Soul of the Age

by Hermann Hesse

  I would certainly have liked to visit you on my way back, but I was so exhausted I had to husband my energy. I’m still barely mobile, each step is painful. I did get to the theater in Zurich one evening to hear Handel’s Rodelinda, which is exceptionally beautiful and fine. It brought Spengler to mind. Whenever I hear that kind of music, or see Gothic or Baroque architecture, I sense clearly that those aesthetic creations belong to a formal universe that has disappeared completely. I have thought like that for a long time, and now Spengler is saying the same thing systematically. I’m still reading the second volume. It contains many mistakes and distortions, but is nonetheless the most significant book to have come out of Germany in the past twenty years.

  My dear friend Englert, you foresee a wonderful future for me.165 Let us hope your predictions come true, before I dry up altogether. I appreciate your friendship and am grateful for it.

  I’m sure your inner compass will guide you to a place where your life can take root, and I hope you end up close to me!

  The Dr. Lang who dabbles in astrology has just written saying that the signs favoring marriage are so strong this year that I shall hardly escape that fate. I agree with his assessment, but cannot banish my fear of getting married again and the feeling that I should avoid it. But we all have areas in our lives where we behave passively and just follow our stars.

  Fond greetings from a grateful friend, who sends best wishes to you both!

  TO THE SWISS DEPARTMENT OF POLITICAL AFFAIRS

  Montagnola near Lugano, July 26, 1923

  The undersigned writer, Hermann Hesse, hereby presents a petition to the Swiss Department of Political Affairs requesting reinstatement as a Swiss citizen.

  I am Swiss by origin, since my father had been living in Basel for a number of years before I was born, and he acquired citizenship for the entire family. He remained a citizen of Basel for the rest of his life, and my only other brother is still a citizen.

  But in my case, in accordance with my parents’ wishes, I became a naturalized German citizen in Württemberg at the age of fourteen. They had strong reasons for this step, since I was suited only for an intellectual profession by talent and nature, and I would need to get state foundation scholarships (a free place in the theological academy and in boarding school in Tübingen) if I were to continue my studies in Württemberg, to which my parents had moved. So, in 1891 or 1890, my parents decided that the best way to safeguard my prospects for the future was for me to apply for naturalization as a Württemberger. I was naturalized, and have been a Württemberger ever since. When I came of age, I had to reaffirm in writing that I had renounced my Basel citizenship.

  In actual fact, I have been a continuous resident of Switzerland since 1912, living in Bern from 1912 until 1919, and in Montagnola up to now. Prompted by a variety of considerations and feelings, I would very much like to become a citizen of Switzerland and Basel again, and hope your esteemed department will accede to my request, if this is feasible.

  I have just discovered that this petition requesting reinstatement of my citizenship should have been submitted within ten years of my return to Switzerland. I was not aware of that regulation, and so in that regard my petition is not altogether immaculate. There are two reasons why it has taken me so long to petition for reinstatement of my citizenship. First of all, I see more clearly than heretofore that my sons, who have grown up in Switzerland, have put down roots here and have no desire to keep in contact with Germany. Second, even though I was more or less compelled to become a German, I couldn’t quite manage to desert my adoptive fatherland during the first years of the war. But as far as I’m concerned, those considerations no longer apply.

  TO GEORG REINHART

  Montagnola, October 29, 1923

  I just wrote something today about the Officina Bodoni, which I revisited recently, and I have sent it off to Hans Trog at the Neue Zürcher Zeitung.166 I’m enclosing the carbon copy, which I don’t need back.

  After spending nine days hunched over the typewriter, with rain pouring down outside, I have finally completed my Baden manuscript. It’s entitled Psychologia Balnearia: Notes from a Baden Spa, and I think it represents something new and different. The manuscript is very intimate, some parts are purely confessional, and at this point I definitely don’t intend it for public consumption. However, I would very much like to have about two hundred copies printed for friends and a small number of devoted readers; I would have to sell enough of them to cover my costs. The pamphlet would not be available in bookstores; people would have to purchase it through me. I have already contacted my Berlin publisher about the project, but don’t know yet whether the whole thing is financially feasible or not. If I’m unable to fulfill my wish, I shall at some point read you the Psychologia Balnearia (about 100 pages long, the size of this sheet) or see to it that you eventually receive a copy.

  I haven’t written in such a frenzy since Klingsor, a nice experience, but so feverish that I’m now totally exhausted. I’m thinking of going to Basel within the next couple of days, and shall be staying at the Hotel Krafft. Some obstacles to my marriage plans have surfaced, and there has been no progress, even though I have been trying for weeks to make the necessary arrangements. The German authorities are being very bureaucratic. They insist on petty details and keep demanding additional documents and formalities, so much so that I shall probably have to withdraw my application for a marriage certificate. I shall try to become a naturalized Swiss citizen as quickly as possible, and then get married. That is quite disappointing, and it is a real blow to my plans that the German authorities, who have kept me waiting for many weeks, are bringing up new difficulties and complications.

  I hope you’re in good health and things are going tolerably well for your daughter. With many fond greetings

  TO CARL SEELIG

  Basel, Hotel Krafft, December 28, 1923

  Thanks for your kind letter. I had wanted to wait until my marriage had actually taken place, before notifying you about it. So you found out in advance. I have to pass through a few more bureaucratic hoops before I can get married, but it should take place within the next fourteen days.

  There is no contradiction between my remarrying and what I have said in my letters. I have naturally entertained thoughts along such lines—e.g., people like us shouldn’t marry—and, in theory, I think that is all very fine and absolutely true. But if you have ever read a book of mine, Siddhartha say, you must realize that I regard clever ideas like that as a game, nothing more, since I feel one has to endure whatever happens in life and just submit oneself to one’s fate. So I’m getting married because that’s how things have turned out. I am as little concerned with free choice or hopes for my future happiness as I was last year when my divorce came through. I’m getting married quite reluctantly, with a lot of reservations, even though I love my bride very much. I haven’t taken this decision actively, for compelling inner reasons, but rather as a means of fulfilling my fate.

  I would like to thank you for your love, and kind gifts, and encouragement. I wish you all the best for the New Year. Fondly

  Basel, Hotel Krafft, February 17, 1924

  Your kind letter arrived yesterday and also your present of the beautiful paper. Many thanks.

  I have been married now for several weeks, have spent virtually the entire winter in the city, and my life has actually hardly changed at all. I didn’t attract any attention walking about in the streets; as usual, I kept to myself more or less. My wife is a singer, still a student, but quite advanced; she has a beautiful high soprano voice, with a special aptitude for Mozart. The problem is that I’m an aging man with a wife who is still very young, and this has led to all sorts of new experiences, both pleasant and difficult, which have required some adaptation and change on my part. We don’t always have the same roof over our heads; I shall go to Montagnola again in the spring, and stay there alone, apart from a few brief visits. We hope to discover bit by bit a suitable style and modus operandi for our m
arriage.[ … ]

  My Berlin publisher, Fischer, has been here for the past two days. We haven’t met in person for ten years; the last time we were together was on Lake Garda in the spring of 1914 during those balmy prewar days. That period is, I believe, not so much a lost paradise as a form of childhood, which, of course, is irretrievably lost. I wouldn’t dream of asking to relive those years, even though my life back then was a lot more agreeable and brighter than it is now.

  TO HIS SON HEINER

  Montagnola, May 5, 1924

  Your letter arrived early yesterday; thank you for writing so quickly.

  My last lines were rather moody and cantankerous. I wouldn’t have expressed my feelings in that manner if I could have chosen when to write the letter, but I couldn’t keep you waiting, because of the permission slip.167 I was angry because I had been expecting to see you here during your vacation. I canceled a trip, put off several visits, and even gave up a full day’s painting excursion so as not to miss you. But all to no avail. It wasn’t my fault that I suddenly had to leave on an important trip.168 If, instead of just dropping by at the last minute, you had had the courtesy to let me know of your visit a few days in advance, you would have spared us both a considerable amount of aggravation.

  Moreover, I had attempted to make your Confirmation—it was you, after all, who had wanted it—as pleasant an experience as possible, for your sake. Having guessed from a hint in one of your letters that you would like Mama to attend your Confirmation, I scraped money together so she could travel,169 and sent it to her in time. Yet I only discovered indirectly, through Mama, that you had suddenly decided you didn’t want to be confirmed; I didn’t hear a word about it from you.

  And then there is the small present of money that I sent you recently. It was somewhat discouraging not to get even a word of thanks.

  As a father, I not only have a right, but also a duty, to tell you that your inconsiderate behavior has offended me and that you should be a little more civil toward me. If you want to get through life, you will have to learn better manners and show others a bit more consideration. That’s all I have ever asked for, and you’re not being serious when you imply ill-humoredly that I’m forcing you to undergo religious instruction, attend church, etc., or wish to castigate you for being a freethinker.

  Thank you for your letter, which I liked despite those intemperate passages. But look, everything turns out better, especially when people don’t get along all that easily, if one tries to be polite and considerate! That’s why I’m asking you once again to have the decency to let me know about your various trips and vacations, and visits here, so that I can plan things accordingly, and at least tell me you have received any presents I send. Those are little conventions in life that one has to learn, just like reading and writing. It would be boring if the only thing I did as a father was pay the bills.

  Enough said about that. The only other thing I wanted to say is that I certainly don’t expect you to mount a hypocritical display of emotions you don’t really feel. I would prefer to get an honest letter, even if it is a bit crude, than none at all, or one that says nothing.

  I also wish to tell you that I’m fond of you and am interested in everything you do. I’m certain this will mean more and more to you as the years go by. A lot of things came between us, such as the problems with the marriage and separation, and Mama’s long and frequent bouts of illness, but you’re still my son and, if I were to die tomorrow, you would always remain my son and carry within you a portion of my being and my intellect. I sincerely hope that in the years to come we can develop a better and mutually satisfying relationship.

  My dear son, I’m sending you a fond kiss, and shake your hand in the conviction that we shall never lose touch with each other.

  With good wishes. Your father

  TO GEORG ALTER

  Montagnola, July 5, 1924

  Thanks for your fine letter. It was nice of you to think of my birthday. It was not my fiftieth yet; I still have quite a few years to go, and hope that by that point I shall have acquired enough wisdom to make the celebration tolerable for me and those around me. My young wife, who lives most of the time in Basel, arrived for my birthday along with her mother, and we bought flowers and a cake; it was nice. Two sons from my first marriage had just visited me. The eldest is already over eighteen; he hasn’t a clue about the so-called problems and ailments of our age, wants to become a painter, and was outdoors with me every day, working assiduously on his watercolors.

  I’m pleased to hear that you are rereading my fairy tales,170 but I don’t understand why that requires a background in anthroposophy! I managed to write them without anything of the kind.

  I was most pleased to hear you will soon be leaving Berlin and heading for the more tranquil south. That will surely do you some good! I can fully understand why you feel disgusted with the situation in Germany and the current mentality among German youth. But there is a magical solution: we can always shake off our dependence on the external world and nourish the soul with whatever we consider beautiful, alive, and sacred, whether that happens to be Buddha, Jesus, Socrates, Goethe, music, or nature. I admire the fidelity and quiet devotion with which you pursue those ideals, and believe you will find out how to prevent the external world from becoming a serious source of torment.

  It’s hot; the big, white blossoms of a big, dark magnolia are peeking into my room. There is a vase full of wildflowers beside me. But even though all of this is very beautiful, there are certain things about my external condition that I would wish differently, especially in regard to my health. But, even the way things are, the life here is good and beautiful.

  I think about you from time to time, and always wish you well.

  TO ALICE LEUTHOLD171

  [December 1924]

  Me oh my, what has come over me! So I forgot to send you my current winter address? Hesse, who is usually so organized and punctual? It’s yet another sign of rapid aging. What is coming up in January, my golden or silver anniversary? I feel, in any case, that something like twenty-five years must have passed since we had that festive meal in Basel.172

  On orders from my dear spouse, I’m spending the winter in Basel and have a nice, quiet attic room in the city, near St. Johann’s Gate. I am living in my cell, Ruth in hers—i.e., in the Hotel Krafft—and in the daytime we go about our serious activities. I sit at work in the university library all day long, even though the pain in my eyes is quite atrocious. And in the evening I turn up in Frau Hesse’s apartment, where I find some dinner ready, and we spend the evening together, along with the cat, dog, and parrot. The latter, Koko, is an especially good friend of mine, and makes me feel very attached to the house. Then in the nighttime fog I head off along the Rhine toward my part of town. Schoeck was telling quite a yarn if he really said I had been to Munich. It’s true I visited Stuttgart with Ruth, and performed my party piece there. I always have a nice time in Stuttgart, the only city where I enjoy reading in public, where I can stand in front of an overcrowded room and feel that people understand me, that I am talking to friends. The most important part of the trip occurred after I had acquitted myself of that duty. We went to Ludwigsburg, where I have a brother;173 Ruth and I stayed in the royal castle, in gigantic chambers with twenty-foot ceilings, and for two evenings Ruth, along with my brother and his son, sang the entire Magic Flute. She has made great strides forward, and I find her singing increasingly impressive.

  She also sends greetings, and often dreams of seeing the Leutholds again and even of eating rice with you again.

  Should a box of those pleasant cigars, called Ehrenpreis or something like that, fall into the hands of Master Leuthold, the great Tuan,174 perhaps he would be so kind as to think of me. And we shall have to see one another again.

  TO CARLO ISENBERG175

  Montagnola, May 28, 1925

  I’m not having any luck at the moment, and feel I ought to let you know about a part of it that also concerns you. Yesterday I got
a rejection slip from the Stuttgart publishing house. In other words, the entire series of books I had planned has been scrapped; so I have to start again from scratch. The publisher pulled out because of an advertisement by the Fischer Verlag for the Merkwürdige Geschichten which they had spotted. Stuttgart stupidly insisted that the Fischer books would compete with our projected series for them. Well, more about that when we meet, if we’re still interested in the matter by then. Although the Stuttgart publisher had signed a contract agreeing to publish our series, I offered to take back all the unpaid work I had done over the past seven months, and have done so. I shall keep you posted about further developments. The only consequence for you is that I shall have to ask you not to proceed with the other volumes in our series after you have completed Romanticism (which I shall certainly get another publisher to do176), but to work first on the Schubert for Fischer, which is absolutely certain. You can imagine how thrilled I feel. However, I shall try to find another publisher and save at least part of the series.

  One other piece of news: My wife, Ruth, who had been ill for months, has just had a checkup. She has TB in the lungs, and has been sentenced to a year of complete rest, which means not singing a note or taking a single step. Many of my plans will just have to fall by the wayside, the whole thing is quite crippling.

  Addio, and don’t let this publisher business get you down! If I cannot salvage the planned series, then The Romantic Mind will have to appear on its own; in any case, Fischer has already accepted it. I hope to find a home for some of the volumes at least. But now I have to look forward to the awful bother of negotiating, and finding a publisher. Best regards to you all

  TO HIS WIFE, RUTH

  [June 4, 1925]

  Beside a wood above Locarno, Thursday morning

  It’s hot, and I’m sitting here early in the morning, trying to find a moment of inner peace. I just said goodbye to little Martin177 an hour ago at the station. He went off with his little rucksack to friends in Bern; once again he no longer has a home to call his own, since his mother has become mentally ill again and her condition is worse than last time. She has even had awful attacks of epilepsy. I’m witnessing a most terrible tragedy and occasionally feel I’m being dragged into it. Her elder brother took his own life; the other brother went mad as a result, and is now an inmate in Friedmatt;178 and Mia has driven every one around her half crazy with her condition—her nurse, the boy, the lodgers, etc. Her spirits seemed to improve after I arrived yesterday, and I managed to have a proper talk with her, but then she got frightfully excited again, especially after saying goodbye to the boy, and the nurse is afraid she won’t be able to cope with her. I have had to assume total responsibility for her and the boy, since her brother is himself ill. If Mia has to be put in an institution, there will be nobody here to look after her house, which is full of lodgers, etc. Even if I had no other worries and were in good health, I would still be consumed by all of this. For the past three weeks, I have been subconsciously exacerbating this whole business, and now I’m in it up to my neck. I’m astonished at the impact conditions like this can have on everybody in the vicinity, and am quite amazed I survived the awful period around 1918–19, and the ensuing dependence on her state of mind, without losing my own sanity. I see that the mere proximity to the situation is infecting some nice, stable people, who aren’t directly involved, so much so that they’re losing their composure. I shall certainly not lose my sanity this time either, another fate awaits me, but my nerves are quivering.