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