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.
Ye
s, 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.
I shall probably be coming to Calw soon, and shall probably find other people boring and annoying, and they will feel much the same way about my company.
NB: I would be very pleased if Karl happens to have a small pipe from his student days, doesn’t need it, and passes it on to me.
Wilhelm Dreiss did brilliantly in his exams.
PS: I may send the important Easter things by mail; I may walk part of the way if the weather is good.
TO JOHANNES AND MARIE HESSE
[Before March 24, 1893]
I’m very anxious about Easter. If I could stay here or elsewhere, but as for going home!? I can tolerate just about everything but love. This cannot go on for much longer; I’m completely bedraggled, and my misery doesn’t belong in a house such as yours where love and friendship are at home. It’s easier for me to tell people like Geiger what I think! I consider that man a blockhead of the first order …
I have to come on Saturday! Don’t be startled and—please!—leave me alone at Easter! I cannot tolerate love, and Christian love least of all. If Christ only knew what he has wrought! He’d be turning over in the grave.
I have gone to the dogs in both body and soul; my heart has blackened, as has my life …
You’re the people who ought to be pitied; I have been such a burden. A pity about that good money!!
The thought of Easter seems more and more terrible, and fills me with revulsion (only if I come?). I’m about to fall silent, without actually shooting myself. That’s fine, the best course for us all.
I pity you! Such devout, honorable, upright people; their filius, however, happens to be a scoundrel who despises morality and all that is “sacred” and “venerable.” That’s almost a pity! I would have been able to make something of myself in life had I been a bit more stupid and allowed myself to be deluded by religion, etc.
PS: Today I met some nice, jolly people, a German-Italian by the name of Ottilio Pedotti and a rich Russian, Duke Fritz von Cantacuszène.
[Cannstatt, June 13, 1893]
Well, that’s how it is! I spent Pentecost with you: walks, meals, joking around, Bible readings, music—but then a fight, boredom, and so I left a whole day earlier. And now Mother writes saying that my stay at Pentecost was “so brief,” and also that I should talk “openly” about whatever is “affecting me emotionally”!
Poor Parents! You think that you’re dealing with an eccentric dreamer with crazy ideals, who is driven by his delusion to stir up mischief, but is actually pining away with grief because of the state of the world and also on account of some personal sorrows. That’s how you view your son.
You Christians blend optimism and pessimism in strange ways! At the same time as you’re pitying me for being such a dreamer, so nostalgic, I’m trying to while away the time here in Cannstatt, am bored, have debts, etc.!
You call me “beloved child,” and write of my “struggles,” etc.; you imagine that my dearest wish is to spend my life amidst beautiful, good, dear souls who believe in an idealistic philosophy; you think I’m concerned about such things as a Weltanschauung, love, hatred. And as for the reality? What would I actually wish for myself? Well, if you really want to know the whole truth, my ideal would be to have (1) a millionaire father and also several well-endowed uncles, (2) more talent in practical matters, (3) the opportunity to live and travel wherever I please.
I couldn’t care less about the aristocracy, yet would love to be an aristocrat, because of the prestige attached to the rank. I think money is absurd, but would really love to be very rich, because of the good life of which it forms part.
And what’s the point of all this?
Man lives on bread rather than love; if I had a chance to trade in my exalted ideals, still almost brand-new, for those good Württemberg coupons—ah!
Farewell now! I shall have to think about what you said about the final exam in high school. I’m quite fearful about life at school and possibly also at university.
Write again soon, if you wish and can find the time.
[On enclosed page] Dear Papa! Congratulations on your birthday, and the best of health to you! Have a really enjoyable time on June 14, and fond regards to the others.
[On the reverse side] PS: I have no idea what I would like for my birthday. I shall let you know, if I think of anything. The awful part is that what you have in mind mightn’t appeal to me, and vice versa.
By the way, I would ask you not to send books.
[Cannstatt, October 8 or 9, 1893]
I don’t know whether the Principal has written to you or not. I hope so.
I probably cannot go on like this for much longer. While I don’t have ordinary headaches, I always feel an awfully dull, uniform pressure in my head which develops into a headache when I have to concentrate. I can’t cope with the assignments, which aren’t excessive at all. I have to spend three or four times the usual amount of time on them, and my inattentiveness in class is downright embarrassing by now. I’m not able to follow properly, especially if asked questions, etc., and so I’m continually receiving reprimands, having to copy out lines, etc.
I’m terribly sorry to have to cause you such problems again, and so soon, too, but I had to tell you that I can no longer put up with this. Couldn’t somebody come over here to see what might be done?
I wasn’t able to recuperate sufficiently during the summer vacation because of the toothaches, pains in my eyes, and the heat. I’m again finding it difficult to walk, especially uphill.
&nb
sp; If I could only come home, didn’t have to be with strangers, and work a bit in the garden, not too much activity, but just enough! I’m terribly afraid, have many worries, and then school, work, angry words.
TO JOHANNES HESSE13
[no initial greeting]
I decided to communicate with you in writing, so as to avoid unnecessary excitement. Unfortunately, it has become more than evident that we are incapable of having a conversation, because both of us easily become irritated and also have divergent opinions and principles. But to get to the point!
I didn’t like it at the seminary, and felt no better at Cannstatt and Esslingen.14 You thought my running away like that was pathological. Of course, it wasn’t right of me, but I didn’t feel the least bit eager, energetic, or courageous when thinking about the future you wanted to impose on me. A feeling of revulsion often overcame me at work or while studying.
I have always employed my free time to further my own education. You used speak of my idle pursuits, but that is how I hope to earn my living. I could never summon the courage to tell you about my intentions and wishes, since I knew they didn’t agree with yours, and so we drifted ever further apart. I tried the book trade, and was determined to work very hard, if I could detect a single positive aspect, but the whole affair was quite nauseating. Now a decision has to be reached. I know that you were, or are, thinking of such places as Stetten and Chrischona, and so I really have to say this: Your plans, which I went along with, have come to nought. Couldn’t I have a final chance to try out my plans before having to enter a lunatic asylum or become a gardener or carpenter? That’s more or less what I’m requesting. But knowing that you appreciate precision in such matters: I would like to try to earn a living by drawing on my private studies. I would start off in a place where I have a foothold already, Cannstatt, Esslingen, Stuttgart. Furthermore, I would need certain papers, because of the police, and some money at the outset. If I didn’t have a few marks, I wouldn’t get as far as Esslingen. If I happened to arrive there on the wrong day, I wouldn’t have a bite to eat. Obviously, I have to rely on somebody’s help at first. I hope to earn something later, in the foreseeable future.
Soul of the Age Page 4
