Dr. Albert Schweitzer - Part 3 of 8

This was my schoolroom. I was a quiet and dreamy child, and learned to read and write with some difficulty. It was hard for me to keep my mind on my studies when my eyes were always wandering outside to the wonders of nature itself. I suffered deeply because the village boys did not accept me as one of themselves. To them, I was the pastor's son, one of the gentry, better off than they. My attempts not to be different from them in any way made no impression. They always made it clear to me that they considered me a stranger. Like all Alsatians at that time, we learned both German and French in school. Also at home, we spoke both languages. My older sister had a friend named Louisa. She asked me to write in her album, and as I was only five, Louisa wanted to guide my hand. Indignantly, I refused, and with intense effort wrote, Dear Louisa, do not forget your Albert Schweitzer. My first autograph is adorned with ink blots. When I was eight, my father, at my request, gave me a new testament. One of the stories that interested me most was that of the wise men from the East. I could not understand why they never troubled themselves about the child Jesus after he grew up. What did Jesus' parents do with the gold and the treasure the wise men had bought? I wondered how they could have remained poor. It also seemed very strange to me that apparently none of the shepherds of Bethlehem ever became Jesus' disciples. At the age of nine, my life took a new turn. Every morning and evening, I walked nearly two miles over the hills to Münster, to the school where my parents had decided to send me. I was delighted to take these walks by myself, without any of the other boys, to think my own thoughts. How well I came to know the changing seasons. But the sheer youthful joy of being alive was something I never knew. I think this is true of many children who appear outwardly carefree and content. As far back as I can remember, I was shocked by the suffering that I observed in nature. Suffering brought about by the relentless struggle for existence. Still more shocking to me was the pain and misery inflicted on dumb, helpless animals by the negligence and thoughtlessness of men. Even before I started to go to school, I couldn't understand why I was expected to pray only for human beings when I said my prayers at night. So when my mother had drawn the shutters and blown out the candle and kissed me goodnight, I secretly said another prayer for all that had life, a prayer that I had made up myself. Dear God, protect and bless all living creatures. Keep them from evil and let them sleep in peace. An experience I had during these years made a lasting impression on me. A neighbor's son and I had made slingshots from rubber bands. One Sunday morning, he said to me, come on, let's go up the mountain and shoot birds. This seemed a horrible idea, but I didn't dare object for fear of being laughed at. The birds were singing sweetly in the morning sunshine, so unafraid of us. Crouching like an Indian, my friend put a stone in his slingshot and took aim. Obeying his look of command, I did the same with acute pangs of conscience. At that moment, the sound of church bells began to mingle with the sunshine of the birds' song. To me, it was a voice from heaven. Shoot! Shoot! Shoot! I frightened away the birds to protect them from my friend's shot and ran home. Ever since, when morning bells ring out in the sunshine, I gratefully remember those bells, for they rang into my heart the commandment, thou shalt not kill. The manner in which this commandment against killing and cruelty worked upon me was the great experience of my childhood and youth. Gradually, I came to the unshakable conviction that we may bring death and pain to a fellow creature only under compulsion of absolute necessity, and that we must all feel the horror of causing suffering and death by thoughtlessness. I became more and more certain that all of us feel this way, but do not dare to affirm it. We are afraid of being ridiculed as sentimental. We allow ourselves to become callous. Near Gunzbach lies the city of Colmar, and there, on the Champ de Mars, stood a monument which was later destroyed in the Second World War. It was designed by Bartol, who created the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor. Every time I passed through Colmar on my way home from school, I went to see it. On the base was the Herculean figure of a Negro with a pensive, melancholy expression on his face which spoke to me of the misery of the dark continent. It was he who turned my youthful thoughts towards plans. When I was 18, we left the old, damp parsonage and moved to a new one. This house opened on a sunny garden. We were all in good health and lived in closest harmony together. The relationship between parents and children was ideal, thanks to the wise understanding with which our mother and father treated us, even in our follies. They educated us in the spirit of freedom. My father was my dearest friend. More and more, it became clear to me that I didn't have the right to take my happy family life, my health, and my strength for granted. One who escapes misfortune and has received much from life should render thanks by doing something to relieve the suffering in the world. I realized that all of us must feel the responsibility of mercy and carry our share of the world's burden of sorrow. This added to the realization of suffering that had so shocked me in my childhood, led ultimately to the philosophy of life that was to be of decisive importance for me. When I was 21, even though I was still seeking some fundamental principle of morality and life, I did make a decision. I resolved to devote my life until the age of 30 to preaching, teaching, and music. I would then look for and follow a path of immediate service as a man to his fellow men. What that path was to be, I was confident circumstances would determine. Thank you.