the principal as well, has built up within me, was outraged at
what I got to hear here. There was much filth and also much
poison in it. There was none of that powerful, utterly healthy
gaiety which, for instance, can be found at an upper Bavarian
bowling alley, but those were people, who came directly from the
mind-numbing atmosphere of their looms into the bar, to have for a
few hours the illusion of pleasure, but which was anything less
than a pleasure, at least for me it was torture, physically as
well as spiritually.

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