Steppenwolf

by Hermann Hesse, David Horrocks, Hermann Hesse, David Horrocks

  ‘I would have loved one more dance with you,’ I said, thrilled by her warmth. ‘Walk with me a little way, will you, Maria? I’m so enamoured of your beautiful arm I’d like to hold on to it for a moment longer. But Hermione has summoned me, you see. She’s in hell.’

  ‘I thought as much. Farewell, Harry, you’ll always have a place in my heart.’ These were her parting words. Parting, autumn, destiny: all these had been evoked for me by the full, ripe fragrance of this late rose of summer.

  On I went, along the corridors milling with flirting couples, down the stairs to hell. There, on the pitch-black walls, infernally harsh lights were burning and the musical devils were feverishly playing away. A handsome youth without a mask was sitting on a tall bar stool in evening dress. With an air of disdain he briefly looked me up and down. Getting on for twenty couples were dancing in the very cramped space and I was forced up against the wall by the whirling crush. Avidly and nervously I observed all the women. Most of them were still wearing their masks; a few laughed at me; but none of them was Hermione. The handsome youth, perched on his bar stool, was looking scornfully across at me. The next time there was a break in the dancing Hermione would call out to me, I thought. But the dancing finished and nobody came.

  I went over to the bar, which was wedged into one corner of the low-ceilinged room. Joining the queue by the youth’s stool, I ordered myself a whisky. As I was drinking it I could see the young man’s profile. It looked as familiar and charming as a picture from the remote past, made precious by the still veil of dust cast upon it over the years. Then all of a sudden it clicked. Yes, of course, that’s who it was. Hermann, my best friend when I was a boy!

  ‘Hermann!’ I said tentatively.

  He smiled. ‘Harry? Have you found me?’

  It was Hermione, only with a slightly different hairstyle and a touch of make-up. Pale and distinctive, her intelligent face gazed out at me from the fashionable stand-up collar of her dress shirt. Her hands, protruding from the shirt’s white cuffs and the wide black sleeves of her dinner jacket, looked strangely small, her feet strangely dainty in the black-and-white men’s silk socks emerging from her long black trousers.

  ‘Is it dressed up like this you intend to make me fall in love with you, Hermione?’

  Nodding, she said: ‘So far I have only succeeded in making a few ladies fall in love. But now it’s your turn. Let’s drink a glass of champagne first.’

  This we did, squatting on our tall bar stools, while right next to us people went on dancing to the increasingly heated and violent sound of the strings in the band. And very soon I had fallen for Hermione, apparently without her going to the least trouble to make me do so. Since she was wearing men’s clothes I couldn’t dance with her, couldn’t permit myself any show of affection or make any advances, yet while she seemed remote and neutral in her masculine disguise she was enveloping me in all her feminine charms by means of looks, words and gestures. Without so much as even touching her I succumbed to her spell, a spell which, consistent with the role she was playing, was hermaphrodisiac. For what she talked to me about was Hermann and childhood, my childhood and hers, those years before puberty when our youthful capacity for love extends not only to both sexes but to everything under the sun, things intellectual and spiritual as well as sensual, casting its spell over them all and endowing them with that fairy-tale aptitude for transformation that only poets and a chosen few occasionally regain even in the later stages of life. She was playing the role of a young man, no question, smoking cigarettes, indulging in witty, light-hearted chat, frequently seizing the opportunity to poke a little fun, but her every word and gesture had an erotic charge, transforming it, en route to my senses, into an agent of sweet seduction.

  There had I been thinking I knew everything there was to know about Hermione, yet that night she appeared to me in a totally new light! She tightened the desired net around me so gently that I hardly noticed it, toyed with me like a mermaid as she passed me the sweet poison to drink.

  We sat chatting and drinking champagne. We sauntered through the ballrooms, observing the goings-on like adventurous explorers, eavesdropping on the lovemaking of couples we had singled out. Pointing out women she wanted me to dance with, Hermione gave me tips as to how I might best win over this one or that. We acted as rivals, both on the trail of the same woman for a while, both dancing with her in turn, both attempting to win her. Yet all this was just a masquerade, a game between the two of us, binding us more closely together, kindling the fire of our passion for one another. It was all a fairy-tale experience, made richer by an additional dimension, deeper by an additional layer of meaning. Everything was make-believe, symbolic. We saw a very beautiful young woman who looked slightly ailing and out of sorts. ‘Hermann’ danced with her, restoring some colour to her cheeks, after which the two of them disappeared into an alcove where sparkling wine was on offer. She told me afterwards that she had conquered her as a woman by the magic charms of Lesbos, not as a man. For me, on the other hand, the whole building, ringing with music and full of rooms echoing to the sound of dancing by intoxicated crowds of masked revellers, was gradually turning into a wonderland, the paradise of my dreams. Blossom upon blossom lured me with its fragrance, my fingers reached out tentatively to fondle fruit upon fruit, serpents eyed me seductively from the shade of green foliage, lotus blossom drifted eerily across a black swamp, magic birds were singing their enticing songs in the branches of the trees. Yet all of this was leading the way to one destination, making my heart heavy with fresh yearning for the one and only woman I desired. At one point I was dancing passionately with a girl I didn’t know, making a play for her, sweeping her along in a heady whirl when all at once, as we were floating on a cloud of unreality, she burst out laughing and said: ‘You’ve changed out of all recognition! Earlier tonight you were such a stupid bore.’ Then I recognized her as the one who, hours ago, had called me a ‘sulky old so-and-so’. Now she thought I was hers, but come the next dance it was another I was holding passionately close. I danced for two hours or more without letting up, each and every dance, even those I hadn’t learned. Again and again Hermann, the smiling youth, would pop up near to me and give me a nod before disappearing from view in the milling crowd.

  That night of the ball I experienced a sensation which, though familiar to any teenage girl or student, I had not known the like of in all my fifty years. I mean the thrill of a party, the exhilaration that comes from celebrating with others, the mystery of losing one’s identity in the crowd, the unio mystica of joy. I had often heard people talk about it, there wasn’t a servant girl who hadn’t experienced it, and I had frequently seen the gleam in the eyes of those describing it. My response had always been a half supercilious, half envious smile. In the course of my life I must have witnessed that gleam a hundred times: in the eyes of people deep in drunken reverie or freed from all self-restraint; in the semi-deranged smile of someone utterly carried away, absorbed in the euphoric mood of a crowd. I had seen both noble and ignoble instances of it: on the faces of drunken recruits and naval ratings, for example, just as much as those of great artists, say, enthusiastically taking part in performances at a festival, and not less on those of young soldiers going to war. Even very recently I had admired, adored, mocked and envied such a gleam in the eyes and faraway smile on the face of my friend Pablo when, blissfully carried away by the excitement of playing in the band, he was bending over his saxophone or watching the conductor, the drummer or the banjo player with rapt and ecstatic attention. There were times when I had thought it possible only for really young people or nations which didn’t permit individuals to stand out strongly from the tribe to produce smiles like this, childlike, beaming faces of this sort. Yet on this blissful night, here was I myself, I, Harry alias Steppenwolf, with just such a smile on my beaming face. I myself was afloat in this deep, childlike, fairy-tale pool of happiness, breathing this sweet, dreamlike, intoxicating atmosphere
composed of communal revelry, music, rhythm, wine and sexual desire. To think that in the past I had so often listened with a disdainful and woefully superior attitude when some student or other, reporting on a ball, was singing the praises of all these things! I was no longer myself. In the heady atmosphere of the festivities my personality had dissolved like salt in water. I was dancing with this or that particular woman, but she was not the only one in my arms, not the only one whose hair brushed against me or whose perfume I inhaled. No, they were all mine, all the other women in the same room, afloat in the same dance as me and the same music, their beaming faces sailing by me like fantastically large flowers. And I was all theirs, we were all part of one another. The men too had a part in everything. They were no strangers to me, I felt part of them as well. Their smiles were mine, the amorous advances they made were mine, and mine theirs.

  That winter a new dance tune, a foxtrot entitled ‘Yearning’ was taking the world by storm. There were constant requests for it at the ball and it was played time and again. It was in all our heads, we were carried away by it, all of us humming along to its tune. I kept on dancing without a break, with every woman who happened to come my way, with very young girls, women in the full flush of youth, women in the summer of their lives, women beginning wistfully to fade. Delighted by them all, I was beaming, laughing, happy. When he saw me in such a radiant mood, Pablo, who had always considered me a poor devil who was greatly to be pitied, gave me a joyful look, his eyes flashing. Then, rising enthusiastically from his seat in the band and playing a powerful flourish on his horn, he climbed on his chair and, standing up there, puffed out his cheeks, blowing for all he was worth and blissfully rocking himself and his instrument in time to ‘Yearning’. My partner and I blew kisses to him, singing along loudly to the dance tune. Ah well, I was thinking to myself meanwhile, whatever might happen to me, for once in my life I too have been happy, beaming, liberated from my self, a brother of Pablo, a child.

  I had lost all sense of time. I don’t know how many hours or moments this euphoric happiness of mine lasted. It also escaped my notice that the festivities, the more feverish they became, were concentrated in an ever-more confined area of the building. Most of the guests had already left, the corridors were now silent, and many of the lights had gone out. The staircase to the first floor was deserted, in the upper rooms one band after another had ceased playing and departed. Only in the main dance hall and down in hell were the frantic drunken revels still going on, and their fever was rising steadily. Since I could not dance with Hermione in her young man’s clothes, we had only briefly encountered and greeted each other during breaks between dances and in the end she had vanished completely, not just from my sight, but also from my thoughts. I no longer had any thoughts. I was beside myself, floating along in the drunken throng of dancers; affected by scents, colours, sights and snatches of conversation; in receipt of welcoming and inspiriting looks from strangers, surrounded by strange faces, lips, cheeks, arms, breasts and knees; flung backwards and forwards like a wave to the rhythm of the music.

  Half emerging from my reverie for a moment, I suddenly spotted among the remaining guests, who were now crammed into one of the small rooms, the last one where music was being played, a dark-haired Pierrette, her face painted white. She was a beautiful, fresh-looking girl, the only one wearing a mask, a delightful creature that I had not once set eyes on during the whole night. Whereas you could tell just how late it was from the appearance of everyone else, their ruddy faces, their crumpled costumes, their limp collars and ruffs, the dark-haired Pierrette, her white face covered by a mask, was standing there looking as fresh as a daisy. There wasn’t a crease in her costume, her ruff was immaculate, her lace cuffs shone, and not a hair on her head was out of place. Irresistibly attracted to her, I took her in my arms and drew her on to the dance floor. Her sweet-smelling ruff tickling my chin, her hair brushing my cheek, with her taut young body she responded to my movements more delicately and intimately than any other partner I had danced with that night, now ducking away from me, now playfully luring me into continually renewed physical contact. And all of a sudden, when bending down and seeking her lips with mine as we danced, I saw those lips break into a superior smile, familiar to me of old. Now I recognized the firm chin, rejoiced to recognize the shoulders, the elbows, the hands. It wasn’t Hermann any more, but Hermione, in a change of clothes, refreshed by a hint of perfume and a touch of face powder. Our lips met in a passionate kiss, and in a momentary gesture of longing and surrender, she pressed her whole body up against me, as far down as her knees, before withdrawing her lips and retreating to dance at a greater distance. When the music stopped we stood there, still in an embrace, and all the flushed couples around us clapped, stamped their feet and shouted out, goading the exhausted band to play an encore of ‘Yearning’. And now, suddenly feeling the approach of dawn, seeing its pale light behind the curtains, and sensing that our enjoyment was coming to an end, soon to be replaced by tiredness, we all threw ourselves blindly into one last desperate dance, laughing out loud as we entered the swell of music and light. It was a romp. We strode along to the beat, couple upon couple tightly pressed together, all feeling the great wave of blissful happiness breaking over us again. During this dance Hermione abandoned her air of superiority and cool disdain, knowing that no further effort was required to make me fall in love with her. I was hers, and this showed in the way she danced, the look in her eyes, the smile on her face, and her kisses, all of which were unrestrained. All the women of that fervid night, all those who had aroused my passion, all those I had made a play for or lusted after from afar, had now merged into just one, and she was bursting into flower in my arms.

  This nuptial dance went on for a long, long time. On two or three occasions the music faltered, the wind and brass sections lowering their instruments, the pianist getting up from his stool at the grand, the first violinist shaking his head in refusal. And each time, their enthusiasm rekindled by the frenzied pleas of the remaining dancers, they started playing again, playing faster and more animatedly. Then all at once, as we were still standing in each other’s arms, catching our breath after the latest eager exertions on the floor, we heard the loud bang of the piano lid being shut and our arms drooped wearily to our sides, as did those of the musicians in the wind and string sections of the band. His eyes blinking, the flautist packed his instrument away in its case, doors opened and cold air came flooding in. Attendants appeared with our coats and the barman switched off the lights. Everyone rapidly dispersed in eerie, ghostlike fashion. The dancers, only moments ago still aflame, were shivering as they hurriedly slipped into their overcoats and turned up their collars. Hermione was standing there, looking pale but smiling. As she slowly raised her arms to brush her hair back, the light caught one of her armpits and I could see a thin, infinitely delicate line of shadow running from there to her hidden breast. It seemed to me that all her charm, all her beautiful body’s potential for love-play was concentrated in that tiny dark thread, hovering there like a smile.

  We stood looking at one another, the last people in the room, the last in the whole building. Somewhere down below I heard a door bang, a glass being dashed to pieces, the dying sound of people giggling, all intermingled with the harsh, urgent noise of cars being cranked up. Somewhere else, at an indeterminable distance and altitude, I heard laughter ring out, an extraordinarily bright and cheerful kind of laughter that was nevertheless eerie and alien too. As if made of crystal and ice, it was clear and radiant, but cold and inexorable. How come this strange laughter sounded so familiar to me? I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  The two of us stood looking at one another. Momentarily I regained consciousness, sobering up. Overcome by a sudden attack of great weariness from the rear, I could feel the sweat-drenched clothes clinging to my body, disgustingly damp and tepid, and could see my red hands, covered in swollen veins, poking out from my crumpled, sweaty cuffs. But this awaren
ess was gone again in a flash, nullified by one look from Hermione. Before her gaze, which seemed like the mirror of my own soul, all reality disintegrated, even the reality of my sensual desire for her. We were looking at one another spellbound; my poor little soul was looking at me spellbound.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Hermione asked, her smile vanishing, just as the shadow above her breast had vanished. Far away and high up, in regions unknown, the strange laughter died away.

  I nodded. I was ready, no doubt about it.

  Now Pablo, the musician, appeared in the doorway, his cheerful eyes gleaming at us, eyes that were essentially those of an animal, although an animal’s eyes are always serious, whereas his were forever laughing, which made them human. With all the cordial friendliness typical of the man he signalled to us to follow him. He had put on a casual jacket of brightly coloured silk. Above its red lapels his soft, floppy shirt collar and his pale, worn-out face combined to make him look faded and wan, but this impression was nullified by his radiant dark eyes. They too were capable of nullifying reality, they too could work magic.

  As invited, we joined him in the doorway, where he said to me in a whisper: ‘Harry, brother, there’s a little entertainment I’d like to invite you to. Only mad people admitted. You pay at the door with your mind. Are you ready?’ Again I nodded.