Steppenwolf

by Hermann Hesse

  That night of the ball I experienced a sensation which, though familiar to any teenage girl or student, I had not known the like of in all my fifty years. I mean the thrill of a party, the exhilaration that comes from celebrating with others, the mystery of losing one's identity in the crowd, the unio mystica of joy. I had often heard people talk about it, there wasn't a servant girl who hadn't experienced it, and I had frequently seen the gleam in the eyes of those describing it. My response had always been a half supercilious, half envious smile. In the course of my life I must have witnessed that gleam a hundred times: in the eyes of people deep in drunken reverie or freed from all self-restraint; in the semi-deranged smile of someone utterly carried away, absorbed in the euphoric mood of a crowd. I had seen both noble and ignoble instances of it: on the faces of drunken recruits and naval ratings, for example, just as much as those of great artists, say, enthusiastically taking part in performances at a festival, and not less on those of young soldiers going to war. Even very recently I had admired, adored, mocked and envied such a gleam in the eyes and faraway smile on the face of my friend Pablo when, blissfully carried away by the excitement of playing in the band, he was bending over his saxophone or watching the conductor, the drummer or the banjo player with rapt and ecstatic attention. There were times when I had thought it possible only for really young people or nations which didn't permit individuals to stand out strongly from the tribe to produce smiles like this, childlike, beaming faces of this sort. Yet on this blissful night, here was I myself, I, Harry alias Steppenwolf, with just such a smile on my beaming face. I myself was afloat in this deep, childlike, fairy-tale pool of happiness, breathing this sweet, dreamlike, intoxicating atmosphere composed of communal revelry, music, rhythm, wine and sexual desire. To think that in the past I had so often listened with a disdainful and woefully superior attitude when some student or other, reporting on a ball, was singing the praises of all these things! I was no longer myself. In the heady atmosphere of the festivities my personality had dissolved like salt in water. I was dancing with this or that particular woman, but she was not the only one in my arms, not the only one whose hair brushed against me or whose perfume I inhaled. No, they were all mine, all the other women in the same room, afloat in the same dance as me and the same music, their beaming faces sailing by me like fantastically large flowers. And I was all theirs, we were all part of one another. The men too had a part in everything. They were no strangers to me, I felt part of them as well. Their smiles were mine, the amorous advances they made were mine, and mine theirs.

  That winter a new dance tune, a foxtrot entitled 'Yearning' was taking the world by storm. There were constant requests for it at the ball and it was played time and again. It was in all our heads, we were carried away by it, all of us humming along to its tune. I kept on dancing without a break, with every woman who happened to come my way, with very young girls, women in the full flush of youth, women in the summer of their lives, women beginning wistfully to fade. Delighted by them all, I was beaming, laughing, happy. When he saw me in such a radiant mood, Pablo, who had always considered me a poor devil who was greatly to be pitied, gave me a joyful look, his eyes flashing. Then, rising enthusiastically from his seat in the band and playing a powerful flourish on his horn, he climbed on his chair and, standing up there, puffed out his cheeks, blowing for all he was worth and blissfully rocking himself and his instrument in time to 'Yearning'. My partner and I blew kisses to him, singing along loudly to the dance tune. Ah well, I was thinking to myself meanwhile, whatever might happen to me, for once in my life I too have been happy, beaming, liberated from my self, a brother of Pablo, a child.

  I had lost all sense of time. I don't know how many hours or moments this euphoric happiness of mine lasted. It also escaped my notice that the festivities, the more feverish they became, were concentrated in an ever-more confined area of the building. Most of the guests had already left, the corridors were now silent, and many of the lights had gone out. The staircase to the first floor was deserted, in the upper rooms one band after another had ceased playing and departed. Only in the main dance hall and down in hell were the frantic drunken revels still going on, and their fever was rising steadily. Since I could not dance with Hermione in her young man's clothes, we had only briefly encountered and greeted each other during breaks between dances and in the end she had vanished completely, not just from my sight, but also from my thoughts. I no longer had any thoughts. I was beside myself, floating along in the drunken throng of dancers; affected by scents, colours, sights and snatches of conversation; in receipt of welcoming and inspiriting looks from strangers, surrounded by strange faces, lips, cheeks, arms, breasts and knees; flung backwards and forwards like a wave to the rhythm of the music.

  Half emerging from my reverie for a moment, I suddenly spotted among the remaining guests, who were now crammed into one of the small rooms, the last one where music was being played, a dark-haired Pierrette, her face painted white. She was a beautiful, fresh-looking girl, the only one wearing a mask, a delightful creature that I had not once set eyes on during the whole night. Whereas you could tell just how late it was from the appearance of everyone else, their ruddy faces, their crumpled costumes, their limp collars and ruffs, the dark-haired Pierrette, her white face covered by a mask, was standing there looking as fresh as a daisy. There wasn't a crease in her costume, her ruff was immaculate, her lace cuffs shone, and not a hair on her head was out of place. Irresistibly attracted to her, I took her in my arms and drew her on to the dance floor. Her sweet-smelling ruff tickling my chin, her hair brushing my cheek, with her taut young body she responded to my movements more delicately and intimately than any other partner I had danced with that night, now ducking away from me, now playfully luring me into continually renewed physical contact. And all of a sudden, when bending down and seeking her lips with mine as we danced, I saw those lips break into a superior smile, familiar to me of old. Now I recognized the firm chin, rejoiced to recognize the shoulders, the elbows, the hands. It wasn't Hermann any more, but Hermione, in a change of clothes, refreshed by a hint of perfume and a touch of face powder. Our lips met in a passionate kiss, and in a momentary gesture of longing and surrender, she pressed her whole body up against me, as far down as her knees, before withdrawing her lips and retreating to dance at a greater distance. When the music stopped we stood there, still in an embrace, and all the flushed couples around us clapped, stamped their feet and shouted out, goading the exhausted band to play an encore of 'Yearning'. And now, suddenly feeling the approach of dawn, seeing its pale light behind the curtains, and sensing that our enjoyment was coming to an end, soon to be replaced by tiredness, we all threw ourselves blindly into one last desperate dance, laughing out loud as we entered the swell of music and light. It was a romp. We strode along to the beat, couple upon couple tightly pressed together, all feeling the great wave of blissful happiness breaking over us again. During this dance Hermione abandoned her air of superiority and cool disdain, knowing that no further effort was required to make me fall in love with her. I was hers, and this showed in the way she danced, the look in her eyes, the smile on her face, and her kisses, all of which were unrestrained. All the women of that fervid night, all those who had aroused my passion, all those I had made a play for or lusted after from afar, had now merged into just one, and she was bursting into flower in my arms.

  This nuptial dance went on for a long, long time. On two or three occasions the music faltered, the wind and brass sections lowering their instruments, the pianist getting up from his stool at the grand, the first violinist shaking his head in refusal. And each time, their enthusiasm rekindled by the frenzied pleas of the remaining dancers, they started playing again, playing faster and more animatedly. Then all at once, as we were still standing in each other's arms, catching our breath after the latest eager exertions on the floor, we heard the loud bang of the piano lid being shut and our arms drooped wearily to our sides, as did thos
e of the musicians in the wind and string sections of the band. His eyes blinking, the flautist packed his instrument away in its case, doors opened and cold air came flooding in. Attendants appeared with our coats and the barman switched off the lights. Everyone rapidly dispersed in eerie, ghostlike fashion. The dancers, only moments ago still aflame, were shivering as they hurriedly slipped into their overcoats and turned up their collars. Hermione was standing there, looking pale but smiling. As she slowly raised her arms to brush her hair back, the light caught one of her armpits and I could see a thin, infinitely delicate line of shadow running from there to her hidden breast. It seemed to me that all her charm, all her beautiful body's potential for love-play was concentrated in that tiny dark thread, hovering there like a smile.

  We stood looking at one another, the last people in the room, the last in the whole building. Somewhere down below I heard a door bang, a glass being dashed to pieces, the dying sound of people giggling, all intermingled with the harsh, urgent noise of cars being cranked up. Somewhere else, at an indeterminable distance and altitude, I heard laughter ring out, an extraordinarily bright and cheerful kind of laughter that was nevertheless eerie and alien too. As if made of crystal and ice, it was clear and radiant, but cold and inexorable. How come this strange laughter sounded so familiar to me? I couldn't put my finger on it.

  The two of us stood looking at one another. Momentarily I regained consciousness, sobering up. Overcome by a sudden attack of great weariness from the rear, I could feel the sweat-drenched clothes clinging to my body, disgustingly damp and tepid, and could see my red hands, covered in swollen veins, poking out from my crumpled, sweaty cuffs. But this awareness was gone again in a flash, nullified by one look from Hermione. Before her gaze, which seemed like the mirror of my own soul, all reality disintegrated, even the reality of my sensual desire for her. We were looking at one another spellbound; my poor little soul was looking at me spellbound.

  'Are you ready?' Hermione asked, her smile vanishing, just as the shadow above her breast had vanished. Far away and high up, in regions unknown, the strange laughter died away.

  I nodded. I was ready, no doubt about it.

  Now Pablo, the musician, appeared in the doorway, his cheerful eyes gleaming at us, eyes that were essentially those of an animal, although an animal's eyes are always serious, whereas his were forever laughing, which made them human. With all the cordial friendliness typical of the man he signalled to us to follow him. He had put on a casual jacket of brightly coloured silk. Above its red lapels his soft, floppy shirt collar and his pale, worn-out face combined to make him look faded and wan, but this impression was nullified by his radiant dark eyes. They too were capable of nullifying reality, they too could work magic.

  As invited, we joined him in the doorway, where he said to me in a whisper: 'Harry, brother, there's a little entertainment I'd like to invite you to. Only mad people admitted. You pay at the door with your mind. Are you ready?' Again I nodded.

  The dear chap! Linking arms with us, Hermione on his right and me on his left, he led us with tender loving care up a flight of stairs into a small, round room. Lit by a bluish light from above, it was almost completely empty save for a small, round table and three armchairs, in which we sat down.

  Where were we? Was I sleeping? Was I at home? Was I sitting in a car, going somewhere? No, I was sitting in the blue light of a round room, where the air was thin and reality too, having lost much of its density, was just a thin veneer. Why was Hermione so pale? Why was Pablo doing so much talking? Could it be that I was making him talk? Was it my own voice emerging from him? Was it not my own soul, that frightened, lost bird, I could see mirrored in his dark eyes, just as I had in the grey eyes of Hermione?

  Our friend Pablo, looking at us with all that good-natured and slightly formal kindness of his, talked and talked at length, and about many things. This man, whom I had never heard string two sentences together, who showed no interest in debating any topic or statement, whom I would scarcely have considered capable of thinking about anything, was now talking, indeed speaking fluently in that kind, warm voice of his, and without a slip of the tongue.

  'Friends, I have invited you to an entertainment that Harry has long been dreaming of and wishing to attend. It is rather late, and like as not we are all slightly tired, so let us rest a while here first and take a little something to fortify us.'

  From a niche in the wall he took down three small glasses and a quaint little bottle, also a tiny, exotic-looking box made of variegated wood. He poured three full glasses from the bottle, then took three long, thin, yellow cigarettes from the box and, producing a lighter from his silk jacket, offered it to us in turn. Now, leaning back in our armchairs, we all slowly smoked the cigarettes, which gave off fumes as dense as incense, and, sip by tiny sip, slowly drank the unfamiliar, bitter-sweet liquid with its curiously alien taste. The drink really did have the effect of putting new life into us and making us feel extremely happy. It was as if we were being filled with gas and becoming weightless. There we sat, taking short puffs on our cigarettes, relaxing, sipping from our glasses, able to feel ourselves becoming lighter and merrier. And as we did so, the muffled sound of Pablo's warm voice could be heard, saying:

  'It gives me great pleasure, dear Harry, to be allowed to play host to you in a small way tonight. You have often been sick to death of life, haven't you, longing to see the back of it? You are yearning to leave this world behind, the time and reality we live in, and to exchange them for a different reality more suited to you, a world that is timeless. Well, do so, dear friend, I'm offering you the possibility. You know, of course, where this other world lies hidden, know that the world you are seeking is that of your own soul, and that the different reality you are longing for is only to be found deep in your own self. I can give you nothing that doesn't already exist in you. I can open the doors to no picture gallery other than that of your mind. All I can give you is the opportunity, the stimulus, the key. I am going to help you make your own world visible, that is all.'

  Again feeling in the pocket of his brightly coloured jacket, he took out a round pocket mirror.

  'Take a look. This is how you have perceived yourself until now!'

  As he held the little looking glass in front of my eyes I couldn't help thinking 'mirror, mirror in the hand', a variation on the familiar line from my childhood. What I now saw was rather blurred and hazy, a disturbingly agitated image, full of inner turmoil and ferment. It was of me myself, Harry Haller, and inside Harry was Steppenwolf, a timid, handsome, apparently stray wolf, looking around nervously with a glint in its eyes that was now furious, now sad. Incessantly on the move, the image of the wolf was flowing through Harry just as a tributary of a different colour can be seen merging with a major river, churning and clouding its waters. The two were locked in painful combat, eating away at one another, each longing to assert a fully formed identity, but in vain. The fluid, half-formed wolf was gazing at me sadly, ever so sadly, with its handsome, timid eyes.

  'This is how you have perceived yourself,' Pablo repeated softly, putting the mirror back in his pocket. I was thankful to close my eyes and take another sip of the strange elixir.

  'Now we've had a good rest, a fortifying drink and a bit of a chat, I'd like to take you to my peep show, if you are no longer feeling tired, and show you my little theatre. Agreed?'

  We stood up and Pablo, smiling, led the way. Opening a door, he pulled a curtain to one side and we found ourselves standing exactly in the middle of the rounded, horseshoe-shaped corridor of a theatre. This corridor curved away on both sides past a large number, an incredibly large number, of narrow doorways to the theatre's boxes.

  'This is our theatre,' Pablo explained, 'an entertaining theatre, in which I trust you will find a whole variety of things to make you laugh.' As he said this, he himself suddenly laughed out loud, shaking me to the core, even though his laughter lasted no more than a few notes. It was the same clear, alien-sounding laughter
I had already heard earlier coming from on high.

  'My little theatre has doors leading to however many boxes you wish, ten or a hundred or a thousand, and behind each door you will find the very things you are seeking waiting there for you. It is a fine cabinet of curiosities, my dear friend, but you would not benefit from it in the least if you were to do the rounds of it as you are now constituted, for you would be inhibited and blinded by what you are accustomed to term your personality. I have no doubt you guessed long ago that the terms you use to characterize what you are longing for - "overcoming time" or "finding release from reality" or whatever - have no other significance than your desire to rid yourself of your so-called personality. It is the prison you are doing time in. And if you were to enter the theatre as you are, you would see everything through Harry's eyes, perceive everything through Steppenwolf's old pair of spectacles. You are therefore invited to take off the said spectacles and to kindly divest yourself of your dear personality, leaving it here at the cloakroom, where you may reclaim it any time you wish. The wonderful evening you have spent at the ball, your reading of the Steppenwolf tract and lastly the little stimulant we have just consumed will in all likelihood have prepared you adequately. Once you have divested yourself of your esteemed personality, Harry, you will have the left-hand side of the theatre at your disposal, Hermione the portion to the right, and you can meet up again on the inside as and when you wish. Hermione, I would like you to please go behind the curtain while I take Harry in first.'