The prisoners are of course called "Du"; but from now on, he said "Sie", and others followed his lead. This was a seemingly small, but nevertheless very valuable step ahead, because from this, many other things ensued. Soon, to my pleasant surprise, it turned out that my watchman was the conductor of the brass band. I told him about my musical occupation in Zwickau. Then, he swiftly brought me sheet music, to put me to the test. I passed this test as well, and from now on everything was so arranged that I was not kept from working towards my own goals in my spare time. This watchman has been a dear, fatherly friend to me, and we kept in contact in a kind, respectful manner for a long time, once he had retired and moved to Dresden.
The name of the Catholic Bible teacher was Kochta. He was just a teacher, without any academic background, but a man of honour in every respect, humane as there is rarely one to be found, and thus rich in experience as an educator and in a psychological regard, that his opinion was much more valuable to me than entire stacks of learned books. He never talked about the peculiarities of the denominations with me. He regarded me as a Protestant and did not make the slightest attempt to influence my religious beliefs. And as he acted towards me, so I acted towards him. I never posed a question concerning Catholicism to him. Whatever I had to know on this matter, I already knew or was able to find out in other ways. The beautiful relationship, which by and by formed between us, not allowing any obstructive differences to sneak into this purely human benevolence, was sacred to me. He served in church, I served at the organ, but otherwise religion remained entirely untouched between us and could thus have its effect just the more directly and purely upon me. It was this, his very silence, which was so eloquent, because it allowed his actions to speak, and these were the actions of a nobly spirited person, who might just work his effect on a small circle of people, but who knows how to treat even small things in a great manner.
I had never played Catholic hymns before; now I got to know them. What pieces of music, especially or the organ, did I get my hands on! I had thought, I would understand music. What a fool I was! This simple Bible teacher gave me many a nut which was very hard for me to crack. What music essentially is, I just now began to get a glimpse of, and music is by no means the lowest tool the church uses to perform its work.
The Catholic priest only came to me when a special arrangement in regard to accompanying the hymns on the organ had to be made. He never spoke more than what was absolutely necessary and never about religion at all; but whenever he entered my cell, I always felt as if the sun started to to shine on me. Such sunny people are rare, and yet, every minister ought to be such a sunny person, because a layman will just too easily regard and judge the church by the way its priest behave towards him. I am going to skip the differences between the Protestant and the Catholic religious services, but to every reasonable person it will be entirely natural and self-evident that I could not participate and even be an active part in the latter for four years, without being influenced by it. After all, we are no rocks, from which all soft things bounce back! And even such a rock becomes warm, when it is hit by a ray of sunshine! And these religious services actually were rays of sunshine! Still today, I feel an infinite gratitude for this warmth and this kindness, which cared for me and had not a single reproach for me, when everything else was against me. I have been blessing it up until this day and will bless it for as long as I will live! How poor must those people be inside who maintain that I would be spreading a Catholic ideology! It is entirely impossible that they should know the human soul and the sacred places which it contains. Besides, I have written nothing at all about the Catholic faith, but entire volumes about Mohammedanism. Thus, the allegation that I would spread the Islam might appear much more justified than the one that I would promote Catholicism! Why am I not accused of this? The Madonna has been depicted by hundreds of Protestant painters and was the topic of hundreds of Protestant poets, even of Goethe. Why are those not said to promote Catholicism? I have thanked the Catholic church for the high-minded hospitality, it granted me, the Protestant, for four years, by means of a single Ave Maria, which I wrote for my novel "Winnetou". Is that a reason for accusing me of religious hypocrisy? And to make matters even worse, to suggest that I did it for money! I repeat: How poor must these people be, how infinitely poor! -- --
I must conclude that those four years of undisturbed seclusion and focused concentration have allowed me to advance very, very much. Every book I needed for my studies was available to me. I completed the schedule of my work and then started to carry it out. I wrote manuscripts. As soon as one of them was finished, I sent it home. My parents then acted as middlemen between me and the publishers. I did not write to them directly, because they were not meant to find out, yet, that the author of these tales, they printed, was a prisoner. But one of them nevertheless found out about it, because he visited my parents in person. This was the bookseller of colportage [a] literature H.G. Münchmeyer from Dresden, about whom there is still much more to be said later. He had been a journeyman carpenter, had blown the key-bugle at village dances, and had then become a colporteur. In this capacity, he also came to Hohenstein-Ernstthal and met a maid servant in a neighbouring village, whom he married. This tied him to this area. He got to know its people and also found out about me. The crazy things he was told here he regarded as extraordinarily well suited for his colportage. He came to see my father and sought his acquaintance. Thus, my manuscripts got into his hands. He read them. Some of it was beyond his comprehension. But other parts of it he liked so much, that it, as put it, delighted him. He asked for the permission to print it and got it. He wanted to pay right away and placed the money on the table. But father did not take it. He pushed it back and told him to give it to me in person, after my release. Münchmeyer was very pleased to agree with this. He assured my father that I was the man he needed; he would come to see me after my return home and discuss all the details with me.
I am telling this and just stating it for a fact for now. For many upcoming events, it is of the utmost importance to know that Münchmeyer did not only precisely know about my past, the truth of it, but had also heard all the lies which had been added to it.
As far as the condition of my soul was concerned, there was quiet, perfect quiet. In the first four weeks of the previous four years, there had still been occasions when the dark characters had tormented me internally and had forced me to listen to what they were shouting at me; but, by and by, this had ceased, and finally it had quieted down, without ever stirring again. When I thought about this, without being sidetracked by psychology, I came to understand that those spectres could only influence me for as long as I was caught in the views which they represented. But once those were overcome, the frightful visions would have to fade. And this seemed to be the right thing; the Bible teacher was of the same opinion. I had not told him about my internal struggle, as I generally never confide in another person concerning purely personal and family matters. But yet, occasionally, a word was dropped, which was not meant to give any indication, but nevertheless did. He started to notice something. At one time in the course of a conversation, I got to talk about my dark characters and their tormenting voices; but I pretended to talk about someone else, not myself. This made him smile. He knew just too well whom I was referring to. The next day, he brought me a little book, the title of which read: "The so-called split of a person's interior, a representation of the split in mankind in general." I read it. What pleasure this was! How much did it clarify matters for me! Now, I knew all of a sudden what was wrong with me! Now, let them return, these voices; I had no cause to fear them any more! Later, when he came to get his book back, I thanked him, according to the joy I felt about it. So, he asked me:
"Isn't it so, it was yourself you were talking about?"
"Yes", I answered.
"Did you understand everything?"
"No, not yet."
"What about this here?"
He opened a page, where it read: "He who suffers of these severe afflictions, shall keep clear of the place where he was born. He shall never live there for a longer time. And most of all, if he should ever get married, he should by no means get his wife from this place!"
"No, I don't understand this yet", I admitted.
"Nor do I", he conceded. "But think about it!"
This thinking, he had advised me to do, brought me no results.
This was a purely psychological question. In this, experience is
the only knowing teacher, and I had to make this experience,
before I understood; unfortunately, unfortunately! -- -- --
VI. Working for the Colportage
I had suffered through it. I returned home. It was a stormy day in spring, it was raining and snowing. Father came towards me. This time, it also did not cross his mind to give my any reproach. He had read my manuscripts, and he almost knew my letters by heart. He knew now that he had nothing to fear any more concerning my future. He also used this opportunity to talk about Münchmeyer and about the fact that he wanted to come to see me.
"Nothing will come out of it", I said. "This man wants trashy novels, exciting love-stories, nothing else. I won't write this kind of stuff. He'd probably think that I'd be so dishonourable, to piece together a colportage novel out of the gibberish the people have said about me, which would surely earn him a lot of money, but be my destruction. There, he's mistaken. I have entirely different purposes and goals!"
Father agreed with me. When he had reached the hill before the town and saw it lying before us, he pointed at the next village, at a single, newly build house at a distance from the others and asked me:
"Do you know this over there?"
"Isn't this the place where that fire had been?"
"Yes. A few days after you were gone, they found out who had started it. The perpetrator was very swiftly sentenced. He got to prison even before you did. Mother will tell you about it."
"Oh no! I don't want to know anything, nothing at all. Ask her to keep silent about this!"
As early as the very same night, I found out that the local police sergeant had been boasting in the public bar, how harshly he would receive and supervise me for the next two years; he would not let me out of his sight for a single day! He came as soon as the next morning and took on such a haughty posture, that really no person being treated in such a manner could be blamed if he would be turned back to life of crime by this. He asserted that he was my superior for two years, with whom I had to report daily. Than, he pulled a book with the relevant articles of the law out of his pocket, to lecture me on my duties. I did not say a word, but opened the door and motioned him to leave. When he hesitated to comply, I left. I went to the mayor and put an end to this matter. I demanded a passport to travel abroad, and when I was informed that this could not be done as easy as this, I went on my way as early as the next day without any passport.
On the train, I sat in an otherwise empty compartment. I went across the border. Then, suddenly, raging mad voices started to scream loudly inside of me, shouting and roaring like in a village inn, where the farm-hands are beating each others up with the legs of the chairs. There were hundreds of characters and hundreds of voices, who made this sound. I past times, it would have horrified me; but today I kept cool. These reminiscences of the morasses, who did not want to set me free, had lost their power over me. I did not react to them, and thus, they were to turn quiet one after another all by themselves.
Where this journey took me and what happened on it, shall be reported in the second volume. In the meantime, Münchmeyer came to ask for me. I was already gone. So, he payed the royalties and went back home without having achieved anything further. About three quarters of a year later, he appeared again, and not alone, but with his brother. This time, he found me at home, because I had returned to write my "Geographical Sermons" and to have them printed. His brother had been a tailor and had after that also become a colporteur. The business had been running well up to that time, even extraordinarily well; but now it was in danger of collapsing all of a sudden. They needed someone to save them, and this was supposed to be me, me out of all persons! This was incomprehensible to me, because I have had never anything to do with Münchmeyer before and also did not want to have anything to do with him and neither knew him nor the situation he was in. He explained it to me. He was a cleverly calculating, very eloquent man, and his brother assisted him in such an excellent manner that I did not simply tell them to leave, but allowed them to state their case. But after they had done this, I was -- -- -- in their web, though I had never thought it possible before that I could ever engage in any kind of business with the "colportage".
Münchmeyer had worked his way up and now owned a not too small printing-office with a large composing room, stereotype printing, etc. But what he published was indeed the lowest form of colportage. He talked about a so-called "Black Book" with lots of stories about criminals, about a so-called "Venustempel" <Temple of Venus>, which would be a real goldmine, and about a few other productions of the same kind. But for today, he was concerned with a weekly magazine, which he published under the title "Der Beobachter an der Elbe" <The Observer by the River Elbe>. Founder and editor of this magazine was an author from Berlin by the name of Otto Freytag, a very skilful, hard working, but in business matters extremely dangerous person. This man had turned against him, had suddenly run out of the office, had taken all manuscripts with him, and now wanted to publish a magazine very similar to the "Observer by the River Elbe", to destroy him. "If I don't get another editor right away, who is better than that person and can take him on, I'm lost!" Münchmeyer concluded his report.
"But why do you come to me out of all persons?" I inquired. "I'm neither an editor, nor have I proven my abilities in any other manner!"
"Let me worry about this! I've heard much about you, and, most of all, I've read your manuscripts. I know about these things. You're the one I need!"
"But I'm planning entirely different things, and no one will persuade me to work for the colportage!"
"Because you don't know it. Good things can just as well be achieved by it. What are your plans anyway?"
I explained my plans to him. This kindled his enthusiasm; he became passionate for them. He was one of these people, who enjoy talking ravingly about the higher matters, but make their living of the low things.
"That's really excellent, perfectly excellent!" he exclaimed. "And you can achieve all of this with me, the best and fastest way is with me!"
"Why?"
"You'll have this stuff printed by me, and you'll destroy this Freytag and his new magazine with this!"
"This would really make things easier. But what if I don't like your `Observer by the River Elbe'? After all, I don't know it."
"So, we'll discontinue it, and you'll found a new magazine in its place!"
"What kind of a magazine?"
"Whatever you please, as you see fit for your purposes!"
I confess that by this promise he had already won me over more than half of the way. In respect to my plans, this sounded almost like a gift from heaven! He added even further promises, by means of which he made it easy for me to agree to his wishes. In addition, there were my own considerations. Quite unexpectedly, I was hereby offered this most outstanding opportunity to get acquainted with printing, typesetting, stereotyping, and everything else which was a part of this, in the most comfortable manner. For me as an author, this was a very valuable experience, and such an offer would probably never come to me again. The salary, Münchmeyer could afford to pay me, was not so very much, but I was earning enough in royalties on the side that I did not really need it at all. And I was not tied to him at all. He offered me the right to quit quarterannually. Thus, I could have left after every three month, if I should not like it.
"Give it a try! Say yes!" he urged me, counting one month's salary onto the table.
"When would I have to start?" I asked.
"The day after tomorrow or sooner. It's urgent. This Freytag mustn't get the jump on us."
"But you do know that I've been to prison!"
"I know everything. But this doesn't matter."
"And I'm even under police supervision!"
"I didn't know that; but that doesn't matter either. You're the one I'd like to have most of all for this job, not in spite, but because of this! Let's shake hands on it!"
This sounded perfectly moving. He stretched out his hand to me; father and mother nodded to me, asking me to do it; so, I shook hands with him; I was -- -- -- an editor.
When I came to Dresden, I took a furnished room at first, but very soon afterwards, Münchmeyer supplied me with several rooms as the editor's apartment, and I bought the furniture for it. The publishing company struck me as immensely ugly. The "Black Book" was downright revoltingly criminal. The "Temple of Venus" turned out to be an abominable project, aiming at the lowest pleasures of the senses, with ribald descriptions and horribly nude, exciting illustrations. It was supplemented with remedies for sexually transmitted diseases, with which such large amounts of money were earned, that it seemed almost unbelievable to me. These shameless booklets and pictures were lying around all over the place. The workers, both male and female, took them home. Münchmeyer's four daughters, still school-girls and children at this time, read them and played with them, and when I warned Mrs. Münchmeyer of the consequences, she answered: "What are you thinking! This is our best book! It earns us a lot of money!" I was resolved that this would either have to change or I would leave again without a formal resignation. As far as the "Observer by the River Elbe" was concerned, the editor of which I had become, I saw right away at the first glance that it would have to disappear. Münchmeyer was reasonable enough to admit this. We discontinued the magazine, and I founded three others in its place, these were two decent, entertaining magazines, which were entitled "Deutsches Familienblatt" <German Family Paper> and "Feierstunden" <Hours of Celebration>, and a technical as well as entertaining magazine for miners, smelters, and iron-workers, which I gave the title "Schacht und Hütte" <Pit and Foundry>. These three magazines were designed to satisfy mainly the spiritual needs of their readers and to bring sunshine into their houses and hearts. Concerning "Schacht und Hütte", I travelled through Germany and Austria to get the large companies e.g. Hartmann, Krupp, Borsig, etc. interested in it, and since there was a need for such a magazine at that time, I was so successful that even I myself was astonished at it. The circulation of our magazines increased so much that Münchmeyer gave me a piano for Christmas. His competitor Freytag tried his best, had some success in the beginning, but had to discontinue his magazine after just a short time.
It was in this time of development, that Münchmeyer was sued by authorities from out of town for the publication of the "Temple of Venus". The author of this shameful and trashy piece of literature had been that very same Otto Freytag, who had cut off his affiliation with Münchmeyer only because the latter would not allow him to share in the profits this publication was yielding. The book contained a lustfully written segment on "prostitution", which was practically asking for a complaint with the police. Münchmeyer had been tipped off by some party, I do not know by whom, that a search and seizure on account of the "Temple of Venus" would take place. At once, everyone started to be feverishly busy to prevent the losses which this might cause. Everyone who could be trusted had to help; but I was not told a single word; they were ashamed. Thousands of printed copies were lying around. Entire stacks of this books, reaching up to ceiling, were hidden behind other works of literature. The lift was filled with them. Every concealed place was used. A large amount of the endangered books were brought to their private apartments and were even hidden under their children's beds. This happened so quickly and was such an success that the police, once they arrived, hardly found anything but a small remainder, and for a long time to come, the Münchmeyers prided themselves on the trick they had played on the authorities of Dresden, who were otherwise not so easily outsmarted. I did not find out about this until later, much later, and drew my consequences. I would not stay here any longer. I wanted to get out of the abyss, but not back down!
I may very well say, that I have been working hard at this time and have honestly tried my best, to turn Münchmeyer's colportage into a decent publishing house. Münchmeyer sought my friendship, so that we were on the same terms as brothers. I was very much in favour of this, as long as he did what I thought was right. In the very first editions of the tree magazines I had founded, I started to carry out my literary plans. I have already said that, in this respect, I wanted to focus on the inhabitants of two parts of the globe, these were the American Indians and the Islamic peoples. I did this now here. I designated the "German Family Paper" for the Indians and the "Hours of Celebration" for the orient. In the first magazine, I instantly started with "Winnetou", but called him, according to a different Indian dialect, In-nu-woh for the time being. I was convinced that these two magazines would survive, and I deluded myself in thinking that I could remain their editor for quite a number of years. This would have given me enough space and time for what I intended. Quite naturally, I also wrote for other companies, which I think I do not need to name, but I had no intention to stay with them. Unfortunately, my good, long term plans were very suddenly confronted with an unexpected obstacle, which was originally not at all meant to be an obstacle; it was rather supposed to be a recognition of my achievements, a support. What happened was that, in oder to tie me to the company, the suggestion was made that I should marry the sister of Mrs. Münchmeyer. In order to achieve this, my father was invited to Dresden. For two weeks, he was allowed to live as a guest with the Münchmeyers and was offered the friendship [a] of the father of Mrs. Münchmeyer. This had the very opposite effect. I said "no" and quit, for now it was just too plain that I could not stay, especially since it was at about this time that I found out the details of that trick they had played on the police of Dresden. Now, my plans had to be kept quiet for the time being, but I did not give them up. After the three months had past, I moved away from the Münchmeyers, but I stayed in Dresden. The separation from the colportage was not hard on me in the least. I was free again, wrote a few necessary manuscripts, and then went on a journey. Passing through my home town, I was there summoned to the local Inferior Court as a witness and was told that Freytag, the author, and Münchmeyer, the publisher of the "Temple of Venus", had been recently punished for this shameful publication. This had been kept from me. How glad was I, not to have married into the circle of this "Temple of Venus"!
After my return home from the journey, I had mentioned before, I had cause to call on my sister, who was married to a man from Hohenstein. I lived with her for a few days, and there, I made the acquaintance of a girl, who made a very singular impression on me. In the beginning of this book, I have said that I have the strange peculiarity to see a person standing before me more as a soul than as a body. Whether this is a blessing or a shortcoming, I cannot decide; but due to this idiosyncrasy of mine, it happens rather frequently that I regard an ugly person as pretty and a pretty person as ugly. To me, the most interesting beings are those in whom the form of their souls appears as a mystery to me, whose spiritual shape I cannot make out, or whose shadings I cannot grasp. Such persons attract me, even when they appear repulsive; I cannot help it. And about the girl, I am talking about here, there was also something else, something rather peculiar. It was like this: When I was, at the age of fourteen, a proseminarist in Waldenburg, one day in November, I went from there to Ernstthal to see my parents and to get my laundry. On the way back, I came across the market square of Hohenstein. There, they were singing. The students' choir stood in front of a house. There was a corpse, which was to be buried. I knew the house. Downstairs lived a man selling flour and upstairs lived a gentleman, who had moved here from out of town and was sometimes referred to as a barber, then as an army-surgeon, physician, or doctor. He did not shave just anybody, and it was well known that he could do even much more than this. His name was Pollmer. He had a daughter, who was considered to be the most beautiful girl of both towns; I knew this. She was now to be buried. Therefore, I stopped. Two women, who also wanted to listen and watch, came and stood behind me. A third woman joined them, who was from a village, she asked whose funeral this would be.
"Pollmer's daughter", answered one of the first two women.
"Oh?! The dentist's? Whatever did she die of?"
"Of her own child. It would be better if the child was dead, but she was still alive. There can never be a blessing on such a child, the mother has died for; that'll bring nothing but mischief for everyone."
"What's the father's profession?"
"Him? But it has no father!"
"Good God! This as well? If that's so, thing would surely be better, if the nickel [a] could be buried right alongside with the mother!"
Now, the singing stopped. The coffin was brought out. The funeral procession formed. Upstairs, in the open window of the living-room, a woman appeared, carrying something in her arms. This was the child, the "nickel", who had killed her own mother and meant nothing but mischief for everyone! I understood nothing of all this. What does a fourteen year old boy know of the prejudice of this kind of people! But when the funeral procession had passed me by, and I continued on my way, I took something with me, which later often occupied my mind; this was the question why one had to be suspicious of a child who has no father and who was to blame for her mother's death. On account of my youth and inexperience, I believed in what the women were saying, and felt some kind of a horror, whenever I thought of this burial and this unfortunate "nickel". Later, whenever I came across the market square of Hohenstein, I quite involuntarily looked up to that certain window in the upper apartment of the flour-merchant's house. After several years had passed, I once saw the head of a child, of a girl, looking out. I stopped for a moment to have a look at the face. It was unexpressive and had neither anything pleasant nor anything terrifying about it. Later, I once came across a tall man of strong build in the street, leading an about twelve year old girl by the hand. This was the old Pollmer with his "nickel". The old man looked very grim, but the child was very chipper and friendly; she had nothing at all about her from which one could have told "that her mother had died of her". Then, I had seen her a few more times, in the beginning of the second half of her teens, pale, grown tall, extremely thin, entirely uninteresting, a person, perfectly indifferent to me. I never would have thought that this girl could ever play even the most irrelevant role in my life. And now that I lived at my sister's place, upon a visit with one of her friends, several young girls were introduced to me, among which there was also a "Miss Pollmer". This was the "nickel"; but she looked so different than before. She sat so quietly and modestly at the table, was very busy crocheting, and hardly said a word. I liked that. This face blushed easily. She had a quite peculiar, mysterious way of opening her eyes. And whenever a word came over her lips, it sounded cautiously, calculated, and not at all like with other girls, who just babble out with everything, as it crosses their tongues. I liked this a lot. I was told that her grandfather, Pollmer this is, had read my "Geographical Sermons" and read them over and over again. I liked this even more. She seemed to me to be so entirely different from her friends. Looking beyond the forms of the latter, I did not see even a trace of a mind and just a hint of a soul. But behind Miss Pollmer's facade, there was psychological ground, whether it was a high or a low ground, a desert or a fertile soil, I could not discern, but there was a ground; I saw this clearly, and the wish formed in me to get to know this ground. That she was not from a prosperous or even respected family, could not hold me back, after all, I myself was also nothing but the poor son of a weaver and, basically, even much less than this.
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 Müller [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.
[b] Venanz Müller (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 Kürschner, 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" <From the 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 sincerelyyour most devoted
Josef Kürschner."
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 Münchmeyer.
The year was 1882, when I reached Dresden with my wife on a recreational trip. I had described Münchmeyer 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. Münchmeyer 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 Münchmeyer 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 Münchmeyer 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 Münchmeyer, also have published in books later on for my own benefit.
These ideas went through my head, while Münchmeyer 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. Münchmeyer 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, Münchmeyer 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. Münchmeyer 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, Münchmeyer 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, Münchmeyer 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 Münchmeyer 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 Münchmeyer himself. He had a personal preference for the meaningless title "Das Waldröschen" <The little rose of the forest> [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.