Soul of the Age (4 page)

Greetings and a kiss

 

February 14, 1892

Many thanks for the package. I was feeling well when it arrived, and treated myself to those delicious items right away—not all by myself, a friend came to my aid (cf.
Odyssey,
beta 16).

I think often of noble Polly, such a charming child. I'm glad to hear he's well. Let's hope he won't be on the warpath come Easter. A special thanks to Hans and Marulla for the waffles; Mother should give each of them a special kiss from me!

I'm feeling glad, cheerful, content! I find the atmosphere at the seminary very appealing. Especially the close, open relationship between pupil and teacher, but also the way the pupils relate to one another. Fights rarely last for very long. The other day I couldn't understand some passages in Klopstock, so I went immediately to the tutor and asked him. Nothing much is at stake usually, but contacts like that forge a wonderfully solid bond; there's no sense of constraint whatsoever. While in Göppingen, I was frequently ill-humored and incommunicative for days on end; there was certainly no common bond like that there, apart from the sheer drudgery. There was also considerable mockery of decency, willpower, ideals, etc.; here there's none of that. Nobody dares make fun of art, science, etc. And what a splendid monastery! There is something rather special about discussing linguistic, religious, or artistic matters in one of those majestic cloisters. And it's no longer just a case of two boys chattering: we really delve into the facts, generally ask the teachers questions, and read some relevant literature. I'd like to describe my fellow boarders; I'm sure you'd be interested in hearing about the kind of people I spend my time with.

Well, first my neighbor Hartmann.
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He's a hardworking youth; he likes things to be neat and tidy, and hasn't lost the indolent dignity of the inhabitant of the capital. He has a very elegant, graceful way of pocketing his pince-nez, and occasionally ventures a witticism. But he can't be made to change his mind, once he has made it up.

Then there's my other neighbor, Hinderer,
2
a tiny man with the tiny eyes of a mouse. He's light as a butterfly, laughs often but thinks little, also good-natured, musical. He recently ran a few little rubber bands across a small board, and then tuned them; he can play folk tunes, harmonies, and even dance music on it. He's old Holzbog's pet; he's notatus in the class book. He goes out walking a lot, is moderate by nature, and has been reading E. Tegnér's
Fritjof Saga
for quite some time.

Of course, I spend most of my time with my friend Wilhelm Lang.
3
He's a hard worker, his desk is inscribed with the motto “Ora et labora!” He is extraordinarily practical, can make all sorts of things out of a little piece of wood, some twine, paper, etc. He sketches very nicely, especially ornaments, reads Schiller a lot, is a model schoolboy. He's a little smaller than I am, dresses like me, has a nice, cheerful face, and wears chokers. He's always well supplied with apples and butter, which are consumed with considerable help from me. He has a beautiful handwriting, acts as treasurer of the senior class, and on Saturday leaves half his bratwurst uneaten. He's a bit reserved, loves peace and quiet, rarely gets into fights.

Then there is Franz Schall.
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He's about my height, a serious and industrious fellow. Some call him a philistine, but he's thoughtful, has a finely developed sense of justice. To him duty is all. He's fond of aesthetic things, Schiller's prose, etc.

I should also mention Zeller.
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He's big, broad, frightfully strong. He's an enthusiast, likes philosophy, is crazy about Herder. He knows Christ as “the friend” rather than the Son of God, and is skeptical about the existence of the devil and evil forces of that nature. Moreover, he's talented, has a good prose style, writes occasional poetry infrequently, and has a very good feeling for music. He evidently feels superior on account of his penchant for philosophy, etc. When asked to prove his ideas, he says with a mixture of condescension and annoyance, “That's still quite over your head!” He's clever, not at all sly. He's not interested in intrigue, and is rather intense, has a strange, comical sort of dignity, founded a “literary association,” which has lots of external paraphernalia, statutes, etc. Zeller is a good judge of people, especially men; he despises childishness in any form, and perhaps all that is childlike as well, and that's no good.

Häcker,
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a sharp-witted preacher's son, is talented, funny, likes nibbling, grimaces a lot, and tells lots of very witty jokes in a most solemn and stoical manner. He often regales us with funny historical scenes, and can transform Homer into a street minstrel. He is kind-hearted, not particularly industrious, dignified, given to pathos. He can declaim philosophical essays on omelettes or herring salad; he never reads the classics.

I'm not close to Robert Gabriel
7
and mention him only because he has such talent for drawing. He can sketch landscapes, buildings, and many biblical scenes, also expressive portraits of Christ's face, etc.

Rümelin
8
may be the most talented of all: a cheerful day scholar, mathematician, musician, quite practical, too.

 

Saturday, March 12, 1892

It's nearly five o'clock. I'm sitting out my sentence,
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on bread and water; the detention began at half past twelve and will continue until eight-thirty. I'm on bread and water, but can do as I wish otherwise. I've been buried in Homer, the splendid passage in the
Odyssey,
epsilon 200ff. I'm doing all right, i.e., am terribly weak and tired, physically and mentally, but improving gradually. The detention room is so big I can walk about quite easily; before me I have a table, a desk, two chairs, a warm stove, books, pen, ink, paper, and a lamp.

The first part of the written final exam was held this morning. The Latin thesis was difficult; the Latin passage was taken from Livy V, II, and the Hebrew was easy. Next Wednesday it'll be French (!) and mathematics (!).

I'm being treated very gently and considerately by Professor Paulus and, especially, the two tutors. It was such a relief to be able to drop the violin lessons—permission came right away. I believe I should like to keep up music by taking private lessons. Anyhow, my idea is to accept the abilities I have and make the most of them. I'm not musical, that I realize; I don't have what it takes to be a good violinist. I have also written Theo today.

I'm going to visit Herr Mährlen tomorrow and shall give him your regards. Unfortunately, they're moving to Stuttgart on St. George's; Herr Mährlen hopes it will be easier for him to find a position there. They always treated me in a very loving, friendly manner, and I'm grateful to them for those many wonderful hours.

Please give my regards to Grandfather, Aunt Jettle, Herr Claassen, and particularly Uncle Friedrich, whom you should also thank on my behalf for his visit here, which I greatly enjoyed. I've had a headache since two o'clock; it's so hot here, my head is on fire, goodbye.

With a kiss

 

I just read this on the wall of the detention room: “Karl Isenberg, May 28, 1885.”

I would be pleased if you could send me a little money by and by. I spent a bit in those twenty-three hours, and have also had a few other larger expenses. I don't see how my funds can possibly last until April.

 

March 20, 1892

Thanks for the letter and money. My vacation starts in three or four weeks; I don't know exactly for how long. From one to four yesterday we were out on one of those field trips that always leave my feet and head crippled for a few days. I didn't have much of a headache during the actual excursion, but now it's even worse. I'm so tired, so lacking in energy and willpower. I'm merely preparing the assignments, not doing anything of my own. I'm so glad when I get a moment's peace and quiet, and don't have to think at all. But there are few such moments. I'm not so much ill as pinned down by some rather uncharacteristic weakness. I hardly even get annoyed anymore, and I cannot enjoy things either, not even the golden sunlight or the approaching vacation. But I love to sit atop the vine-covered hill for a quarter of an hour or so, when the east wind is blowing. There are no houses or people around, and I have nothing on my mind, am totally passive, just enjoy the gale, which cools my eyes and temples. Klopstock's divine
Messiah
and even Homer's immortal song no longer hold me in thrall; I have left my Schiller all alone, and rarely read the mammoth dirge in Klopstock's odes.

My feet are always like ice, whereas there is a fire blazing deep within my head somewhere. Although I seldom have anything much on my mind during my free time, I occasionally think of Herwegh's
10
beautiful poem:

I wish to leave like the sunset

Like the final embers of day
 …

The hardest part came yesterday, having to say goodbye to my Wilhelm, the person who really grew to know and understand me completely, who still loved me after my fall and kept on sharing my joys and my sorrows, even though everybody else had nothing but contempt for me. Yesterday, he showed me a letter from his pious, upright father, which demonstrated clearly that his parents despise me, too. The letter was a virtual order calling for immediate separation. It was a beautiful evening; the moon was shining into the ancient hall, as we strolled along, sunk in conversation. I have lost the person I loved most of all; it was to him that I devoted my free time, songs, thoughts. Leaving the oratory after this prolonged farewell, I could hear the soft chimes of Rümelin's wonderful voice coming from the music room: “God forbid, that would've been simply too good to be true.”

You will perhaps smile as you read these lines, but believe me, it's hard to stand by the coffin of a friend, and ten times harder to lose a friend who is still alive.

 

Bad Boll, May 23, 1892

Thanks for the parcel, especially the clothes and the book about games.
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Theo has probably told you a little about my life here. I haven't been feeling all that well lately. Lack of sleep at night has become a real problem. My head feels so hot; I feel an indeterminate, constricting pain most of the time, especially in my chest and forehead, and I haven't made many contacts here. Oh, I'd so love to tell you that I'm doing fine, that I'm singing and leaping about merrily, cheerfully, energetically, but even writing this is difficult. Things are better here than at Maulbronn.

Even though I was in terrible shape in the seminary, I liked to imagine that the principal items—that is, instruction, room, and board—were provided by others, like wages almost. But here I feel oppressed by the thought that you are having to pay for this pleasant, convalescent life. Oh, if that weren't the case, I would so love to remain here forever. I love the splendid air, beautiful region, good company, and free and easy atmosphere.

It's so pleasant to be able to think things over before taking the next step. It's healthy rather than enervating or harmful. Here one can live one's own life amidst society. That's much the way I imagine life to be in the Orient. Clothes are all one needs, everything else is provided for. The bell tends to ring just when we've worked up an appetite. It's we who decide when to go to bed, rise, etc., etc.

Please give my greetings to all present, and to Theo, too, if he's already there.

 

Stetten, July 29, 1892

Thanks for Papa's letter! I can't think of anything much to say. Of course, I wouldn't be content with a life like this in the long run. To have to work, just so as not to be bored, teaching little children how to read, count, etc. I'm glad I'm here and also like working, but look forward to returning to my usual work, education, school life. My work here isn't particularly well coordinated. I'm in the printing shop, gluing something together, when somebody tells me to go to the school, or takes me away from Livy and sends me into the garden, and so on. The appropriate gentlemen say I could probably start high school in the fall (mid-September). Mightn't I pick up some important things for the future? I would prefer to attend high school in Cannstatt, where I could be in touch with the Kolbs, who are now as mother and sister to me.

I cannot think of anything else to say; besides, I have a lesson to give five minutes from now.

Please give my regards to the others in the family.

 

Stetten, September
[
1
]
1892

Theo and Karl visited me today. Theo said you were depressed because of me. There's no reason to think that I'm particularly cheerful either. There is nothing I wouldn't be prepared to give up in exchange for death, for Lethe!

Theo said I should beg forgiveness from you. But I shan't do so under present circumstances, and certainly not while I'm still here in Stetten. My situation is miserable, the future is dismal, the past is dismal, and the present is diabolical! Oh, if only that unfortunate bullet had traversed my tormented brain!
12

An ill-fated year, 1892! It began gloomily in the seminary, followed by some blissful weeks in Boll, disappointment in love, then the abrupt conclusion! And now I've lost everything: home, parents, love, faith, hope, myself even. Quite frankly, I can see and admire the sacrifices you're making, but actual love? No—! For me Stetten is like hell. If life were worth throwing away, if life weren't a delusion, sometimes merry, sometimes somber—I'd like to bash my skull against these walls, which divide me from myself. And then a dismal fall and a virtually black winter. Yes, yes, fall is here, fall in nature and fall in the heart: the blossoms are dropping off, ah, and beauty flees, leaving only an icy chill. There are several hundred dehumanized lunatics here, but I'm the only one with this emotion. I almost wish I were mad. How utterly sweet it must be, a drowsy forgetfulness about absolutely everything, all the joy and the sorrow, the life and the pain, the love and the hatred!