Soul of the Age (5 page)

However, I've been chatting for too long. Miserable, no, cold is what I want to be, ice-cold toward everybody, absolutely everybody. But you are my jailors, so I cannot address these complaints to you. Farewell, farewell. I wish to be alone; I'm in dread of these people. Don't tell anybody how deathly tired I am, how unhappy! Either let me croak here, a rabid dog, or behave like parents! I cannot possibly be a son right now; I'm having to battle and defy my own misfortune; again, behave like parents but—why not kill me off more quickly instead?

I cannot write any more. I would have to cry, and what I most want is to be dead and cold. Adieu!

 

Stetten, September 11, 1892

I was about to play something on the violin. I took up the instrument, looked out on the sunny day, when all of a sudden, and quite involuntarily, Schumann's “Reverie” began gliding along the strings. I felt a mixture of well-being, sadness, and languor. The soft, undulating notes matched my mood. Listening to the chords, I got lost in dreams of distant, better times, those beautiful, happy days I spent in Boll. Then—all of a sudden there was a bang, a shrill discordant note: a string had snapped. I woke up from the dream and was back—in Stetten. Only one of the strings had broken, but the others were out of tune.

That's how things stand with me. I have left behind me in Boll all my best qualities, love, faith, and hope. And there's such a contrast between the two places:

In Boll, I used to play billiards in a beautiful salon with my dear, kind friends. The ivory balls roll softly, one can hear the squeaking of chalk, laughter, jokes. Or I'm sitting on a comfortable sofa, playing a game of checkers while the majestic chords of a Beethoven sonata rustle past.

Hesse at four

The Hesse family in 1889. Left to right: Hermann, his father, Marulla, his mother, Adele, and Hans

And here: I'm sitting in the room, the organ close by is producing a drowsy sound, and downstairs some retarded people are singing a children's song in their nasal voices.

But the most crucial difference lies within. In Boll there was a calm happiness or trembling passion; here only a dead, desolate void. I could escape from here, manage to get expelled, quietly hang myself, or get up to something else, but why bother? Fortune is clearly not on my side. Anyhow, Papa is even more enraged than he was when he threw me out of the house. And the doctor either makes unfavorable comments or says nothing at all. Well, to hell with that kind of thing, what good can come of it? If fatally ill, I would be utterly calm. It's quite clear to me that I cannot stay here in Stetten, and if people are trying to make a pessimist of me by dint of force and sacrifices, then I must say that nobody needs to intervene to ensure that I am that way and remain so. If there can be no change in my condition, then there's no point transferring me to another place like Stetten. I don't need a doctor or parents to drive me to despair, criminal behavior. If Papa has no use for me at home as a son, then he hardly has all that much use for a son confined to a lunatic asylum. The world is big, very big, and a single being isn't all that significant.

By the way, I'm expecting an answer. If you don't have anything to say, then the issue is quite straightforward. I still hope, what's that?—nonsense!

Listen, Theo wrote recently: “Just put that girl out of your mind; there are thousands of better, more beautiful girls!” One could write to you in the same vein: “Just put the boy out of your minds,” etc., etc.

TO JOHANNES HESSE

Stetten, September 14, 1892

Dear Sir,

Since you're so conspicuously eager to make sacrifices, may I ask you for 7 marks or a revolver right away? You have caused me such despair that you should now be prepared to help me dispose of it, and rid yourself of me in the process. I should've croaked last June.

You write: We haven't “really reproached” you for complaining about Stetten. That attitude would seem totally incomprehensible to me: nobody ought to deprive a pessimist of the right to complain, which is his only, and, indeed, his ultimate, right.

“Father” is a strange word, which I cannot quite fathom. It ought to mean a person one can love with all one's heart. How I yearn for that kind of person! Could you ever give me some advice? In the old days, it was easy to make one's way in life, but that's more difficult nowadays, if one hasn't got the right grades, identification papers, etc. I'm an energetic fifteen-year-old, maybe I could find a niche in the theater somewhere?

I don't want to have any dealings with Herr Schall; he's a heartless, black-suited creature. I hate him, and I could stick a knife in him. He won't admit that I have a family, just like you and the others in that respect.

Your attitude toward me is becoming more and more tense. If I were a Pietist and not a human being, if I could turn all my attributes and inclinations into their exact opposite, then I might coexist harmoniously with you. But I cannot and shall not live like that; I would be responsible for any crimes I committed, but so would you, too, Herr Hesse, since you have made it impossible for me to enjoy life. Your “dear Hermann” has turned into somebody else, a misanthrope, an orphan with “parents” still living.

You should never again write “Dear H.,” etc.; that's a dirty lie.

On two occasions today the inspector caught me not following his orders. I hope catastrophe strikes soon. If only there were some anarchists around!

H. Hesse,

a captive in

Stetten prison,

where he “isn't being punished.” I'm beginning to wonder
who
precisely is the idiot in this affair.

By the way, it would be agreeable to me if you were to pay an occasional visit here.

TO MARIE HESSE

[
Basel, October 20, 1892
]

My poor, dear mother,

Things cannot go on this way; I finally have to come out with it. Poor Mother, forgive me, forgive your fallen son; forgive me, if you love me, if you believe that there's a divine spark in me yet.

These roads and meadows, where I once played as a child, seem to be reproaching me, now that I'm no longer a child or even a son. I'm just a miserable being who rails against man and fate and cannot and will not ever love himself.

Please, Mother, don't mention the letter to anybody, especially not Grandfather, or the people in Basel. You alone may forgive me.

Walking along the great, flowing Rhine, I have often imagined how wonderful it would be to perish in these dear, familiar waves. My life and my sins would vanish into oblivion. But best of mothers, I can still find some respite, a haven, in your heart. If anybody understands me, it is you. You are the only person who knows that I, too, am capable of love. I hope these lines persuade you that I also want to be loving. I often think that I shall never, never regain my health; I realize now (only now?) how sick I am, not just physically, but in the core of my being, in my very heart. I've been suffering for a long time from this condition. I felt initially that my first love would soon take care of that, but that passion of mine for a beautiful, warmhearted creature, the sight of those beautiful eyes, the sound of her dear voice actually worsened my sufferings; I wanted to end that anguish by killing myself.

Then there was the time when Father and Theo said to me: “You can defy us for as long as you want.” So I did. But I now realize how ill I am. I feel so weak, I'm anxious about the future. Even though I usually greatly enjoy being here, this time I'm aware of my illness, since I'm surrounded by really hale and hearty boys, including Heinz Pfisterer, who is the same age as me. When somebody asks me to play a game outside, I feel sad having to say: “I can't jump,” or when somebody asks me why my vacation is so long.

So forgive me! Neither of us will be able to forget the past, but we should be able to forgive. When you're well again, could you ever write, simply as a mother writing to her son, could you?

 

PS: Please say hello to the others! Fräulein Häfelinger feels sorry for you and sends all her best.

 

[
Cannstatt, January 15/16, 1893
]

Thanks for the packet! I'm now living in the adjoining room, where I immediately set up my things. Today (Sunday), I was out on the frozen lake, where I ran into Metzger von Altburg, Bühner, and some other people I know …

But why talk about all that nonsense! I might just as well be reeling off the names of the cheese stores and factories in Cannstatt. Well, it's just that my head is filled with memories and I want to stay with these thoughts as I write.

Turgenev talks about how pleasurably painful it is to reopen wounds that have already healed. That's just how I feel. I like thinking about last year, especially in Boll, the last place where I felt well for a time. I'm still virtually a child, yet feel I have aged a lot since last spring. I have had many different experiences—some you already know about. There was just too much going on in such a short stretch of time; then, after all the terrible excitement, which lasted right up to Stetten and Basel, came a lull; for months my nerves were in continuous, feverish excitement. Now the worst of the storm is over; the tree has lost its blossoms, and the branches are tired, drooping. You can probably more or less sense what I mean. As a man, scholar, etc., etc., Papa will no doubt dismiss these lines as useless, fantastical palaver. I myself relish opening these wounds, and, anyhow, you don't have to read this.

I've spent many happy hours here. For a time I was enthralled with the school and the teacher, tried to find friends, sought contact with people my own age; then there was a time when I hovered about in an unreal world, where everything seemed bathed in a more beautiful light. The whole experience culminates in the bittersweet feeling of love, in songs and wooing—then the abrupt end, despair, madness, and then deep, dark, sultry night.

Yes, it's so nice to be watching all of this again, one picture after another, as in a peep show. I would like to laugh out loud at the whole thing now, all that purely imaginary happiness, all that unnecessary fervor, the madcap illusion of love and suffering, ideals and friendship; I would like to laugh about this, but it's finished and … will it happen again or is it all over? When I recall how interested I was in interpretations of the Bible, etymology, history, etc., the way I made friends, the way I loved—idolizing the flowers “she” had once held in her hand—I find this whole experience so strange and odd and yet as natural as a colorful dream of love. There were some mementos of that time, flowers, poems, etc., but I threw them into the fire—wherefore this abyss, this delusion of the heart, wherefore indeed this silly, miserable heart? And even these lines have a rather silly, “Romantic” flavor to them, which isn't what I had in mind. So I prefer to hold my peace!

TO JOHANNES HESSE

[
Cannstatt, March 14, 1893
]

Thank you for the last letter. I'm a bit worried about Easter. I have a sense that once again things aren't going to work out.

You always seem to think I'm “burdened” by “the woes of mankind.” That's just not so. If I'm tiresome and disgruntled, it's partly because the professions that seem open to me aren't in the least bit appealing to me. These days I think about Boll a lot. I have only been there once, but felt whole and content during my stay. Of course, everything came to a rather silly end, but my time there was so wonderful, apart from those final eight to ten days. Decent company, freedom, music, singing, and conversation—all that was beautiful. I used take pleasure in nature then. But now it has become merely a shabby refuge on occasions when the boredom is simply too great; the magic is gone. I probably did poorly on the exam, but I don't care about that, as long as I get my intermediate certificate in the summer.

All would be fine and good if the world were not so beautiful—if only it were open to me. But, as things are, I'm entirely dependent on my own energy, which is being exhausted. Yes, if energy and money weren't so scarce, then—! Sometimes I win a drink from some inept companion over, usually, a game of skittles or billiards—but I don't want to complain, since I have something to eat and a place to sleep, and should be absolutely happy, at least according to you and some other people. You say so often that thousands of people are a lot worse off. That's certainly true, but there's no connection between those other people and me, and I couldn't care less about them.