This has remained very fragmentary, but there is a ratio in rebus, also in the fact that I’m running out of paper. More orally at some point!
OPEN LETTER79
Badenau,80 July 9, 1909
My dear friend,
I’m a little ashamed to confess my whereabouts and present condition, but I have owed you a letter for a long time, and besides, there’s so little to do here—I haven’t felt like this since the long Sundays during my vacations as a youth. I have learned how terrible boredom can be, even thinking about it can give me the shudders; it’s worse than all the other illnesses, even seasickness.
The situation is as follows: I’ve been a guest here at the spa in Badenau for the past two weeks! You’ll be astonished and may even laugh, which is what I do whenever I get a chance to reflect on my situation. I shall be released in three weeks’ time; till then there is no escape. A clever, sensitive physician has taken charge of my nerves, and a well-to-do friend—you can guess his identity—is paying the hefty hotel bill; I wouldn’t be here otherwise. This is how my day goes: After getting up, I take a thermal bath, have breakfast, and must then go on a so-called promenade until one o’clock. Lunch is at one, then I’m supposed to rest until four; from then until early in the night I’m permitted to read and write, and thus engage in what my physician politely calls work. Then, at half past nine, a young attendant in white linen comes to my room; he soaks a large linen towel in cold water, wraps me in it, and then beats it with his flattened hands until he is exhausted. It’s quite amusing, and the fellow must have no trouble sleeping soundly afterward, but I certainly can’t.
As you know, I’m a native of the Black Forest; when I was a small boy, I used to feel a mixture of amazement and contempt at the sight of the numerous spa visitors, or “air grabbers” as we called them, who came to our region in the summer. Now I myself am an air grabber. My days are spent climbing the clean forest paths, cautiously and in decent attire, lying for hours on the wicker chaise longue in the hotel garden, staring in a bored and envious manner at the farmers working in the fields, exhibiting on my face perhaps a faint, somewhat helpless expression, which I interpreted in my youth as a sign that all air grabbers were idiots.
During my first few days here everything irritated me. A spa such as this can destroy the magic and ravish the beauty of the most beautiful valley in the Black Forest. The buildings are outrageously large and garish; there are hundreds of completely unnecessary signposts painted in all sorts of colors; tiny artificial ponds with decrepit swans and idiotic goldfish, and equally tiny artificial waterfalls with tin gnomes or deer, and little walls with water trickling down. Moreover, a gang of musicians fills the peaceful valley with the sound of an absolutely diabolical brass band, for an hour and a half, three times a day, from which there is no escape. Although the audience here is large, elegant, and cosmopolitan, it not only puts up with this stuff but actually seems to enjoy it. It’s enough to make one weep.
Those first few days, I was so tired and the weather was so wet that all I got to see of Badenau was those splendid spa monuments. But, of course, I soon noticed that this elegant spa is tiny and rather laughable; it’s a ridiculous little kindergarten in which the guests disport themselves in a very odd, apelike manner. The spa is surrounded by a dark, mighty hundred-year-old forest and soft blue-black mountains, which seem to smile wryly at the colorful and quite childish antics occurring at their feet. These are the fir-tree groves, forests of silver fir, fast, transparent, trout-filled streams, and the old, forsaken mills and sawmills of my youth; they greet me again, and in spite of all that has since transpired, I can hear the old, familiar sounds in my ears and in my heart. Something emerges from deep within my soul, the muffled clamor of my youth, the remnants in my heart of my childhood sensibility; the waves may have submerged that part of me, but they have left it unscathed.
During the four or five hours I spend outside each day, this entire world belongs to me alone, with all its mountains and wide, high plateaus, its wild spots covered with ferns, its strawberries and lizards, its ravines and quiet, sleepy, brown-gold water wagtails amid the alders.
For, strange as this may seem, the guests aren’t in the least bit interested in nature. They know nothing about it, and just reject it out of hand. They traipse around aimlessly on a few level paths at the spa, and then sit around on one of the many benches, looking either satiated and happy or yellow and out of sorts, and not one of them ever ventures more than a thousand meters from the pump room. Lots of shimmering white dresses can be seen in this restricted area; costly ladies’ hats and hairdresses flit about; all sorts of flowers and perfumes release their fragrance; mouths buzz with the sounds of ten languages—but beyond the perimeter there isn’t a trace of a single guest, even though that’s where there is a real forest and genuine mountain air. They’re paying the high spa fees for all those swans, tiny ponds, tin gnomes, signposts, and concerts. One encounters only a few fat gentlemen outside this Holy of Holies, and they run panting along the forest paths, trying to lose weight. It’s not as if the thousand-odd spa guests were weak or ill, and thus incapable of going on hikes—whenever there are evening dances, they all seem astonishingly healthy and agile. But they’re all afraid of nature, and can tolerate only the extremely adulterated form of nature they see during their “promenades.” They’re dimly aware that their narrow, self-imposed regulations no longer apply in the woods, and also that their vain demands and petty worries and ailments would seem just as ridiculous there. If they were somewhere in the mountains a couple of hours away, old Pan might suddenly sneak up on them, gaze into their unliberated eyes, and give them a well-deserved shock. The ravines and wolves are not what frightens people “out there”; it’s the solitude, and that’s something which none of the guests at the spa can tolerate. So they stay down below in their narrow little garden and, on the rare occasions when they venture out into the very enticing countryside, they venture forth only on group outings in carriages full of merrymakers. On the other hand, some are so stir-crazy that they show up for the morning concert in the park, wearing sports clothes and loden hats, which they take off as quickly as possible afterward. If somebody is known to head off occasionally for distant summits, even if he has only been away for one day on a serious hike, he is treated with diffident awe, partly as a hero, partly as a madman.
At the dinner table I have to sit with my fellow patients for an hour a day, listening to their exhaustive discussions of their ailments. One of them has again slept poorly; it took another four weeks to lose a single pound. A fat man, who is still quite young, spent four hours yesterday running around in the woods, going back and forth the whole time along the same path, only to deprive himself subsequently of the benefits of this activity: that evening he couldn’t resist the tempting pudding (which he is not allowed). So once again he didn’t lose any weight, and it’s the fourth time that this has happened. He goes on a diet and doesn’t exercise or vice versa.
Having to contend with such foolish and ridiculous ailments is so aggravating that one feels a sense of relief on encountering genuine illness. One can certainly find examples of the latter here; all these spas and guesthouses were built for seriously ill patients, but one hardly ever sees them now, since the jaded splendor and aimless bustle of life at the resort have pushed them into the background. But there are some places, along a few of the more modest forest paths or in the lying-in room of one of the guesthouses, where one comes across the pale face of real misery and genuine suffering and feels moved and quite shocked, yet oddly enough, the experience also makes one feel good. It’s not just that one begins to laugh at the self-important airs of this comical and useless little world; one can see one’s own complaints in perspective and doesn’t take them quite so seriously. And on a rare occasion one finds oneself gazing quietly and with brotherly fellow feeling at a white, suffering, and very human face, responding to a glance which suggests seriousness rather than curiosity, or a silent greeting.<
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That’s what my life here as a patient at the Badenau spa is like. I roam about the quiet forest paths in the morning, spend the afternoons resting and dozing off, occasionally read a bit of Walther von der Vogelweide or Mörike in the evening until the fellow in the white linen arrives with his water bucket. There are times when I don’t have anything at all on my mind, and I just listen to the rustling treetops and murmuring brooks. I sometimes spend hours thinking about the intense suffering marking the anxious, pale faces that greeted me. And I sometimes get a kick out of the guests, the little ponds, the whole fraud. One gets to see some beautiful people here, just like everywhere else. There are few really beautiful English people around since they are either at a higher altitude or at the seaside. But one can certainly find racial features that are characteristically Slavic, German, and Latin, well-dressed children, and some interesting women’s faces. I’m pleased to discover that our good Schwarzwald folk have nothing to be ashamed of when set among all these ethnic types; the Alemannic features can stand comparison with the firm, finely chiseled features of all these foreigners.
That’s quite enough! You’ll be hearing from me soon again.
TO JOHANNES HESSE
Gaienhofen, March 6, 1910
Many thanks for the printed matter, which I read with interest. I’m really sorry that you have become so preoccupied with this idol business, because it’s not clear to me why anybody could attach any significance to it.81 Everybody knows that Europe produces all sorts of goods in the hope of making a profit, and liquor, gunpowder, and obscene pictures, etc., are, of course, far worse than idols. I don’t doubt that manufacturers here are producing idols, but surely they intend to sell these items primarily to European travelers rather than to the natives; those factories churning out idols are, after all, a branch of the arts-and-crafts industry. Every day we mass-produce reproductions of the famous Apollo and Minerva, and even install them in our schools—so why not reproduce Krishnas or Buddhas or the like? There are establishments in Munich, Berlin, and elsewhere where one can buy extremely beautiful, sophisticated Japanese and Oriental objects, and everybody knows that most of them are forgeries—i.e., sensitively crafted artifacts made in Europe according to designs from Japan and elsewhere. But no manufacturer is honest enough to put his own label on items like that, as you saw yourself in the case of those Indian pictures.
Your investigations will thus be useless, since the most dangerous manufacturers, those who fear publicity, are never going to give themselves away. There’s a lot of factual information available, much of it widely known, and occasionally a daring journalist will publicize the matter without being able to prove it. There are trials daily in which severe penalties are imposed on the journalist or whoever did the insulting, even though everybody in the courtroom from the plaintiff to the judge realizes that this ugly business does go on, although it cannot be proven. It’s not sufficient to have the right intention when pursuing such cases of forged curios; one really needs to work like a detective. In any case, I don’t see anything wrong with European “ladies” (why not “gentlemen” as well?) wanting to buy idols and amulets on their Oriental travels. You liked having that glass cabinet with Indian curiosities in your room in Calw; why shouldn’t others be allowed to bring similar items back from their travels and display them at home? Even in Italy, I bought rosary beads, etc., merely as souvenirs. The fact that some Europeans are producing items like this for profit is not in itself a violation of conventional European business ethics. I have heard from travelers to India, and I know quite a few, that they consider a “genuine Buddha”—i.e., a sculpture of Buddha made in India—a rare find.
That’s enough; you know all this already. But I would like to stress the difficulty of proving the allegations in the press. A case in point is the commentary in März, which, incidentally, I didn’t find any more intolerant or fanatical in terms of tone and substance than those articles in the church paper. I’m sure the author knew for certain that idols are being produced in Idar (I don’t consider it inexcusable that he wasn’t as well informed about the numbers of pagan Maoris as an expert on the missions), but was unable to prove it conclusively. Perhaps an employee or business associate of the factory told him about it, but requested that he never disclose the name of the firm. That happens every day in the press. All I wanted to say is that a news item or allegation in the press is not null and void just because it cannot be proven in a court of law.
Moreover, as I have said before, I don’t agree with the point of view of the commentator in März; I have become more tolerant, indeed quite impartial in religious matters, and in any case I can no longer believe in the exclusive validity of the religious outlook that I grew up with. I don’t think it’s right that the natural sciences, the rules of logic, and a sense of equity should determine how we think about everything from nature to history, except for religion, an area which could certainly use that. The only reason I retain my reverence for genuine, deep-seated piety, no matter how worldly the life I lead, is that I have witnessed genuine piety ever since childhood. I would be the last person to oppose any attempt to get everybody on earth to share this particular belief, should that ever be conceivable! But as the years went by, I realized increasingly that there are very few truly pious people and that instances of this genuine, pure, self-effacing piety are to be found in all higher religions. As for the decadent official version of Christianity that is predominant here, I find its attitude toward culture utterly hostile. And that is the only reason why I’m participating, albeit in a secondary role, in an important, serious-minded cultural project that is aimed partly against the Church (not against the faith). This sums up my relationship to März as regards that matter. As you well know, my religious needs cannot be satisfied by such activities, so I listen to everything from the Bible and ancient legends to the Koran, and eavesdrop at several gates to paradise.
I’m off to Strassburg tomorrow. If you haven’t heard again from Hans, I could ask my Frankfurt physician to make some inquiries and find out how he is doing and which hospital he is in. But since he is an overworked physician, I don’t want to burden him until I hear it’s necessary.[ … ]
We’re surviving somehow, and feel delighted that there is a bit more spring in the air. My nerves long for the sun, summer, and freedom; I often work like mad, so I can travel or just spend time ambling about.
TO FRITZ BRUN82
[ca. May/June 1911]
[ … ] All the best wishes to you in your new quarters! It’s always fun to settle in, add one’s personal touch to a few rooms, and bask in the wonderful illusion of being in complete possession and control, whereas actually those objects possess and control us rather than vice versa. I would give an arm and a leg to be a poor, merry bachelor again, with nothing to my name except twenty books, a couple of extra boots, and a box with secret poems. But I am now a paterfamilias, a house owner, and an all too popular writer, and since I have little faith in pathos and even less talent for it, I’m trying to take things lightly, so I can at least wind up as a humorist.
TO CONRAD HAUSSMANN83
Gaienhofen, July 9, 1911
Dear Friend,
[ … ] My wife is expecting84 about the end of this month, and if all goes well, I shall disappear for some time and there will be no way to get hold of me. I have booked a ticket to Singapore; a friend is coming along;85 we want to travel around Sumatra, and then I want to spend some time catching butterflies in the jungle near Kuala Lumpur, a mostly Chinese city of 160,000 people; I was invited by a Swiss technician who lives alone there. On the way back, I shall visit Ceylon and, if circumstances prove favorable, maybe a bit of southern India too.
But, please, not a word about any of this yet, since it might not work out at all. At the moment, I’m busy learning English and making preparations, and I get a clearer idea each day of the amount of stuff necessary for a journey like this, not just shirts and clothes, other things as well. I shall look quite elegant si
nce, funnily enough, it’s impossible to get into the tropical jungle without first making an appearance on board ship or in the English ports wearing a nice dinner jacket.
While I’m gone, you will have to fill in for me occasionally on März, by which I mean you should just keep on trying to influence things in the direction we want. I shall not write anything about the journey for März, but hope to return with some worthwhile inner acquisitions.
TO JOHANNES HESSE
Gaienhofen, July 28, 1911
[Original in English]
My dear father!
As I have written on a postcard, we have got a little boy the day before yesterday. The little fellow is in good health and likewise the mother. Butzi and Heinerli have a great pleasure in the new brother. Maria has a nurse that is very good and kind, and we find it better that she has remained here instead of going to Basel or Zurich.
Last Sunday I was at Friedrichshafen, following to an invitation of the Zeppelin society, and I took a drive in the new airship “Schwaben.”86 I was two hours in the air, over Lindau and Bregenz till up to Feldkirch, by the finest weather, and I was very astonished to see how comfortably the drive was effected. One has no uneasiness neither other sensations and it seemed to me the best manner of traveling. I would like to drive in this way to India!
Now my english acquirements are exhausted.
TO CONRAD HAUSSMANN
Steamer York [end of November 1911]
I’m again sailing across the bluish-black seas, for days and weeks on end, am living in a cramped little cabin, and trying meanwhile to cure the injuries that the outside world has inflicted on me. Since I shan’t be able to write letters for some time after my return (Christmas), I’m sending you a few more lines from on board.
Soul of the Age Page 10
