Soul of the Age

by Hermann Hesse

  I shall go home again as soon as possible, maybe even tomorrow. My most important goal was to rescue the boy. Let us hope he has not yet come to any great harm.

  Dear Ruth, amid all these worries, I am constantly thinking of you. Your illness has dragged you another hundred miles away from me. I don’t see any way around that; we shall have to grin and bear it. I hope I can take a bath today or tomorrow at Dr. Bodmer’s179 (I haven’t had one in two months), and then go back home, where a big void awaits me, along with mail from publishers, etc.

  Addio, just lie there quietly in your garden, pluck a little flower, and sniff its fragrance. As you lie there in your convalescent’s garden, I walk past on the other side of the wall in the sultry dust, laden with the baggage of life, and we shall both have to accept these burdens.[ … ]

  Goodbye. I’m thinking of you as I stand here amid the hot dust from the roadway.

  TO ROMAIN ROLLAND

  Zurich [January 30, 1926]

  Dear Romain Rolland, my dear friend and colleague,

  It was very kind of you to send that printed material to Nagi180 and to drop me a line as well.

  I didn’t know that Siddhartha had appeared in French;181 I have just found it in a bookstore here and purchased a copy. You’re quite right: the dedication has been omitted!182 I feel really sorry about this. Fortunately, the translator does at least mention in the introduction that I dedicated the book to you.

  I can certainly understand your attitude toward the great majority of Frenchmen; during the war I had a very similar relationship to official Germany. But I was fortunate enough in the sense that my fatherland lost the war. As a result, I’m being read by the very people who would have put me up against the wall and shot me if the outcome had been the other way around.

  It’s very sad that this is so. But those conditions don’t deserve to be taken all that seriously. It isn’t characteristic of France, or indeed of our era, it’s an age-old phenomenon, and characteristic only in the sense that it is a human trait.

  I’m also enclosing a short essay,183 which will allow you to get acquainted with my present life. I’m going through a rough period and begin the day only with considerable reluctance. But there are times when I can also laugh, moments when I possess some wisdom and humor.

  The translator’s foreword in Siddhartha is well meant, but the data and facts aren’t particularly reliable, and much of it was just dreamed up—I wanted to tell you about this anyhow.

  TO ANNY BODMER184

  [Zurich, postmarked February 10, 1926]

  I was really delighted to get your kind letter—I mean the bit about me, the rest is quite sad. But I was glad to see the extent of your understanding, empathy, and friendship.

  I don’t often get to write letters here, am actually seldom at home, spend a lot of time with Lang, also see Tscharner,185 Schoeck, Hubacher, etc. I usually spend the evening with Lang; we eat in a pub in Niederdorf, then go to his place or mine, talk a lot, and drink cognac, which he downs like a virtuoso. But he has taught me a thing or two—e.g., about the fox-trot, which I tried out recently at a masked ball, my first ever, until half past seven the next morning. It wasn’t exactly my style, but I want to go back again on Saturday anyway. I like observing myself in action, the wise author of Siddhartha dancing the fox-trot and pressing his women against him. Progress always comes about in an irrational, dumb, crazy, or childish way, I certainly agree, but the drinking and lack of sleep have made me awfully irritable.

  I’m enclosing a few lines I wrote recently for a newspaper. It should interest you, since you know Oppenheimer.186

  I shan’t go into your problems, except to say that my thoughts are with you and that I can sense your dilemma. If only you could borrow some of Milly’s vitality and her frivolity in amorous matters—but then you wouldn’t be my dear, sensitive Anny, and that would be a great pity.

  TO HIS SISTER ADELE

  [Spring 1926]

  Thanks for your letter and also for the card, which arrived this morning. Yes, it’s now already ten years since Father’s death—and it will soon be ten years since our death—I’m amazed at everything we have to undergo before then. At present I’m in Zurich, and don’t feel like returning to Montagnola, have even thought of living in Paris, on a trial basis at least.

  In your letter you write the following about the time around Papa’s funeral: “There was not just a wonderful atmosphere, but a real force.” Now, listen, dear Adisle, I cannot go along with you there, with all those subtle distinctions that remind me a little of our parents. Papa or Mama often spoke very appreciatively about a poem or piece of music, with a rather revealing smile, only to add that all of this was, of course, “only” atmosphere, “only” beauty, “only” art, and, fundamentally, wasn’t anywhere near as valuable as morality, character, will, ethics, etc. This doctrine has ruined my life, and I shall not return to it, not even in the kind, gentle form manifested in your letter. No, if there was a wonderful “atmosphere” at the time of Papa’s death, I have no wish to add “only” to that description, but want to accept that atmosphere with gratitude.[ … ]

  TO RICHARD WILHELM187

  Zurich, June 4, 1926

  I received a visit yesterday from the writer Oskar Schmitz,188 a versatile and resolute gentleman, who mentioned, among other things, that he was going to spend a few days with you in Zurich. And your card with Goethe, the well-groomed Privy Counselor, arrived this morning. This is the second time you have sent me greetings, and even though I’m not a great correspondent, I would at least like to reciprocate with my best wishes.

  You and your work have been dear to me for a long time.189 Whatever relationship I have to Chinese culture I more or less owe to you. My interest in China increased markedly, whereas I had been more oriented toward India for years.

  I have been meaning for a long time to thank you for several of your essays, especially those on Lao-tse, Chuang-tze, etc., etc., and I wish to express my gratitude now. I have often felt glad that my cousin Gundert in Mito is a mutual friend of ours.

  I don’t know very much about your current work, my life is that of an outsider190 who has turned his back on the contemporary intellectual world (as represented by the likes of Keyserling, etc.). However, I am discovering that China devotees such as Reinhart also have ties to you. I’m not that close to the Zurich psychoanalysts; Jung is an exception, I find all the others likable, but narrow and success-oriented. They’re convinced their duty is to affirm life in a bourgeois sense, so they avoid its tragic implications. I have not kept up contact with them either.

  I’m attracted by the magical side of your Chinese world, but, being an antisocial creature, I’m inevitably alienated by its splendid system of morality. Unfortunately, the I Ching is only partly accessible to me as a result. I occasionally gaze at the deep, luxurious world full of color contained therein, but cannot really relate to the ethics in the commentaries. Unfortunately, I’m sitting on a barren branch, which cannot sustain those flowering political, familial, and social interrelationships.

  So I’m all the more grateful for the calm, intellectual love affairs that I have experienced in my life, one of them being China, which I got to know through you. Hence my grateful feelings toward you and your work. I’m glad to have this opportunity to convey my thanks.

  I shall soon be off again to Montagnola, but shall probably be back in Zurich in late fall and winter, at which point we may run into each other.

  TO HUGO BALL191

  Baden, October 13, 1926

  Thanks for your greetings. I think you will reach an agreement with Fischer quite easily. In any case, you can always count on me as an intermediary.192

  My sister’s address193 is Frau Pfarrer Gundert, Höfen an der Enz (Württemberg).

  Then we can talk about the illustrations. I don’t have any good recent photographs of myself, but shall have one taken in Zurich, if necessary. There is quite a good picture of me as a child; my sister has it.

&nb
sp; When we get to see each other, I should like to show you two or three letters from readers whom I have never met, so you can get an idea of the way strangers react to my writings.

  If a biography of me makes any sense, it is probably because the private, incurable, but necessarily controlled neurosis of an intellectual person is also a symptom of the soul of the age.

  Then, in addition to the questions you want to raise, we shall have to discuss all kinds of biographical issues, also my long-standing ties to India and Asia, and my wartime job. My first marriage has receded far enough so that it can be discussed briefly, if necessary. There should be no discussion yet about my second marriage.

  You will probably be disappointed with the chapter on my work as a critic. Does that really deserve an entire chapter? I have always mistrusted the self-confident posture of critics who engage in sweeping critiques of the age and its culture, and so I have never managed to write any genuine criticism. Perhaps an instinct of psychic economy warned me not to express myself intellectually, so as not to dry up the source from which literature springs. You may also include my last incarnation as Steppenwolf, which is as yet only half realized, since the poems entitled Steppenwolf194 that I wrote last winter will come out before your book. Fond greetings to you and Emmy

  TO LISA WENGER

  Zurich, December 22, 1926

  Dear Mama Wenger,

  Yesterday I received my first Christmas greetings of the year—your kind package. And although I am generally quite hostile to Christmas and its trappings, which only makes sense for people with families, I was very pleased indeed to receive your package, especially the letter.[ … ]

  You end your note by asking me to stay on friendly terms with you. I was really pleased by that. It’s true that I put our friendship in jeopardy and made a big mistake by transforming the friendship into a family relationship. I don’t believe the marriage will last forever; Ruth has left me entirely to my own devices for the past year and a half. And my thought, and even hope, is that Ruth is sufficiently young and in good enough health to fall in love with a person whom she would like to live with and devote herself to. I shall certainly not stand in the way of her freedom.

  Dear Mama Wenger, we should obviously keep these things to ourselves. I had no wish to pull the wool over your eyes. And I believe seriously that our friendship will prove happier and more enduring than our family ties.

  Because of my nature and the sort of life I lead, I don’t have much to recommend me as a relative, but I can be a decent and loyal friend. For me, the family has never been a source of happiness or joy, whereas I have gained a lot from my friendships. I have had many good friends over the past few decades, and have not lost any through any fault of my own. I noticed this again during my travels.

  And, dear Hüsi, I have always considered you a friend. The shift from a friendship to family ties has also been painful for me, and I’m grateful for those words of yours, since I want to remain friends with you, and also with Ruth, insofar as that is possible.

  I was already acquainted with portions of your book.195 I like it and am looking forward to reading the whole thing.

  At present, I am trying to finish my new book;196 the first draft is almost ready. I started work on it over two years ago in Basel. It’s very daring, full of fantasy, an attempt at something quite new. I have now reached a stage where the book is largely done and could, if necessary, be published in its present form, but I want to revise and rewrite it, which will probably take the rest of the winter.

  This book deals with the same problem as my new poems, but creates a much wider circle around those issues.[ … ] I hope that you will accept my thanks, greetings, and friendship.

  TO HIS SISTER ADELE

  Zurich, January 21, 1927

  I have been thinking fondly about you a lot recently—especially while Hugo Ball was here for some discussions.[ … ] But I never told you about that. And yet you went to such trouble digging up all that old stuff for Ball. Dear Adis, I would like to thank you heartfeltly for your help. And don’t get angry at me for enclosing whatever German currency I have lying around. You have incurred quite a few expenses.

  Unfortunately, Ball didn’t bring my boyhood poems with him; they would have interested me. But he did bring the pictures, and I particularly enjoyed the bright, clear portrait of Father with curly hair, which I had forgotten completely. Thank you for your labor of love.

  For the past few weeks, I have been working like mad, day in and day out, finishing the prose version of Steppenwolf, and now I have just about collapsed, and suddenly noticed the effect of the overexertion, sleeplessness, etc. I’m also sad, since I shall have to forgo the pleasure of creation, which has infused my life with meaning and pleasure, and there is going to be a void. I shall have to wait years before encountering that experience again, if it ever comes my way.

  My wife, Ruth, gave me a surprise for New Year’s: she suddenly informed me that she wanted a divorce. I told her I can understand her decision very well, and shan’t put any obstacles in her path.

  So that is how my family will be celebrating my 100th birthday. Ruth’s letter arrived at an awfully difficult time, while Heiner was here (which she knew), and he is so difficult to talk to and get along with. Having no idea about Ruth’s intentions, I mentioned to her that Heiner was coming for a visit, that I was expecting lots of arguments,197 and was apprehensive about our few days together. Yet that is precisely when she chose to let me know about her decision. She has already handed over the whole affair to a lawyer. But don’t tell anybody about this. If I say anything unflattering about Ruth, it is for your ears only.

  If I had had an inkling of what this fiftieth birthday would entail, I would have canceled everything right away, Ball’s book too. Something new crops up every couple of days: ten publishers want to exploit the occasion for commercial reasons, composers wish to publish songs of mine, painters want to paint me or do etchings of me, editors want to know the important dates in my life, the mayor of Constance asks for permission to hold a Hesse festival on July 2 and requests my presence, and so on. It’s enough to make one throw up. And now I have to spend my time hunched over the typewriter trying to answer all the letters somehow and also take care of the correspondence with Ruth’s lawyer.

  You must be bored after hearing such a litany. Well, don’t take any of it too seriously; I myself only take it seriously when I’m feeling particularly bad. You shouldn’t spend any time on Steppenwolf, either in verse or in prose, because it would only hurt you. Addio, Adis.

  TO HUGO BALL

  [June 1927]

  Hugo, dear friend,

  I really owe you an answer today. This morning feels strange after so many rainy days (I cannot wait to start painting, the weather has given me hideous pains all over). Yesterday there was a note on my front door for you, since I was away in Lugano for a few hours, and thought it very likely that you might come by my place, O prophet to the mountain. Well, here I am, bearing a small bouquet of paper flowers198 with which to congratulate you on the appearance of your book199—first of all, because it has arrived; second, because it looks very fine; third, because I have just finished reading it again. Now I can finally say something about it after rereading it without any interruptions.

  I have to congratulate you for the book, and myself as well, even though I don’t, of course, always agree with you, and even though I’m generally rather bashful, and actually don’t like being the focus of attention. Last night, I dreamed about something in connection with your book: I could see myself sitting there, not in a mirror, but as a second living figure, who was more alive than I. I was unable to scrutinize myself, because that would have violated an inner taboo, would have meant a fall from grace, but I was able to squint through the chink for a second, and I saw the living Hesse.

  Well, I don’t intend this as a quibble, but it has just occurred to me that this is your second-best book (it would be your best if the subject were as dignified as
that of the Byzantine volume200). I have also just noticed how well you describe the legend of this life rather than the banal facts; you have discovered the magic formulae. And even when you make a mistake—e.g., incorrect dates—you are nevertheless right and on target. I still have some slight objections to a very few passages, but do not yet have the distance necessary to assess matters of detail correctly. You taught me some new things about myself, not only in the Maulbronn chapter, but especially in the section on the relationship between Lauscher and Camenzind. Maybe I shall eventually get around again to reading Camenzind, something I haven’t done in at least fifteen years.