Books: My Life and My Efforts

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

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23

And yet, this bar had even much worse poison to offer than beer
and brandy and similar, evil things, this was a rental library,
and what a library! Never again have I seen such a filthy,
internally and externally perfectly rough, extremely dangerous
collection of books like this one! It was extremely profitable,
because it was the only one for both small towns. No new books
were bought. The only change that came upon it was that the
covers grew even filthier and the pages grew even greasier and
more worn out. But the contents was eagerly devoured by the
readers, again and again, and I have to admit to the truth and
confess to my own disgrace that I also, once I had tasted it,
totally succumbed to the devil, who was hiding in those volumes.
Let some of the titles show what kind of a devil this was:
Rinaldo Rinaldini, the Robbers' Captain, by Vulpius, Goethe's
brother-in-law [a]. Sallo Sallini, the Noble Captain of the
Robbers. Himlo Himlini, the Charitable Captain of the
Robbers. [b] The Robbers' Den on Monte Viso. [c] Bellini, the
Admirable Bandit. The Robber's Beautiful Bride or the Victim of
the Unfair Judge. The Tower of Starvation or the Cruelty of the
Laws. Bruno von Loeweneck, der Annihilator of the Clerics. [d]
Hans von Hunsrueck or the Robber-Knight as a Protector of the
Poor. Emilia, the Immured Nun. Botho von Tollenfels, the Saviour
of the Innocent. The Bride at the Execution. The King as a
Murderer. The Sins of the Archbishop etc. etc.

[a] This is Christian August Vulpius (1762-1827), the brother of
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe's wife Christiane.
[b] "Sallo Sallini" and "Himlo Himlini" were both written by
Georg Carl Ludwig Schoepffer (1811-1876), published in 1828
and 1833.
[c] "Die Raeuberhoehle auf dem Monte Viso", by Theodor Graeber,
published in 1834.
[d] Perhaps this refers to "Bruno von Loeveneck und Clara von
Hundsrueck", published anonymously in 1825.

When I came to set up the pins and no players had come yet, the
owner of the bar gave me one of these books, to read it for the
time being. Later, he told me I could read them all, without
having to pay for it. And I read them; I devoured them; I read
them three or four times! I took them home. I sat for entire
nights over them with burning eyes. Father did not object.
Nobody warned me, not even those who would have been so very much
obliged to warn me. They knew very well, what I read; I did not
conceal it. And what an effect this had! I did not even suspect
what this caused inside of me; how much collapsed within me;
that the few means of support I, the boy who was spiritually
hovering in thin air, still had now also fell with the exception
of one, this was my faith in God and my confidence in Him.

Psychology is presently in a process of transformation. More and
more, the distinction between the mind and the soul is being made.
There is an attempt to separate the two, to define them sharply,
to prove their differences. It is being said that a human being
was not a single entity, but a drama. For the purpose of going
along with this view, I must not confuse what affected my small,
still growing mind and my boyish soul. All of this extensive
reading, I was forced to do up to now, did not profit my soul at
all, not in the least; just the ever so tiny mind did bear the
effects of this, but what an effects were these! It had been
blown up and rolled out into a little, monstrously fat, big-headed
freak. The very well, perhaps even extraordinarily, talented boy
had transformed into an unshapely, mentally deformed creature, who
possessed nothing real except for his helplessness. And
spiritually, my soul was without home, without youth, was just
held up by this strong, indestructible rope, I mentioned before,
and was only tied to the earth below by this more poetic than
material high regard for king and fatherland, law and justice,
which originated from those days when the eleven companies of
heroes had been formed in Ernstthal, to save the severely besieged
monarch of Saxony and his government from certain ruin. But now,
this support was taken from me as well by reading from this
shameful rental library. All of those robber-captains, bandits,
and robber-knights, of which I read there, were noble people.
Whatever they were now, they had become because of bad people,
especially because of unfair judges and the cruel authorities.
They possessed the true religious virtues, ardent patriotism,
limitless charity, and styled themselves as the knights and
saviours of all those who were poor, all those who were
downtrodden and oppressed. They imbued the reader with respect
and admiration; but all adversaries of these glorious men were to
be despised, and in particular the authorities whose designs were
foiled again and again. And most of all, there was this fullness
of life, of action, of movement, which dominated these books! On
every page, something happened, something most interesting, some
great, hard, daring deed, which was to be admired. What, on the
other hand, had happened in all those books I had read up to now?
What happened in the minister's tracts? In his boring,
meaningless scriptures for the youth? And what happened in those
otherwise rather good and useful books of the principal? They
described great, large, and distant countries, but nothing
happened in all of this. They told of foreign people and nations,
but they did not move, they did nothing. This was all just
geography, just geography, nothing else; any kind of a plot was
missing. And just ethnography, just ethnography; but the puppets
stood still. There was no God, no man, and also no devil, to take
the cross with the strings into his hand and to give these dead
characters life! And yet, there is one person, who absolutely
demands this life, this is the reader. And this is the one, upon
whom everything depends, because he alone is the one the books are
written for. The reader's soul will turn away from any kind of
lack of movement, because this means this soul's death. What a
wealth of life was there, on the other hand, in this rental
library! And how was it tuned to the peculiarities and
requirements of the one who would take such a book into his hands!
As soon as he would feel a wish while reading, it is already
fulfilled. And what an admirable, unchanging justice rules the
scene. Every good, honourable person, may he be the captain of
the robbers ten times over, is invariably rewarded. And every
evil person, every sinner, may he be ten times a king, general,
bishop, or public prosecutor, is invariably punished. This is
true justice; this is divine justice! No matter how much Goethe
may write in poetry and prose about the glory and irrevocability
of divine and human law, he is nonetheless wrong! Only his
brother-in-law Vulpius is right, for he has created that Rinaldo
Rinaldini!

What was worst about this reading was that it took place in the
later phase of my boyhood, when everything which took hold of my
soul was to be kept there forever. In addition, there was my
inborn naivety, which I still have even today to a large degree.
I believed in what I read there, and father, mother, and sisters
believed it with me. Only grandmother shook her head, and even
the more the longer it lasted; but she was outvoted by the rest
of us. In our poverty, we found an great delight in reading about
"noble" people, who kept on giving away riches. That they had
stolen and robbed those riches from others before, was just their
business; this did not irritate us! When we read how many needy
people had been supported and saved by such robbers' captain, we
were happy about this and imagined how nice it would be, if such a
Himlo Himlini would suddenly step through our door, put ten
thousand shiny talers on the table, and said: "This is for your
boy; let him study and become a dramatic poet!" This was because
the latter had become my ideal, since I had seen the "Faust".

I must confess that I not just read those ruinous books, but read
them to others as well, first to my parents and sisters and then
also to other families, who were so very eager to hear them. It
is immeasurable how much damage a single one of these trashy books
can cause. Everything positive is lost, and finally, only the
miserable negation remains. The concepts and views of the law
change; the lie turns into the truth, the truth, into the lie.
The conscience dies. The differentiation between good and evil
becomes more and more unreliable! This finally leads to the
admiration for the forbidden deed, which gives the illusion of
relief from want. But with this, a person has by no means reached
the very bottom of the abyss yet; it is deeper, even deeper
still, leading down to the most extreme criminal existence.

This was the time when the decision had to be made, what I should
do after the confirmation. I would have liked so endlessly much
to go to a secondary school and then to a university. But for
this the means just were not enough. I had to downgrade my wishes
and finally arrived at the idea of becoming primary school
teacher. But we were even too poor for this. We looked around
for help. The merchant Friedrich Wilhelm Layritz, no relation
with the town's judge by the same name, was a very rich and very
religious man. Though nobody had ever proven him responsible for
any charitable act, he never missed church, enjoyed talking about
humaneness and neighbourly love, and was connected with our family
by means of a godfathership. We had got all of the information
and had made a rough estimate. If we worked properly, saved
properly, starved properly, and I would not waste a single pfennig
at the seminary in vain, we would only need another five to ten
taler per year. We had figured this out. Of course it was all
wrong; but we thought it to be right. My parents had never
borrowed a single pfennig; now they were determined to take a
loan for my sake. Mother went to Mr. Layritz. He sat down in an
arm-chair, folded his hands, and let her state her case. She told
him everything and asked him to borrow us five taler, not right
now, but when we would need them, this was when I would have
passes the entry exam. Until then, there was still so very much
time. To this, he answered without giving it much thought: "My
dear friend, it's true, I'm rich and you're poor, very poor. But
you have the same God as I, and as He has helped me to get where I
am, so He will help you as well. I also have children, like you,
and have to provide for them. Thus, I can't lend you these five
taler. But be confident and go home, pray frequently, then you
can be sure that in time someone will be found who can spare the
money and will give it to you!"

This happened late in the evening. I sat at home, reading one of
these books about robbers, when mother returned and told what Mr.
Layritz had said. It was more her outrage at such a kind of
religiousness than the rejection, which made her cry. Father sat
still for a long time; then, he got up and left. But while
stepping out of the door, he said: "We'll not try anything like
this again! Karl will go to seminary, even if I have to work
until my hands bleed!" After he had left, the rest of us
continued sitting sadly together for a long time. Then we went to
bed. But I did not sleep, but stayed awake. I searched for a way
out. I struggled to reach a decision. The book I had been
reading bore the title: "The Robbers' Den at Sierra Morena or The
Angel of All Oppressed". After Father had returned home and had
fallen asleep, I got out of bed, sneaked out of the chamber, and
got dressed. Then, I wrote on a piece of paper: "You shall not
work until your hands bleed; I am going to Spain; I am getting
help!" I placed this paper on the table, put a small piece of dry
bread into my pocket as well as a few groschen from the money I
had earned at the bowling alley, descended down the stairs, opened
the door, took another deep breath and sighed, but just quietly,
very quietly, lest anybody should hear it, and walked with hushed
steps down the market square, leaving town by the Niedergasse
, turning to the Lungwitzer road, which lead via
Lichtenstein to Zwickau [a], towards Spain, to Spain, the land of
the noble robbers, the helpers from distress. - - -

[a] Zwickau is the next larger town to the west of Ernstthal,
about 17 km (10 miles) away. Lichtenstein is a small town
about half way between the two. (Do not confuse this with
Liechtenstein.)

IV. My Time at the Seminary and as a Teacher

No plant draws what is to be contained in its cells and in its
fruits from itself, but rather from the soil it sprang from and
from the atmosphere it breaths. A human being is also a plant in
this respect. Though not being physically attached to one spot,
we are nevertheless mentally and spiritually rooted, deeply
rooted, very deeply, more deeply than many a giant tree in the the
Californian soil. Therefore, nobody can be held fully responsible
for whatever he does while he is still in the process of
development. To hold him fully accountable for all of his
mistakes, would be just as wrong as pretending that he had
obtained all of his good qualities entirely on his own. Only he
who precisely knows and correctly assesses the native soil and the
adolescent atmosphere of a "developed" one, is capable to prove
with some amount of certainty, which parts of his lot in life are
the product of the given circumstances and which of the purely
individual intentions of the person concerned. It has been one of
the worst cruelties of the past, to burden every poor devil who
was led to a violation of the law by his circumstances, in
addition to his own, possibly minor, guilt, with the entire, heavy
load of the circumstances as well. Unfortunately, there are still
more than enough people today who, even now, still commit this
cruelty, without even suspecting that they are the ones who would
have to share in bearing the responsibility, if there were laws to
that effect. And usually, it are not at all the remote people,
but even more so the dear "neighbours", who cast stone upon stone
on one of them, though the influences he succumbed to where most
of all coming from them as well. Thus, they also bear part of the
guilt themselves, which they cast upon him.

When I am now taking on the task of putting the circumstances
which shaped me through an unbiased examination, this is not done
with the intension to cast any part of my own guilt from me and
upon others, but only to demonstrate for once by an expressive
example how careful someone has to be who would want to endeavour
on a precise investigation of the origin and development of a
single human being.

At this time, Hohenstein and Ernstthal were two small towns, which
were situated so close together that in some parts their narrow
alleys intertwined like the fingers of two folded hands. In
Hohenstein, the natural philosopher Gotthilf Heinrich von Schubert
was born, whose earlier work was under the influence of Schelling,
but who then turned to pietistic-ascetic mysticism. His native
town has built a monument in his honour. From Ernstthal was the
accomplished philosopher and author Poelitz, whose library
consisted of more than 30.000 volumes, which he had left to the
city of Leipzig. Here, I am less concerned with Hohenstein than
with Ernstthal, where I, as Hobble-Frank [a] would put it, "for
the first time saw the light of day". The first and oldest
impressions of my childhood are those of a lamentable poverty, and
not just in a material, but also in another respect. Never again
in my life, I have seen so much mental frugality in one spot as
then. The mayor had no university training. There was a
night-watchman, but the inhabitants had to take turns in
participating in the nightly watch. The main occupation was
weaving. The wages could only be described as meagre, often even
more than meagre. At certain times, there was little or no work
at all for weeks, sometimes even for months. Then, one could see
women going to the forest and bringing back baskets full of
brushwood, to have something for the fire in winter. At night, on
lonely paths, one could come across men, carrying large logs home,
which had to be sawn and chopped into firewood the very night, so
that nothing could be found, when the premises were searched. The
poor weavers had to work hard, in order to fend off hunger.
Saturday was payday. Then, everyone brought his "piece to the
market". For every flaw, which could be found, a certain amount
was subtracted from the wages. So many a man brought home less
than he had expected. Then, it was time to relax. Saturday night
was devoted to gaiety and - - - booze. One neighbour met with
another. The "Bulle" was handed around. "Bulle" is short for
bouteille [b]. In some families they sang to this, but what songs
were these ever so often! In others the cards ruled the scene.
Then, they played "lumpen", "schafkopf", or even "tippen". The
latter is an illegal game of chance, on which some men spent the
earnings of an entire week. To this, they drank from a single
glass. This went from one hand to another, from one mouth to
another. Even on the Sunday promenade, just as anytime someone
left his house, a supply of brandy was brought along. So they sat
at the picnic and drank. Hard liquor was a part of everything;
one would not want to do without it. It was regarded as the only
relief from worry, and its worst effects were accepted, as if this
was the most natural thing in the world.

[a] Hobble-Frank: a character from several of Karl May's novels.
[b] bouteille: bottle (French). Let me offer an alternative
etymology for the word "Bulle". It is common for people from
Saxony to pronounce a "P" like a "B". Thus, I would guess
that "Bulle" is actually just the Saxonian pronunciation of
that colloquialism for a bottle which is more correctly
pronounced and spelled as "Pulle", which in turn is a
degeneration of the Latin "ampulla" according to my
etymological dictionary.

Of course, there were also so-called better families, who were not
governed by alcohol, but there were only very few of them. There
were no patrician dynasties in either town. In Hohenstein lived
some families who had a higher reputation than others, but not in
Ernstthal. The minister and the physicians were the only persons
with an academic education, and then there also was a lawyer,
whose liquidations simply would not want to turn into a
comfortable income. Thus, the entire way of life was on an
extremely low level, and the general tone of conversation was
tuned in a way which would seem almost impossible now. In
personal relations, nick-names were often more in use than the
genuine, real names. Let the name Wolf serve as the only example,
I am going to list here. There was a Weisskopfwolf wolf>, a Rotkopfwolf , a Daniellobwolf, a
Schlagwolf, and also lots of wolves by other names. The houses
were little, the alleys were narrow. Everyone could look into his
neighbour's windows and observe everything what happened. Thus it
became almost an impossibility to keep secrets from one another.
And since there is no one without fault, everyone has his
neighbour in the bag. Everything was known, but nothing was said.
Just occasionally, when it was deemed necessary, a small hint was
dropped, and this was enough. What this led to was an
everlasting, but silent hypocrisy, a low form of irony, a
seemingly benevolent sarcasm, which had no real basis. This was
unhealthy and spread more and more, without anybody noticing it.
This corroded; this was like poison. Thus, the card games of the
Saturday nights had turned into a shady undertaking, serving the
purpose of carrying out an illegal, yes even cheating, fraudulent
game of cards. The persons concerned met, to practise the
fabrication and the usage of marked cards. They established
themselves in an inn, located out of town. They sent out scouts
to bring in their victims. There they sat for entire nights,
playing for high stakes. Ever so often, someone came with full
pockets and left with empty ones. These goings on were well known
in town. The news of every new trick they pulled off spread
quickly. The sums they bagged were discussed with pleasure,
instead of holding their fraud against them. The card sharpers
were treated like honest people. They were supported. Yes, their
wits were admired and praised, and not the slightest thing that
was known about then was betrayed. It would not have occurred to
a single person that, by this, the entire town became an accessory
to the fraud, committed against the victims they brought in, and
that everyone who knew about these rackets ought to have
considered himself as guilty as a receiver of stolen goods. If,
at this time, anybody had said that this was a deplorable, general
state of immorality, he would probably have been laughed at or
perhaps even worse. The general sense for what is right had been
misguided. The card sharpers were admired, just as the Rinaldo
Rinaldinis and Himlo Himlinis from the old rental library were
admired, the volumes of which were eagerly read, because it was
the only library for both towns. I have never heard that the
mayor, the minister, or any other official, whose duty this might
have been, had ever summoned one of these card sharpers to
admonish him and to make him cease setting such an evil example
for the entire community. It was tolerated. Everyone shut his
eyes to it and kept quiet. But the younger generation, seeing and
hearing all of this, had to get the impression that these acts of
fraud were an admirable and very worth while occupation, and such
an impression will never be blurred again. At one time, I have
been told by a law-professional, that I had grown up in a filthy
swamp. Would you think, that this gentleman was right or not?

Two peculiar outgrowths of this swamp were the two names
"Batzendorf" and the "Luegenschmiede" lies>. The first name is derived from the well known, old, South
German and Swiss divisional coin, batzen by name. Batzendorf was
the community of a non-existent village, which every inhabitant of
Ernstthal could join. It was a joke, but a joke which was
frequently overdone. Batzendorf had its own council, its own
minister, its own administration, but all of this was regarded in
a manner which was meant to be humorous. The very smallest house
of Ernstthal, the one where the vegetable vendor Dore Wendelbrueck
lived, had been declared to be the town hall of Batzendorf. One
morning, there was a tower on top of it, which had been pieced
together from wooden boards and cigar-boxes, und had been placed
on old Dore's roof, without even asking her. But she was very
proud of it. The innkeeper's wife from the Meisterhaus-inn was
the village's night-watchwoman. She had to announce the hours and
blow her horn. Every public authority and people from every lower
walk of life were represented, down to the potato-watchman and the
guardian of the pods, all of this was also a joke. Every
Saturday, they held a meeting. Here, the entire community came
together and the craziest plans were hatched, to be actually
carried out, later on: baptisms of infants at the age of fifty,
the wedding of two widows, an exercise of the fire-brigade without
water, the election of a new community-goose, a public test of a
new remedy against tape-worms, and similar crazy, often even very
crazy things. The town's judge Layritz had grown old and did
nothing about this. The minister was even older and never thought
bad of anything. He always said: "Just don't overdo it, just
don't overdo it!" With this, he thought his duty was done. The
cantor shook his head. He was too modest, to step forward with a
public reproof. But when being alone with my father, he had the
courage to warn him: "Don't go along with this, neighbour, don't
you go along with this! This isn't good for you, and it's also
not good for Karl. What's done there, is nothing but parody,
irony, mocking, and jeering of things, the sanctity of which no
one should ever question! And especially children should never
get to see or to hear something like this!"

He was very, very right. This "Batzendorf", where batzen-money
was the only accepted currency, has existed for quite a number of
years and had many a quiet, secret, but just the more evil effect.
There, "the ties of decent restraint" were loosened. There was
something new every week. We children observed the silliness of
the adults with huge interest and joined in the mockery and the
parody, but of course, without becoming aware of it. This went on
like that, until the town's administration and the church came
under a new, strict rule, and Batzendorf was ruined by its own
doings. But it had benefited no one. This was a swamp of moral
degradation to which not only the older ones had turned, but we
younger ones were also led right into it and very much of our
nature as children got stuck in it and had to be left behind. The
untalented ones were less hurt by this; but on the talented ones
it continues to have its effect and grows inside of him up to a
size which later, once it becomes apparent, cannot be contained
any longer.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23