In February 1797, I got the measles. At that time, the illness was dangerous, and I was running a high temperature. Nevertheless, I happily recovered from it under the diligent care of my mother, though I had to stay indoors for another six weeks, being so weak that I could only stagger when I came out in the open again for the first time. [ . . . ] In my case, the measles resulted in nothing less than a radical physical and mental change. [ . . . ]
Up to being ill, imagination and memory had been the only abilities that became evident to some extent. With the measles, that changed, with these talents improving at the same time. During the first few weeks after my illness, I was also not allowed to read or put a strain on my eyes. That caused me a lot of boredom, and I asked my mother to give me a book a soon as possible. This surprised her, for most of the time, one had had to push me to read. She had managed to obtain Campe’s Robinson Crusoe, which she handed over to me. With ravenous hunger, I got my teeth into it. Never before had a book made such an impression on me. Every scene appeared to me vividly, I was floating on air, envying the children in the novel for having an educator like this, and soon they became such friends that they were like siblings. [ . . . ] I thus read the book eleven times in succession, without skipping a syllable, and I nearly knew it by heart. It was not that I had seized the guiding principles and maxims; rather, they had taken hold of me; all of the explanations were familiar to me, all of the scenes present; I had drawn juice from each word. Apart from the Bible, no other book had influenced me so powerfully; none had fostered me and extended my range of thought so essentially.
[ . . . ]
Sadly, however, my father’s unfortunate tendency to drinking increased more and more. Mother attempted anything imaginable to counter it; he received reproaches from all sides; but it was to no avail. Even the patience of an angel can wear thin. When he came home drunk, my mother now flew into a rage, he no less, and harsh scenes took place in which we children came into dreadful situations. Already the entire town knew about my father’s problem, pitying us. [ . . . ]
Toward the end of that year, my mother became bedridden. [ . . . ] We had a rather skillful doctor [ . . . ] Finally he announced to us that my mother had fallen ill so gravely that he had little hope of saving her. Her constitution up to that point had been cast-iron, and she had borne and endured far more than one could expect thousands of other women’s bodies to sustain. These were difficult days for us, which we spent anxious between fear and hope; indeed, there was one day, when the doctor, just as all of us, expected her death with the highest probability. It turned out to be the turning point; she survived and began recovering. However, she remained bedridden in a highly ailing condition for four months, during which time I could not attend school; for my sister and I had no choice but to manage the entire household [ . . . ].
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