My Life, vol 1 | Page 7

also being very young, though he already held an
appointment. Her chief characteristics seem to have been a keen sense
of humour and an amiable temper, so we need not suppose that it was
merely a sense of duty towards the family of a departed comrade that
afterwards induced the admirable Ludwig Geyer to enter into
matrimony with her when she was no longer youthful, but rather that he
was impelled to that step by a sincere and warm regard for the widow

of his friend. A portrait of her, painted by Geyer during the lifetime of
my father, gives one a very favourable impression of what she must
have been. Even from the time when my recollection of her is quite
distinct, she always had to wear a cap owing to some slight affection of
the head, so that I have no recollection of her as a young and pretty
mother. Her trying position at the head of a numerous family (of which
I was the seventh surviving member), the difficulty of obtaining the
wherewithal to rear them, and of keeping up appearances on very
limited resources, did not conduce to evolve that tender sweetness and
solicitude which are usually associated with motherhood. I hardly ever
recollect her having fondled me. Indeed, demonstrations of affection
were not common in our family, although a certain impetuous, almost
passionate and boisterous manner always characterised our dealings.
This being so, it naturally seemed to me quite a great event when one
night I, fretful with sleepiness, looked up at her with tearful eyes as she
was taking me to bed, and saw her gaze back at me proudly and fondly,
and speak of me to a visitor then present with a certain amount of
tenderness.
What struck me more particularly about her was the strange enthusiasm
and almost pathetic manner with which she spoke of the great and of
the beautiful in Art. Under this heading, however, she would never
have let me suppose that she included dramatic art, but only Poetry,
Music, and Painting. Consequently, she often even threatened me with
her curse should I ever express a desire to go on the stage. Moreover,
she was very religiously inclined. With intense fervour she would often
give us long sermons about God and the divine quality in man, during
which, now and again, suddenly lowering her voice in a rather funny
way, she would interrupt herself in order to rebuke one of us. After the
death of our stepfather she used to assemble us all round her bed every
morning, when one of us would read out a hymn or a part of the Church
service from the prayer-book before she took her coffee. Sometimes the
choice of the part to be read was hardly appropriate, as, for instance,
when my sister Clara on one occasion thoughtlessly read the 'Prayer to
be said in time of War,' and delivered it with so much expression that
my mother interrupted her, saying: 'Oh, stop! Good gracious me!
Things are not quite so bad as that. There's no war on at present!'
In spite of our limited means we had lively and--as they appeared to my

boyish imagination--even brilliant evening parties sometimes. After the
death of my stepfather, who, thanks to his success as a portrait painter,
in the later years of his life had raised his income to what for those days
was a really decent total, many agreeable acquaintances of very good
social position whom he had made during this flourishing period still
remained on friendly terms with us, and would occasionally join us at
our evening gatherings. Amongst those who came were the members of
the Court Theatre, who at that time gave very charming and highly
entertaining parties of their own, which, on my return to Dresden later
on, I found had been altogether given up.
Very delightful, too, were the picnics arranged between us and our
friends at some of the beautiful spots around Dresden, for these
excursions were always brightened by a certain artistic spirit and
general good cheer. I remember one such outing we arranged to
Loschwitz, where we made a kind of gypsy camp, in which Carl Maria
von Weber played his part in the character of cook. At home we also
had some music. My sister Rosalie played the piano, and Clara was
beginning to sing. Of the various theatrical performances we organised
in those early days, often after elaborate preparation, with the view of
amusing ourselves on the birthdays of our elders, I can hardly
remember one, save a parody on the romantic play of Sappho, by
Grillparzer, in which I took part as one of the singers in the crowd that
preceded Phaon's triumphal car. I endeavoured to revive these
memories by means of a