There is a contemporary whose experience resembles mine, even though he hails from a very different background: Romain Rolland.
I have no difficulty understanding your fixation on potatoes. I’m like that too, although my obsession is a little different. Whenever I catch sight of a newspaper, or hear a demagogue—sometimes just reading the word “Germany” is enough—all the wartime despair floods back.
You know what I mean. At the moment I’m at the spa in Baden for a cure and can seldom allow myself the luxury of writing such long letters.
TO OTTO HARTMANN239
November 24, 1932
[ … ] I’m not at all interested in what the critics have to say. I recall them saying more or less the following about The Journey to the East: This is certainly not art, although it has some value as a biological function. Its symbols are genuine, but quite pathological. Since it is neither comprehensible nor universal, it lacks the hallmarks of genuine art. I suppose that is well meant, but a similar insistence on universality elevated Theodor Körner into a German classic, whereas Hölderlin was entirely forgotten.[ … ] There isn’t much going on in literary criticism, and I haven’t paid much attention to it for years. I got to know it during the war. In more than thirty years I have rarely learned anything useful from reviews. Literary journalism has reached a sad pass. But quite apart from this public criticism by professional critics, one often gets to hear very informative criticism in private circles. Readers can be either receptive or hostile, but their judgments are often very lively, an acute consequence no doubt of that “biological function.”
The opinions I value most are those of my fellow writers, but one seldom gets to hear them. In the case of my other artistic friends, I am most interested in the opinions of Schoeck, the musician. I was delighted to learn that the writer Kafka, whom I greatly admire, loved my books.240
But readers supply the most honest criticism. And there too, the thing we least want to hear is the most effective. I have never forgotten a little incident which occurred about fifteen years ago. A rather idolizing reader quoted a short poem of mine, which he had read years ago in a literary review. He didn’t have a copy, but had learned it by heart, except for one line, which had unfortunately slipped his mind. Would I be so kind as to send him that line? I checked it, and was quite taken aback. The line he had been vainly trying to memorize was the weakest in the poem. For years, I had considered the poem one of my better ones, but had subsequently relegated it to second or third best precisely because of that botched passage. As penance, I had to copy out that dead passage for the reader. But I was happy and a little proud to hear the verdict of a girl of about thirteen, who had been asked to read a piece of mine to her mother: “One of the wonderful things about H. is that there is always a comma or a period when one is running out of breath.”
Goodbye and greetings to you and your wife
TO HIS SON HEINER
[January 1933]
[ … ] The tax situation in Berlin could have ruined me. They were insisting that my entire income, except for the Swiss earnings, be taxed in Berlin, at very high rates (since the officials in Berlin first have to approve every penny I earn and then issue a permit for transfer abroad). They also threatened that I would have to pay back several years’ worth of taxes retroactively. So I have had virtually no income at all for a number of years. They have softened their attitude and postponed the decision for months, but this affair has been eating up a lot of my time. Of course, they may well issue a new emergency decree in Germany tomorrow that will once again render all of this null and void, but for now I can breathe easily.
You’re right that we are powerless in the face of institutions as powerful as the state. But I think you’re wrong to conclude that we ought to defend ourselves by jettisoning “all scruples.” Dear Heiner, we absolutely cannot do that. There is no point complaining about the unscrupulousness of other people if we’re going to behave just as unscrupulously ourselves. If we have any claim to nobility, it is because we have certain scruples; we don’t think that everything is permissible, we refuse to go along with the heinous killings and other repulsive activities taking place. Therein lies the source of all culture and of every spiritual stirring in life, which is fundamentally quite bestial, also the source of art, religion, indeed all genuine intellectual values. You people weren’t the first to come up with the reaction: “To hell with all that crap.” Throughout history certain people have responded in a similar vein. One can interpret that kind of response as a rebellion by weak and uneducated people against a cruel and overpowering adversary, but we ought not condone or approve it in any way. You may learn from Els’s household what happens when people believe in something, are affectionate and good, and transmit those values to their children.
We had a cheerful Christmas; it was actually my first Christmas at home in twelve years. I received a lot of presents, as did Ninon, but it was all a bit too much for me. The milieu was excessively bourgeois and got a bit on my nerves. Of course, I was the one who decided to come to terms with this milieu by remarrying and accepting the Bodmers’ offer of the house. I don’t regret the decision and am very glad Ninon has her security and a “decent” household, but nevertheless I’m just a guest, and feel strange there.[ … ]
Your father
TO HERMANN HUBACHER
[January 1933]
Caro amico,
So you were mad at me? No harm in that. Somebody once asked me: “What’s the point in having friends? They’re never there in a real emergency, and the rest of the time we could get on fine without them.” I said: “We have friends so that there will be somebody there to get mad at us. Others may like us, and occasionally poke fun at us, but it takes friends to get really mad at us, become peevish, and hold grudges over trifles, and that is what they’re for. Getting mad is an expression of male tenderness, a kind of substitute for big words and expansive gestures, and it’s no doubt better than nothing.”
It’s news to me that I was in Zurich over New Year’s. My friend Dr. Lang spent a few days with me in Montagnola over New Year’s. I was at the spa in Baden for a short while in November, and thought of getting in touch, but never plucked up the courage, because I wasn’t well enough to go and visit you (all my Zurich friends seem to believe that an old man having sulphur baths would do wonders for his health by traveling frequently to Zurich, which would, of course, mean standing around in drafty railway stations, etc., etc.), and didn’t have the nerve to ask you to visit me in Baden. When I naïvely suggested as much to my friends, I was told that this was out of the question. And yet some people did visit me in Baden, another reason why I didn’t write to you. One day Morgenthaler arrived with Sasha,241 and I assumed that if he knew I was in Baden, you would too. Yes, that’s more or less what happened, and besides, as usual, I had to spend three or four hours a day reading my mail and writing letters, since that has to be done all year round, even during visits to the spa and vacations. I hope I have convinced you that I wasn’t being uncivil when I failed to get in touch with you. On the way back, I wanted to hear music again after six months’ abstinence, so I spent two nights in Zurich with the Bodmers, but I was too exhausted after the spa and didn’t go out. I only got to hear Haydn’s Creation.
We shall soon be into February, which used to be my favorite month for skiing in the mountains. My days as a skier are numbered, and now it seems as if I shan’t even get to use the remainder, since my friend Englert, who used to help pay for the skiing trip, cannot anymore. I haven’t published a book for years, apart from The Journey to the East, which is not much of a breadwinner. I’m staying at home and saving up my pennies so I can go see my oculist in March. (I don’t expect much from him, but am cooperating, since the examination will reassure my wife, who does have some faith in doctors.) [ … ]
Apart from that, it’s life as usual here in my feudal house, but I’m beginning to feel fed up with this sort of life, which I find constricting. I have been planning a
new literary work for a year and a half now, but haven’t managed to write a single line, for several reasons: I’m getting too old, my life here is too comfortable, each day the mail, etc., etc., forces me to assume the role of the overworked famous man. Something similar happened to the elderly Tolstoy, who, just before he died, got up and left, so that as he breathed his last, he could at least feel the presence of country roads, freedom, fresh air, and open spaces.
I shall probably arrange things differently, and may even write the projected book. But the whole thing isn’t that much fun anymore. Few people notice the fine points. I would actually prefer to go skiing now. But as soon as it gets warmer, I shall have to start shoveling snow again. So, tanti saluti!
TO ANDRÉ GIDE
[March 20, 1933]
I was extremely pleased to receive your kind and unexpected letter,242 which has arrived on the very day when my guest bed is expecting the first refugee, who is fleeing from the fists and revolvers of those right-wing zealots in Germany.
A student in high school loves and admires a somewhat older peer so much that he wouldn’t dream of approaching him. He fears his idol is about to disappear for good, but just then the older student, who is close to graduation, looks at the younger one, smiles at him, and beckons. That is more or less what your greetings mean to me.
So I can respond to your kind words with heartfelt sincerity. I first got to know your books when Strait Is the Gate and The Immoralist appeared in German for the first time, long before the war. Ever since then, you have been the contemporary French author in whom I have been most absorbed and for whom I feel most affection.243
TO ARTHUR STOLL244
Montagnola, March 24, 1933
I only sent a card recently to thank you for your wonderful present; that was the best I could manage at the time. Well, I very much hope that you have recovered from the bout of illness and are now feeling better. The sun often smiles at us here, and even though the warm alpine winds can be oppressive, the spring has been rather agreeable. A refugee from Germany is sleeping in our guest bed. The Berlin newspapers, and the Swiss ones as well, have been cowed amazingly quickly by the threats emanating from Berlin, and are now very mealymouthed. Over in Germany, they are conducting a really vicious pogrom against intellectuals: people are being imprisoned, fired from their jobs, deprived of their livelihoods; there have been rapes, assassinations, and the victims are not loudmouths and troublemakers, but mostly retiring scholars, peace-loving civil servants, diligent artists, etc., etc. I’m expecting Thomas Mann here today. He is number one on the blacklist.
In the midst of these depressing circumstances, which also affect me deeply in many ways, I unexpectedly received a pleasant surprise: a note from André Gide, copy enclosed. Not that it’s anything special in itself, but I admire A. Gide a lot; aside from Hamsun, he is perhaps the only world-famous author whom I respect and love. So it was a revelation when this colleague of mine—he is a few years older than I—wrote to me in that vein.
Montagnola, beginning of April 1933
So you have turned up once again like a friendly, helpful magician. Thank you very much for your kind letters and gifts. The gift is very welcome and I shall use it, exactly as you wished, to provide hospitality for the exiles and émigrés.
The first guest, from Leipzig, left for Italy the day before yesterday. These people are all in bad shape financially. The editors of the leftist German press, and all the contributors as well, have suddenly lost their livelihoods. Many were in mortal danger, or might have been imprisoned, so they had to flee—e.g., my guest, whose wife stayed behind to give notice and pack their things, and if possible collect a payment owed them. But the editorial offices of the papers in question have been closed down, the printing works are in chaos, some have even been demolished, all the employees have been sacked and are now unemployed. For the socialist press alone, that amounts to some 80,000 to 100,000 people all over the Reich.
Another of my German acquaintances and colleagues will be here tomorrow. Thomas Mann and his wife have been here quite frequently, and I’m glad to see that he is slowly recovering from an initially severe depression. We have spent half days together on several occasions. He doesn’t have any material worries, and is in good shape for now. But he has no idea what will become of his house and children in Munich. His passport is going to expire in the next few days, and no German consulate is willing to grant him even a provisional renewal; so he is going to ask the League of Nations for a passport. Th. Mann’s statement of his allegiance to the socially progressive Republic appeared in Berlin just before Hitler came to power (I’m enclosing a reprint, which is somewhat condensed).245 Since then he has been number one on the terrorists’ blacklist. I have not had any problems so far; I received a couple of letters from worried readers warning me to keep my mouth shut and act cautiously, since there have already been threats to boycott my books and confiscate my German royalties. That may happen, but in such matters there is no such thing as certainty. I’m expecting my publisher here on Monday; he wants to discuss the situation with me on his way through to Italy (to visit Gerhart Hauptmann). The founder and the owners of my publishers are Jews, and so there is also danger lurking there.
But I think the present situation is so unbelievably crazy that it can hardly last very long. Hitler’s terrorism will certainly prevail for a long time (until he stumbles into a war and loses it, or the economy goes bankrupt). But aggressive, pathological phenomena such as Minister Göring, who makes those sadistic speeches (he is apparently a morphine addict), will hardly survive that long. Unfortunately, Germany will become increasingly corrupt, and some people with big names will join the bandwagon. I wouldn’t be surprised if, for example, Hauptmann capitulated and started kowtowing to them. But, ultimately, the crucial element is the minority of people who hold genuine convictions, and they certainly exist.[ … ]
Montagnola, September 17, 1933
Thank you once again for your various kind gifts. The package with Allisatin and calcium, your order for a manuscript, and the wonderful letter. I was delighted with everything, and am sending you the manuscript246 today; I tried to do a particularly attractive job on yours. Could you please deposit the money in my account rather than send it by mail (Schweizer Kreditanstalt, Lugano)? And if you get a chance to draw attention to my manuscripts, please do so by all means. A time may come when I shall have virtually no income.
I, too, have often noticed the same phenomenon: those clever, sophisticated Germans who used to laugh at Hitler now take him ever so seriously. Here’s my explanation: Since 1918, Germany has been ignoring reality completely, and hasn’t recognized or acknowledged in any way its moral responsibility both for starting the war and for the consequences of losing it. Germany hardly participated in its own direly needed revolution, which was carried out by a tiny group of militant left-wing socialists. All of its governments were constituted without popular approval, and the people never had any confidence in them. The only political event in which the people really took part was the election of General Hindenburg (the old corporal who deserves much blame for present conditions). Now, all of a sudden, a party has won favor with the people, and the nation has regained its patriotism or self-confidence. Many Germans who love their own people fear that if this hope is unwarranted and the people are let down, everything will start falling to pieces. That is incorrect, or at most only half right, but it’s an understandable reaction, and that may be why so many intellectually prominent people have offered their services to the present regime. If they can restore Germany’s fortunes without waging war, and if they manage to stop the disgusting excesses of the current movement, that will please me. But I doubt that will happen; the situation is too wild, forced, demagogical, ignoble, also too dumb and anti-intellectual.
I am irritated by the frequent demand of some of my colleagues that I state publicly that I belong to the opposition against Hitler. I refuse to do so; I don’t belong to any party, and even thou
gh I personally find communism more attractive than fascism, I am not willing to support it, or any other expression of the lust for power. I believe that poets and intellectuals ought to foster peace, not conflict.
I am glad to have my sister247 here for a visit. In the evening she reads from the diaries and letters of my mother, who mentions the battles of Solferino and Sedan!
TO HERMANN HUBACHER
[Baden, December 1, 1933]
Thank you for your kind greetings. Few people know how to read poetry seriously, and so I’m delighted to hear that kind of comment.
The poem248 is by no means a “revelation,” the expression of a sudden, irrational insight. Like most of my poems, it came to me during a sleepless night, and it began as a sober and rather disciplined effort to evoke in words those beliefs I have made my own. Of course, the poem doesn’t convey all my beliefs (which actually have somewhat more in common with religious, Christian convictions). It suggests their intellectual foundations, particularly in acknowledging the primacy of the intellect and the difference between the creator and his creation. But the “spirit” in my poem is not merely divine, it is God, and is not meant to be pantheistic.
Soul of the Age Page 24
