Books: My Life and My Efforts

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The "Luegenschmiede" was of a slightly newer date. In talking
about it, I intensionally do not give any names. What I have to
say, I only want to direct against the matter itself, not against
any persons. In Ernstthal, there were several younger people who
had much talent for satire. Basically, they were very
respectable, kind people, and therefore could have used their
talents for their benefit, if they had lived under different, more
generous circumstances, but as things were, they got stuck below,
in the limited circumstances, and were therefore unable to achieve
anything but the petty and the ordinary, often even just the very
trivial. This has been a real waste of talent!

One of them, perhaps the most enterprising and most humorous one,
got to own his own house and had the audacity to open a
delicatessen in this town of Ernstthal, where there was so little
appreciation and money for delicacies, but of course, this
included a restaurant, because without it, he surely would not
have been able to find any customers. At first, this restaurant
bore no particular name; but it did not take long, until it got
one, and a very fitting one, as well. It had been called the
"Luegenschmiede" and its proprietor was referred
to as the "Luegenschmied" . Why? The proprietor
as well as his regulars all liked a good laugh. A stranger might
have frequented this place several times, without noticing
anything of it. But suddenly, it came over him, suddenly,
entirely unexpectedly, and with an irresistible certainty. He was
"done", as they called it. They had discovered his weakest spot
and his strongest hook, which was used to hang some cleverly
devised lie on it, which he had to believe, whether he liked it or
not. This lie had to put him into an embarrassing situation, no
matter how he might try to avert it, and even if he had been ten
or hundred times smarter than those who had decided to trip him.
This forge of lies became famous all around. Thousands of
strangers came as guests, and everyone who got the idea of getting
into an argument with the owner and his regulars, got his
thrashing and embarrassedly went on his way.

Ordinary guests got the simple treatment. When someone demanded a
beer, he got a cognac. Did he ask for a brandy, he received
lemonade. If he wanted to eat a pickled herring, he was presented
with unpealed potatoes and apple-sauce. And nobody refused to
take it and to pay for it, because they all knew that otherwise
embarrassment would follow. Better guests were not in for such
ordinary jokes. They were kept waiting. "He isn't quite ripe
yet", the Luegenschmied used to say. And everyone got ripe,
everyone, whoever or whatever he might be, whether he had studied
or not, whether his rank was high or low. The pranks were often
quite ingenious, but had always a tendency towards the ordinary.
A guest, who wanted to get a shave, had been told, the barber was
not at home, but rather here, sitting right next to him. But
actually, this man was no barber, but rather a baker. He lathered
the man with aniline and shaved him, while all the others kept a
straight face. The saved man payed and happily went away, blue
all over his face. For weeks, he could not show his face in
public; this was his punishment for insisting at the
Luegenschmiede that he was smarter than all others and that no one
could fool him. Another guest had been told that his brother has
had an accident on the fairground the same day before noon. He
had come to close too a huge barrel organ, and so his right leg
got entangled in the gears; as a consequence, the leg had to be
amputated below the knee. The man jumped up in fright and ran
off, but very soon, he returned laughing with his entirely healthy
brother. The gentlemen of the public authorities also very much
enjoyed frequenting the Luegenschmiede, but only at times when
they knew they could be alone and unobserved. They also put up
with an odd prank, and often it was just due to their influence
when the proprietor's pranks, which often went too far, bore no
unpleasant consequences. This was because the whole matter was
increasingly overdone, like everything which comes from the
low-minded way of thinking. The pranks became more ordinary;
they lost their attraction. It had all been done to death. And
everyone entering the Luegenschmiede, thought he could tell lies
and misrepresent the truth. The spirit was gone. What had been
real humour, real fun, real kidding and joking, now became
obscenity, ambiguity, untruthfulness, forgery, imprudent gossip,
and lie. The Luegenschmiede has disappeared by now. The house
has been demolished. But unfortunately, the consequences of this
inappropriate tomfoolery have not disappeared with it. They still
exist today. They continue having their effects. This also was a
swamp, a swamp hidden under the brightest green and the most
alluring flowers. Not just the town's soul had suffered from it,
but its miasmas have also spread around over a larger area of the
land, and I deeply, deeply regret that I am also one of those who
suffered from it extensively and severely, and still have to
suffer up the the present day. What enabled my opponents to turn
the Karl May I really and truly am into this most untruthful of
all caricatures and to parade me through all of the newspapers as
a bandit who robs market-women and a robber-captain was to a
large extent the Luegenschmiede; its regulars never even
considered what they were doing to me by exposing each other to
ever new, made up stories of my supposed adventures and misdeeds.
I will return to this elsewhere, but here, I still have to say one
very short thing: What I had to report of the card sharpers, of
"Batzendorf", and of the "Luegenschmiede", are just a few short
insights into the conditions of my native town at that time. I
could increase and deepen these insight extensively, to prove that
it has really and truly been a very contaminated soil, where my
soul had been forced to be rooted in, but I would like to refrain
from this with great pleasure, because I have been delighted to
see recently, how much has changed there. I had shunned my native
town for quite some time and wanted to avoid it furthermore as
well, when a legal action forced me to return there one again. I
was pleasantly disappointed. I am not referring to external, but
to internal matters. I have seen enough towns and places;
nothing can surprise me and nothing can disappoint me in that
respect. As I, primarily and above anything else, seek to get to
know the soul of any stranger I happen to meet, so I also seek to
know the soul of every place I enter anew. And though the soul of
Hohenstein-Ernstthal was still the same, I saw this right away, it
was nevertheless uplifted, it had cleansed itself, it had obtained
a different, better, and more dignified appearance. I had the
opportunity to observe it for a few days, and might very well say
that I enjoyed these observations. I found intelligence, where
there had not been any before. I met with a lively respect for
the law, which was not as easily misguided as in the past. There
was more responsibility for the community, more of a feeling of
togetherness. Yes, the material conditions were looking up
everywhere, up towards the ideal. The ground on which the people
lived was uplifted and presented the ability to better itself
furthermore and increasingly. I met old acquaintances, who had
really made something of their lives. To me, this was a
satisfaction, I had not expected. There were no longer those old,
indolent faces with an expression of the disagreeable cunning of
uneducated people, but the features showed insight and ability,
healthy intelligence and considered judgement. Might this have
been just a consequence of new people moving into town? Surely
not exclusively, though it cannot be denied that new blood from
outside has a invigorating, strengthening, and improving effect on
the life of a community. I honestly confess that after this visit
and after these observations, I have again a certain fondness for
my native town and wish with all of my heart that the presently so
clearly visible progress, also in the direction towards spiritual
goals, may be a lasting one. The proof had been made that the old
times are gone. The people have made the effort, to rise up with
youthful energy; this yields success, and along with success,
will also come the blessings.

After these general remarks, I can now turn back to myself and to
this early morning, when I left Ernstthal, to get help from a
noble, Spanish robber-captain. Do not think that had been a
"crazy" idea. I was perfectly sane. Though my logic was still
that of a child, it was already well trained. My mistake was just
that, due to the trashy literature I eagerly consumed, I took the
novels for the real life, and therefore I now simply treated life
as a novel. The exceedingly rich imagination, nature had gifted
me with, turned the possibility of such a delusion into reality.

My trip to Spain lasted only one day. Near Zwickau, lived some
relatives of ours. I spent the night with them. They received me
kindly and persuaded me to stay. In the meantime, at home, my
note had been found and read. Father knew what the direction to
Spain was. He instantly thought of those relatives and got going
right away, being convinced to surely find me there. When he
came, we sat around the table and I told in all of my naive
honesty where I wanted to go and also to whom and why. These
relatives were poor, simple, honest weavers. There was not a
trace of imagination in them. They were simply stunned at my
undertaking. Seeking help with a robber-captain! At first, they
would not know what to do, what to make of me, and so it was a
relief for them to see my father entering the house. He, the
hot-tempered man, who at the slightest occasion blew his top,
behaved completely differently than usual. His eyes were in
tears. He said not a single angry word to me. He hugged me and
said: "Never do something like this again, never again!" Then,
after a short rest, he left with me - - back home.

The walk took five hours. All of this time, we walked silently
side by side; he led me by the hand. I never felt more clearly
than at this time, how much he actually loved me. Everything he
wished and hoped to get out of life, he projected upon me. I
solemnly promised myself, never to let him experience such a pain
as today through me again. And what about him? What kind of
thoughts might that have been which now echoed through his mind?
He said nothing. When we reached our home, I had to go to bed,
because I, the little fellow I was, had walked for ten hours and
was extremely tired. We never said another word about my
excursion to Spain; but the work at the bowling alley and the
reading of those morally destructive novels did stop. In due
time, the necessary help came about, without having to be brought
in from the land of the chestnuts. The minister recommended me to
the patron of our church, the count of Hinterglauchau, and he
agreed to support me with fifteen taler per year, an amount which
was regarded as sufficient for me to attend the seminary. At
Easter 1856 was my confirmation. On Michaelmas [a] I passed the
entry exam to the proseminary of Waldenburg and started living at
this boarding school.

[a] September the 29th.

So it was not a secondary school where one did obtain the
qualifications to proceed to a university, but just the seminary!
There were no academic studies for me, I was to become only a
teacher! Only? How wrong! There was no higher position than
that of a teacher, and with all of my thoughts, feelings, and
actions I was thus concentrated on my present task that I enjoyed
everything which was connected with it. Of course, this task was
just the foreground. In the background, towering high above it,
rose above anything else what had become my ideal since that night
when I had seen the Faust: to write plays for the theatre! On
the subject of God, man, and devil! Could I not do this as a
teacher just as well as if I had been to an academy? Yes,
certainly, provided of course that I did not lack talent. How
proud was I the first time I wore the green hat! How proud were
my parents and sisters as well! Grandmother hugged me and urged:

"Always think of our fable! Now, you are still in Ardistan; but
you are supposed to rise to Jinnistan. This journey will start
today. You have to ascent. Never turn to those who want to hold
you back!"

"And what about the spirits' furnace?" I asked. "Do I have to
enter it?"

"If you are worth it, you can't avoid it", she answered. "But if
you aren't worth it, your life will proceed without struggle and
without pain."

"But I want to enter it; I want to!" I exclaimed courageously.

Then she placed her hand on my head and said with a smile:

"This is up to God. Don't forget Him! Never forget Him as long
as you live!"

I did heed this advice, but have to confess, to be honest, that it
was never hard on me. I cannot remember any occasion where I had
to wrestle with doubt or even disbelief. In a manner of speaking,
the conviction that there was a God who also watched out over me
and would never leave me has, at all times, been a firm,
inalienable ingredient of my personality, and therefore I cannot
at all regard it as a special achievement of mine that I have
never been unfaithful to this uplifted, beautiful faith of my
childhood. Granted, I also was not entirely free of perturbations
of my inner self; but the perturbation came from outside and did
not become a part of me in such a manner that it could have
persisted. It was caused by the very special manner in which
theology and religious education were taught at the seminary.
Every morning and every evening, there were prayers every student
was compelled to participate in. This was quite right so. On
Sundays and holidays, the entire student body was brought to
church. This was just as right so. Furthermore, there were
certain ceremonies for the mission and similar purposes. This was
also good and fitting. And there was for all classes of the
seminary a well thought out, very extensive curriculum on
religion, biblical teachings, and hymns. This entirely goes
without saying. But in all this, there was one thing missing, the
very thing which is the most important part of all religious
matters; this is that there was no love, no kindness, no
humility, no forgivingness. The lessons were cold, strict, tough.
It did not have the slightest trace of poetry. Instead of causing
delight and enthusiasm, it was repelling. The religious lessons
were the ones which were the least inspiring. It was always a
pleasure when the hand on the clock reached the number twelve.
All of these lessons were held year by year with precisely the
same contents and precisely the same words and expressions. What
was taught on this date, was inevitably to be taught next year on
the same day again. This worked like an old cuckoo-clock; this
all sounded so wooden, and this all looked so faked, so
fabricated. Every single thought had been designated to its place
among a dozen ideas and was by no means allowed to turn up in any
other spot. This did not allow any trace of a warm feeling to
form; this killed the inner self. I have never known a single
one among my fellow students who would have ever said one
favourable word about this form of religious education. And I
have also known no one who would have been religious enough to
voluntarily fold his hands to pray. I myself have prayed always
and at every occasion; I still do this today, without being
ashamed; but at that time, at the seminary, I kept it a secret,
because I was afraid of my fellow students' smirks.

I would have liked to keep silent about these religious
conditions, but was not allowed to, because it is my task, to say
everything honestly, what influenced me in my internal and
external development. This Christianity of the seminary seemed to
me to be without soul to the same extent as it was seeking
conflict. It did not satisfy and nevertheless pretended to be the
only pure, true teaching. How poor and how godforsaken did this
make a person feel! The others did not even accept this as a
disaster; they were indifferent; but I, who required religious
love, felt sick from the cold and withdrew into my self. Here
also, I grew increasingly lonelier, and even more, much more than
at home. And here, I became even more of a stranger to my grade
than I had been there. This was partially due to the conditions,
but also partially due to myself.

I knew much more than my fellow students. I may say so without
being suspected of bragging. Because what I knew was nothing but
a mess, an unregulated, unsystematic accumulation of knowledge,
which did not benefit me in the least, but only burdened me.
Whenever I might have let anyone notice something of my unfruitful
masses of information, I was stared at in amazement and laughed
at. They felt instinctively that I was less enviable than
lamentable. The others, most of them the sons of teachers, might
not have learnt as much as I, but what they had learnt was firmly
stored and well arranged in the chambers of their memory, always
ready to be used. I felt that I was very disadvantaged compared
to them and yet resisted to admit that much to myself and them.
The quiet and busy main part of my work most of all consisted of
putting my poor head in order, and this, unfortunately, took more
time than I wished. Whatever I built up, kept on falling down.
It was like exhaustingly digging through a pile of snow, which
kept on caving in. And in all this, there was one contradiction
which simply could not be removed. This was the contradiction
between my extraordinarily fruitful imagination and the dryness
and absolute lack of poetry in the form of teaching practised
here. At that time, I was still much too young, to realize, where
this dryness came from. They did not teach that much of what had
to be learnt, but rather the manner in which we had to learn. We
were taught to learn. Once we understood this, the rest was easy.
We were given lots of bones; therefore our lessons were so almost
painfully dry. But out of these bones, the skeletons of the
individual sciences were combined, the flesh of which was to be
added later. But with me, the very opposite had occurred up to
now: I had gathered a huge amount of flesh, but not a single
sustaining, supporting bone to go with it. My knowledge lacked a
firm bone-structure. In respect to my mental possessions, I was a
squid, which had neither internally nor externally something to
hold on to, and therefore also no place to feel at home. And the
worst part of it was: The boneless flesh of this squid was not
healthy, but sick, severely sick; it had been poisoned by the
trashy novels of proprietor of the bowling alley. Just now, I
started to realize this properly and felt just the more unhappy
with this, as I could not talk to a single human being about it,
without embarrassing myself. Most of all it was the dryness and
what I guess I would have to call soullessness of the lessons at
the seminary, which made me realize that I had been poisoned. I
found for the skeletons we had been offered, so that we would
breathe life into them, no healthy flesh within myself.
Everything I pieced together and tried to build up inside of me,
turned out shapeless, ugly, untrue, and unlawful. I started to
grow afraid of myself and kept on tinkering with the form of my
soul, to have my insides cleansed, purified, rearranged, and
uplifted, without having to turn to outside help, which did not
exist anyhow. I would very well have liked to confide in one of
our teachers, but they were all so elevated, so cold, so
unapproachable, and most of all, I sensed this, no one of them
would have understood me; they were no psychologists. They would
have given me a puzzled look and left without otherwise
acknowledging my presence.

In addition, I had an inborn, irresistible urge to keep my mind
busy. I learnt very easily and consequentially had much time to
spare. So I secretly wrote poetry; I even composed. The few
pfennigs I could spare were turned into writing paper. But what I
wrote was not supposed to be just a student's essay, but something
useful, something really good. And what did I write there? Most
naturally story about American Indians! What for? Most naturally
to have it printed! By whom? Most naturally by the the
"Gartenlaube" , a magazine which had been founded a
few years back, but was already read by everyone. I was sixteen,
then. I sent in the manuscript. After a whole week had passed
without any reaction, I asked for an answer. I received none.
Therefore, after another fortnight, I wrote in a stricter tone,
and after another two weeks, I asked for my manuscript back, to
send it to another publisher. It arrived. Along with it came a
letter, personally written by Ernst Keil, extending over four
large quarto pages [a]. I was far from appreciating this as I
should have. First, he quite thoroughly put me down, making me
really honestly feel ashamed, because he most conscientiously
listed all the misdeeds I had committed in the narration, of
course without me being aware of it. Near the end, the reproach
got milder, and in the end, he cheerfully extended to me, the
ignorant boy, his hand and told me that he would not be too
excessively appalled, if, after four or five years had passed,
another one of my Indian stories should end up on his desk. He
did not get any, though not due to my fault, but rather the
circumstances would not let me. This was my first success in
literature. But then, I certainly regarded it as an absolute
failure and felt very unhappy about it. Time passed. I rose from
the proseminary into the fourth, third, and second [b] grade of
the seminary, and it was in this second grade, when that fate came
upon me, which my opponents have so loudly exploited.

[a] quarto: an old paper size. 22.5 x 28.5 cm, 8.86 x 11.22 in.
[b] The grades in German secondary schools used to be numbered
backwards.

It was the custom of the seminary that the students had to take
turns in performing certain duties for the grade, each one for a
week. Therefore, the student concerned was referred to as the
"weekner". Furthermore, in the first grade, there was an
"enforcing weekner", and in the second grade a "light-weekner",
the latter one being in charge of the lighting of the classrooms.
In those days, the classrooms were lit by means of tallow-candles,
which had to be replaced as soon as they were burnt down. The
light-weekner had to clean the old, worthless candlesticks every
day, and in particular, he had to clear away the remnants of wicks
and tallow from the grooves. These remnants were either just
thrown away or molten down to be used boot-polish or some other
kind of grease by the janitor. They were generally to be regarded
as worthless.

It was in the beginning of the the week of Christmas when it was
my turn to be the light-weekner. I performed this work like
everybody else. The day before Christmas Eve, our vacation
started. The day before, one of my sisters came by, to get my
laundry as well as the little luggage I had to take with me on
vacation. She always did this whenever the vacation started. The
way she had to take from Ernstthal to Waldenburg took two hours.
That day was no exception. As she came in this time, I was just
busy cleaning the candlesticks. She was sad. Things were not
good at home. There was no work and therefore also no income.
Mother used to bake at least some cakes for Christmas, as even the
poorest people would do. This year, she could hardly afford it.
But there would not be any gifts, none at all, because the money
just was not there. There were no candles for the Christmas
chandelier. Even my smaller sisters' wooden angles were to be
without candles. Three little candles were meant to go with these
angles, at five or six pfennig per piece; but when those eighteen
pfennig were needed for other, more necessary things, they just
had to live with that. This hurt me. My sister was almost crying.
She saw the remnants of tallow, which I had just scratched out of
the grooves and down from the candlesticks. "Couldn't some
pfennig-candles be made out of these?" she asked. "Quite easily",
I answered. "All it takes is some rolled up paper and a wick,
nothing else; but it wouldn't burn so well, because all this
stuff is still useful for is as grease." "So what, so what! At
least we would have some kind of candles for the three angles.
Who owns this garbage?" "Nobody really. I have to get it to the
janitor. Whether he throws it out or not, is his business." "So
it wouldn't be stealing, if we'd take a bit of it home with us?"
"Stealing. Ridiculous! Nobody would think of it! All of this
dirt isn't worth three pfennig. I'll wrap some of it in a piece
of paper for you. This we'll use to make three little Christmas
candles."

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